I have always loved church life. Except for COVID, the occasional cold and a summer vacation, I’m there. It was my priority to marry a man who made church his priority. Together we churched. You can find Bill and me in many out-of-date church directories. We smile in all the Olan Mills, blue background, hair-in-place photos. You know what? Those smiles were genuine. We counted ourselves truly blessed to be part of church families. Church has sustained us. Bill and Kath and… church.

That is why I go to church every Sunday. Nowadays, I don’t know anyone except a son and daughter and a friend’s family. We take up about half a row. But I know Jesus. This is His family around me. I know we have the most meaningful and important things in common and that they will care for me. It just feels good.

What doesn’t feel so good is getting ready, greeting the greeters, singing, reading, listening and then not talking about it all — because Bill isn’t here. In fact, I usually just get through the greeting part before this widow feels the crumble. This is how my Sunday goes: Take the slower back road to church. Pray. Put my sunglasses away and pull my confident smile out. Choose a seat in the usual place and hope my family finds me. Begin to hum while those around me launch full sound throttle. The lyrics start their penetrating work. Ok. Breathe. Fight for control. Inhale in shakes like opening a window off its track. Exhale like someone looking down from a high dive. Lose control. He’s not here. He’s not with me. He won’t ever be with me again. I’m so so sad.

Then the sweet touch of my daughter. She knows. The hug from my son. They rescue me. My breathing slows, the lurches settle down. I wad the tissue and fist it for the rest of the service.

Sundays are the hardest. But I still love church. I will go be with God’s family even without Bill. The truth is, someday we will church together again. Without tears. It’s a promise.