It was July the Sixteenth of Two Thousand Twenty-Two. It was her kind of day – sunny and bright. The many shades of green danced as the morning light shined across them. She saw the nuance in every color. She loved nature and being outside soaking up its beauty and art. Every animal was her friend. Dogs were her constant companion, but horses were the pinnacle of her love for animals. When her love for animals and art combined, the most beautiful paintings of horses came to life. Wonder never drifted from her eyes. They were always filled with amazement for the things God had placed around her. Her name? Pamela Joy Hartman Baker.
On that day in July, I wish I could have seen her eyes as they opened in heaven for the first time. If wonder and amazement filled them here, how much more wonder would I have seen there in her new and final home? Her faith in God was beautiful despite the disease that took so much from her year after year. It was real and true faith that she carried from her childhood to her final breath. It was that faith that carried her to her new home that day. Her faith became sight.
She was the person I had become one with as we married in nineteen ninety-five, yet in one shattering moment she was torn away from me. With her, the best of me was taken. I was a shell of a man with no center to my being. I was alive, but in stasis. I was alone and devastated.
Family was around and available, but I was unresponsive emotionally. Inside my world of grief, I was grasping to hold onto life. I could try to describe more of the emotions I felt, but all you need to know is that losing a dearly loved wife rips you into pieces and leaves you to die.
Weeks later, survival mode kicked in, and the long road called grief began. Yes, it had indeed begun on the day that she passed, but thankfully the first numb days of grief shielded me from the deepest pain. When the numbness wore off, the real agony of grief could be felt. By this time I was better able to face the resulting feelings. I could now handle the thoughts of moving forward rather than dying.
It has been four years since that awful day. In those days of grief, I wondered if life would ever be good again. I wondered how I could move forward with life. There were so many unanswered questions about the future, but as with most things you simply must let the days run their course.
The Roman poet, Terence who lived around 170 BC, wrote “Time heals all wounds.” Modern day poet Julia Yolen added to that ancient quote saying, “Time heals all wounds, but it does not erase the scars.” Some say that time does not heal wounds at all. Why are there so many different opinions? I guess the question of healing depends on the person who is grieving.
Everyone reacts differently to grief. Some stay where they find themselves – in the pit with their grief. The opposite is the person who pretends that they do not hurt and tries to move on immediately. They hope that they can leave it all behind. Both ends of the spectrum are destructive and can result in trouble ahead. Most people fall somewhere between those two drastic ends of the spectrum.
I grieved hard, and it moved through me like a slow-moving storm. A storm that you wish would move faster, but the rain is cleansing the land. So, you just settle in and allow the storm to continue as long as it needs. Some days the storm of grief was painful, like lightning and thunder. Some days it was healing, like a gentle rain. When the winds calmed and the rain reduced to drizzle, I began to wonder what life would be like when the storm was gone. After a year, the storm ended, and sun would break through the clouds in my life occasionally. More and more, as the painful grief faded, smiles returned.
Premonitions, or knowledge of the future, are beyond our human understanding. In the spring of that dreadful year, I could not understand why Pam was so insistent that I promise her what she asked. She said, “When I am gone, promise me that you will love and marry again.” Her eyes were determined and her face insistent, so I said, “I promise.” I forgot about that promise until late in two thousand and twenty-three. By then, I had healed somewhat and learned to smile instead of crying constantly. I was happy and content to live with the warmth of her love in my heart. But Pam knew me better than I knew myself. That was the reason for her insistence on my promise.
Yes, I needed someone to walk through life with me. Someone who would understand my grief and love for Pam and also understand the days when it returned like a passing storm. I would need someone who didn’t see my love for Pam as a threat – someone who would accept me and my love for her. One day, God walked that someone into my life. Two years after the worst day of my life, I married Tammie, who brought deep love and acceptance of me with all my scars from grief.
What is it like four years later?
Some would say that I moved on and forgot Pam, but they did not see me in the Cracker Barrel just five days ago. Tammie and I had just finished eating and walked into the store. She went her way to look at candles. I wandered around looking at odds and ends until I stopped in my tracks. My eyes had landed on a book about horses.
My mind flashed with Pam’s love for horses. The flash became a flood of tears and grief. I searched for a place to hide so no one would ask me what was wrong. There, in the corner of the store, I found a place where no one could see me. I cried as quietly as I could until a swish of air and a giggle made me look to my right. There, looking at some little trinket, was Tammie, standing just ten feet away with a sweet smile on her face.
I turned to go the other way, but my leg muscles redirected my body in the opposite direction and brought me face to face with Tammie. As she looked up at me, tears were still rolling down my face. She hugged me with loving comfort while another wave of grief rolled over me. Then she asked me to tell her what was happening. Soon she was standing beside me in front of the table with the horse book, listening to the story of how grief for Pam had hit me with no warning. She held my hand supporting me and identifying with my grief.
Life is full of joy and grief. We don’t understand how the events will unfold. We don’t understand how one event will build upon another, producing outcomes of which we could never conceive. Some outcomes bring joy and peace. Some outcomes leave you in pieces and pain.
Life is a mix of love, pain, joy, and tears. It is up to us to choose. In which of life’s attributes do we choose to live? Grief for those we love and miss will always interrupt us and stay for the time it chooses. I have the honor of experiencing the love of those I have lost – my dad, my mom, and Pam – when grief reminds me of their great love for me.
That’s where I am, four years later.