Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘grief’

If we believe what we say we believe…

We attach a virtue to grief that perhaps is undeserved.

waves of body of water splashing on sand
Photo by Quino Al on Unsplash

Joyous Road is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.

We can become mired in it: the sympathetic glances, the soft tones as people speak of those passed, the concern for our well-being, the gentle pats on the back.

I am so sad that Robert didn’t get to go with me on the trip to Normandy, that M— will never graduate from high school, that they will miss this Christmas with the family.

Who am I kidding?

I miss them! I miss the conversations, glances, jokes, and tears that build intimacy and memories. I need them with me day to day, in the flesh, to love me and validate my existence and purpose.

Anyone see a pattern here?

If I believe as I say I do, in eternal rest in the presence of a loving God, and if I love the departed as I claim, then why am I mourning that they are not here? If I really believe that they are “in a better place”, then why in the world do I keep wishing they were still in this physical world, with all its pain and imperfections?

Let’s face it. Because I am a selfish soul. My love for them has a needy root centered way down in my gut. I need them! I want them! Universe, this is not fair to me!

I admit that I do not love them unconditionally. If I did, and if I believed in a heavenly hereafter, then I would be at peace. I would wake up smiling at the sunrise, knowing they would never face darkness again. I would sleep at night knowing they would always find rest.

But I wallow in my selfishness and doubt. I cry and moan to an uncompromising universe. Part of the pain of grief is facing my own human frailty, and it is ugly. It’s not the specter of death I should worry about; it’s the darkness of my own nature that should frighten me.

Would I pull them back from death for a few more days, an hour, a moment? Even if it returned Robert to all his physical pain and mental worries? Even if it plunged M— back into her emotional torment?

Yes, in a heartbeat! I need them here with me!

We typically don’t acknowledge this side of grief. People are too caring and polite to point out the obvious: If we believe what we say we believe, then they are better off than we are.

If they are in the presence of an all-knowing God, then they know the whys and wherefores to all the questions that torment us. They can see all of time, unfolded and unfolding. They can understand the reason they left us. They can see the purpose in it all.

God knows I can’t.

Especially not for M—. Her death violated the natural order of things. Children should not die before their lives have a chance.

Yet here I am. Still selfish and wrestling with the reality of loss.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. 

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support. 

Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on my Joyous Road newsletter on Substack: joyous461.substack.com & at

Joyce Martin on Medium

Please consider tipping my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Read Full Post »

How do you sum up a human life? It’s impossible, especially when the human is Robert Glenn Eddings, and he impacted so many people in positive and different ways. This is my feeble attempt to describe more of who he was, not just a telling of where he lived or worked or what he did. Specific dates and names don’t matter in the greater scheme of things, but the journey of a heart does. 

I only knew Robert for 7 ½ years of his 65 year existence in this life, but what wonderful years they were! I treasure every day. I met him when he had lived through and learned all the hard lessons in life. If anybody was a graduate of the Hard Knocks of Life University, it was Robert. He held a PhD from that notorious institution!

He overcame childhood abuse and hardship. He often told me that when his grandfather died when he was eight, he lost his protector. Robert had to scramble to survive, and it haunted him that he was not able to protect the other children around him. So naturally, he entered young manhood angry and desperate. He went into the Marine Corps and wished that he had stayed in because it gave him the structure and discipline that he needed. But he was too restless, and went on from there to a tumultuous life. He worked various jobs to support his wife and young daughter Renee. He went through several other relationships, and could not settle into a stable life. 

One thing led to another, as often happens, and Robert’s life became even more chaotic. Known as Bulldog on the streets of Fort Worth, Robert existed on the outside of the law. When I asked him what that was really like, he told me that staying in perpetual motion kept the demons at bay, but just barely. Sure, it was thrilling and exciting here and there, but Death was always right behind him. He said it was truly no kind of life at all. He called them his lost years.

When he talked about those years with me, he expressed deep regret at what those choices cost him and those he loved. He could not go back in time and change those experiences, so he used them as cautionary tales, especially when counseling young men caught up in that lifestyle. He valued time highly because he felt he had lost so much of it. 

Robert expressed deep gratitude for those through the years who had helped him better himself. He worked as a mechanic and learned the trade well. Some of the men in the Lutheran Church in Springtown had influenced him greatly, extending trust and respect to him and setting him up in a mechanic shop of his own. His Uncle Anthony and Aunt Barbara never lost faith in him. Every good seed planted by others eventually bore fruit in Robert’s life. 

Robert described the moment when his mother told him she had cancer as the most dramatic turning point in his life. He threw away his book of contacts from his old life and dedicated himself to caring for her. Robert said he started to see another way to live. After her death, he felt adrift and almost lost himself again.

With time and struggle, Robert found stability within himself and in his life. He learned to value every life and treasure every moment. He demonstrated this as a fierce protector, a generous benefactor, and a loyal friend. HIs phone is full of names titled “Brother”, “Sister”,  “Bonus Son”, “Bonus Daughter”, “Adopted Grandson”, and so on. Everyone he knew he considered as family, not just as friends. He gave love easily and fully, and woe to anyone who threatened harm to his loved ones!

Robert had extra patience for children and animals. He nursed our little dogs when they were sick. They all adored him–he gave them extra treats!! He tried to act tough. He would bellow at them, “Get outta my chair,” right before scooping them up and putting them on his lap. He loved his boxer Stevie so very much, and he is probably roughhousing with him at this very moment! 

He loved time with young people, especially if he could teach them something useful, like how to air up a tire or tighten a bolt. The exchange students who spent time at our house ended up calling him Grandpa. He charmed the ladies, young and old. At Allsup’s they cooked his food just the way he liked. The nurses in the hospital would tolerate his teasing and bring him milk and peanut butter on command. His secret? He simply treated people the way he wanted to be treated. 

My nephew simply described Robert as “a lot”, which sums him up well! Robert filled a room with his presence and his personality. He was impossible to ignore, and he insisted on connecting with everyone. He made you feel like the most important person around and devoted his full attention to you. He did not live by a schedule; he lived fully in the present. He said he believed in living each day as if it was his last, and he succeeded. 

If you went somewhere with Robert, you didn’t know when you would be back. We once set out to go to a garage sale or two, and returned about seven hours later with a pickup and flatbed trailer loaded down with a toolbox, a huge ladder, various household items, and a hulking, old SUV! He could not resist a good bargain, even if it was something he absolutely did not need. Robert loved to trade, mostly in cars, tools, and engines. He liked the challenge of taking something that was not working and making it like new again. He had a natural mechanical mind. He used this gift to benefit all around him.

If Robert did something, he often did it to excess. Go big or go home! If we needed a flashlight by the door, let’s have one by every door and in every vehicle. If one pizza will serve everyone, let’s get three, just in case. Someone needs to inform the corporate offices of Harbor Freight, Braum’s (he loved their whole milk) and Dr. Pepper that their profits may drop, since Robert is no longer buying from them! 

Robert knew his own faults, and could take teasing as well as dish it out. We laughed so often and so much. Robert would often joke about me being a mean old teacher. When he would brag about a chore he’d completed, I would tell him he had earned another sticker. Then he would complain that I owed him an awful lot of stickers! I hope he knows that he deserved all the gold stars. 

Robert’s love language was giving and fixing. Ask some of his friends how many times they were out at his shop and left with stuff they didn’t know they needed! Or when he insisted visitors leave with a Dr. Pepper in one hand and some gadget in the other. Once I saw him empty his wallet for an acquaintance he saw at the convenience store. The young man had lost his job and desperately needed help for his young family. If someone was cold, Robert would give them blankets and a heater. If a family was struggling, he would buy them groceries. If someone’s car broke down, he would drop everything to help. 

Robert loved us all big, and we loved him back. Robert valued his life here, but he also knew and longed to return to his eternal home. No more pain, no more sadness, no more struggles. HIs beautiful golden heart has finished its journey and rests in peace, harmony, and love in the arms of God.

We love you, now and forever, Robert Glenn Eddings (5-6-59).

                                                                                As remembered by Joyce Martin,

Robert’s life partner, lover, & friend    

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. 

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

If you choose, you may tip my writing at: 

https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: joyous461.substack.com

Read Full Post »

Reality

The only constant in grief

Image of Robert by Author

If I pretend hard enough, this awful reality won’t be true.

Robert’s truck is in the driveway. He must be out in his shop working.

He isn’t in his chair. He must have gone to Braum’s to buy milk.

A delivery came to the door. No doubt more car parts he ordered!

He receives emails and text messages on his phone. He has to respond.

See? Proof he’s still with me.

All his medicine sits on the bathroom counter. I need to remind him to take it.

HIs rumpled, dirty clothes lie in the hamper. He had to be around to wear them.

Ads and bills arrive in the mailbox in his name. He has to be here to open them.

His wallet, keys, and glasses rest on the buffet. He will grab them up on his way out.

Then the stillness returns, dragging reality along. Robert is gone. Physically gone. Gone in all the tangible ways.

He died of a heart attack in the yard. Period.

Reality sticks his foot in the door and won’t budge.

Yet I hear Robert in my ear:

maintain the cars–tend to the oil changes and start them regularly;

be fully present and make the most of every day;

help someone and reach out if you need help;

change the filter in the heat pump when the season changes;

your students rely on you because teaching is your purpose;

check on our friends and welcome them into our home;

take care of our girls for me…

But the girls–daughters, granddaughters, sisters convulse into sobs, the primal moans and language of denial and grief ripping across the house.

I cannot shield them from this agony. We cling together until the wave subsides.

Reality invades.

Even the men–strong, protective, stalwart–cry, which leaves me totally undone.

Yet the memories bring laughter.

Remember when L surprised Papa, but he thought M had a boy in the house?

Did y’all know he and I nearly broke the recliner when we both sat on it?

Oh, yeah! And that night when you-know-who tried to get Robert to dance, and he retreated behind the car?

Or the day he lost the tool he needed, bought another one, and found the original immediately after he finished fixing the car.

So we all laughed and cried and remembered, over and over, until the sharpest pain eased.

But then reality roars back in.

Now it’s harder to hear Robert in my heart’s ear. What would he want me to do? How can I honor him? Will I have the strength to push through?

Reality has nothing to say.

Silence remains.

****************************************************************************

We are trudging up a long, steep incline, but this is the Joyous Road, and we will find memories and experiences that restore us.

Please share with me how you traveled through grief and found your way back to joy.

We need each other to lean on sometimes, and a faith in better days ahead.

Thank you all for your sympathy, love, and kindness. It helps.

© 2025 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated.

Thank you for reading! I appreciate your support.

Please subscribe!

You may also find my writing on Joyce Martin on Medium

If you choose, you may tip my writing at: 

https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Substack link: joyous461.substack.com

Read Full Post »

That’s too many. Even if we are on the wrong end of middle-age.

It seems quite frequently we lose another old classmate, friend, or extended family member. But this last round was rough.

*********************************************************************************************************

First, my partner lost his brother. 

He’d spent many years disabled after a stroke, but it still hit hard. Doesn’t it always? Yet when someone is expected to pass, we can find some solace in the memories shared with those left behind, the pics of our loved one cradling grandchildren, and the boisterous gathering of all the scattered family. 

The funeral passed in a blur, with my love doing his part as a pallbearer, in spite of still recovering from back surgery. He comforted his sisters in quiet corners at the dinner afterward. Hugs and tears all around. Then everyone dispersed, pulled back into the minutiae of the day-to-day. 

Until the next family funeral.

**************************************************************************************************************

A few years ago, I made the agonizing decision to leave a long marriage. 

I did not know where I would land that night. Someone’s couch? A hotel? But Miss Evelyn and her clan took me in and let me rent a property from them in the very small town where I taught. Most of her children, grandchildren, and even some of her great grandchildren knew me from school and events around town, but I had not met the matriarch herself. 

Evelyn took me into her great heart and nurtured me, just as she had her six children and all their offspring and friends young and old. I spent many hours next to her chair as she stroked my hair, and I talked through the hurt and confusion and grief that clouded over me. Sometimes we sat in silence, but genuine caring needs no words. It was then I understood why so many people adored this tiny powerhouse of a woman. 

The small Catholic church overflowed at her service, with every heart a witness to a life well-lived. At the country cemetery out on the prairie, the wind sighed through the old oak trees. Evelyn would fly from here, light and free, every task finished and all duties fulfilled. All is well with my soul. Go in love, Miss Evelyn, go! Catch the capricious breeze and dip up and over the grass and flowers, past the old church and the simmering heat into the depth of the bluest sky. 

We will remain here for a time, but we are well because you loved us so well. 

***************************************************************************************************************

Did you hear about Tony? 

My daughter called me on the day after to ask if I knew what had happened. Did my young friend change jobs? Move? That he had driven to the end of the road, literally, and taken his life did not compute. No, that can’t be Tony. I just talked to him not long ago. He’s a teacher, a giver, a musician, a dream weaver. He’s alive!

For several days I simply refused to believe it. I reviewed the last messages from him, looked at pictures of him, remembered our conversations about education, teenagers, travel, and a myriad of other things. Yes, I knew he struggled with depression, but he was climbing out of that. He had hopes of finding his soulmate someday and raising kids of his own. How had I failed him? What did I miss? His brother confirmed the worst.

At the funeral, his mother sobbed in my arms, and I had no comfort to give. I heard the rumbling of the priest’s voice during the funeral mass, offering prayer. I whispered the response, Lord, hear our prayer, but God felt far removed. The suffering of his family lay like a heavy blanket of sorrow over his assembled friends and students. I was an intruder in their grief because my own already engulfed me. I gripped the wet tissue in my hand and held on to a faint faith. Alleluia. Alleluia.

Inwardly, I screamed all the way to the gravesite. It is not right to bury a child before his parents! Has the earth reversed course around the sun, or day turned to night? All is not well in the universe when a young man of promise, who gave so much to others, loses his hope. The pallbearers placed flowers on the coffin, and a child in front of me played with his father’s shoelaces. 

Alleluia. Alleluia.

*********************************************************************************************************

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on joyous Road on Substack & Joyce Martin on Medium

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Read Full Post »

           A train whistle woke me the other night.  We can hear the trains coming through more clearly when our small town has gone to bed.  The melancholy calling of the whistle brought to mind the recent passing of my uncle, and his trip on the Glory Train.  In the weeks preceding his death, he would tell his family that he had a ticket, bought and paid for, on the Glory Train.  After months of illness and suffering from the cancer that had ravaged his body, his daughter sat at his bedside.  When they heard the train whistle, she gently reminded him that he had his ticket, and it was time to get on the Glory Train.  Soon after, he boarded that train for his last journey. 

            This episode reminded me of other goodbyes.  As is true for us all, the older I get, the more of them I have to remember.  I have become a collector of memories and mementos, of sights and smells, all of which I carry about in my mind and in my life as a living memorial of those who have gone on.  I can still have a few things about me that my loved ones used and loved, even if I can no longer have them with me.

            My mother often made biscuits in a green milk glass mixing bowl, with a handle on the side and a notch for pouring.  I can picture her strong hands tossing in the ingredients in short order, mixing with a few powerful strokes, and ladling the batter onto the floured counter for kneading.  Perfect biscuits every time, and a beautiful illustration of her nurturing love.  The beloved green bowl sits in my kitchen, and when I use it, I remember her.  When she died, love was literally the last word on her lips.  She breathed the word over and over, until she had no more breath.  To her, it was the most important thing to say.  And to me, how she lived is as important as how she died.

            Daddy had a different lesson to teach.  He lived a contentious, turbulent life, with his dreams always just out of reach.  They were grand dreams, too.  He was a man of ideas, but for him, reality and hope never reconciled.   He was opinionated, obstinate, and ornery.  In the years after Mother died, and without her as his saving grace, he alienated almost everyone who had been close to him.  Even his articulate and piercing intelligence could not save him from himself. 

When I went down to care for him during his last illness, I found a changed man.  Redemption came with the realization of his own mortality.  He let the walls down and let us in.  He gave up his pride and his need to be right, and we, just as we were, loved him, just as he was.  He asked for potato soup, like Mother used to make.  It had been years, but I made as close a facsimile to Mother’s version as I could, and we sat and ate it together. 

Later, when my siblings gathered in and we shared his care, we resorted to waving a bottle of peppermint oil under his nose to ease the waves of nausea that would come over him.  The clean, refreshing scent of peppermint still recalls the poignancy of those last days with him.  Daddy taught me that a death with dignity and honesty can heal a lifetime of anger and hurt. 

Now, as I move into the midday of my life, it is time for me to live my lessons learned, to heal every hurt as I can, and to love with a free and generous spirit.

© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved

Note: None of my content is AI generated. Ever.

Thank you for reading! Please subscribe below!

You may also find my writing on http://joyous461.substack.com & Joyce Martin on Medium

You may tip my writing at: https://buymeacoffee.com/joycemartin

Read Full Post »