5. No More Tears in Heaven

"When I try to make it make sense in my mind,

The only conclusion I come to

Is that Heaven was needing a hero

Like you."

~Jo Dee Mesina

When Jon was still alive, I used to say a prayer each night thanking God for blessing me with such a wonderful man.  While he was deployed, I prayed constantly to God to please just keep him safe and bring him home alive.  Well, obviously that didn't work.  That was it, I said.  No more praying.  Bad things happen to good people all the time, so what's the point?

I guess you could say I finally broke down after vehemently insisting for the last few years that I didn't want anything to do with a God who could take away a man as good as Jon.  I was never "traditionally" religious even before everything happened, but after I lost him, I shut myself off completely from any and all forms of faith.  Ironically, the design of one of my two memorial tattoos includes a cross...but I usually chose to ignore that fact when I described to people what it meant.  I did try going to church a few times and read a book or two about heaven, but when I felt no immediate, miraculous spiritual healing, I promptly gave up.  Like they say, though, sometimes it takes a whole lot of rock-bottom to effectuate a meaningful change.  A few weeks after my last failed relationship ended, I had a sudden epiphany:  I realized that what my friends and family had gently been hinting at was probably true, that although I was angry at having been hurt and deceived, the only thing I was really sad about was how desperately I missed Jon.  At the moment of that epiphany, I think I had sunk about as low as I could go.  And it wasn't like I was just hanging out down there - I'd pretty much dug in and set up permanent shop.

For reasons I still can't explain, I picked up the phone one night and called a mutual friend of Jon and I's from college.  I knew she had turned to religion at a time when she'd reached her own version of rock bottom, but I didn't know many of the details.  We'd had a falling out back in college and I hadn't been able to bring myself to forgive her in the years since then because the falling-out had involved Jon.  He'd forgiven her long ago but I, stubborn as I am, could not.  I finally came to the conclusion that it just wasn't worth holding a grudge or staying angry.  Cliche though it may sound, life is simply too short.  


I was desperate enough to try anything, so I swallowed my pride and asked about her experiences with the church.  I listened intently, trying to ignore the sarcastic voice in my head that chastised me for entertaining the option after having failed to stick with it on multiple occasions in the past.  "You'll never be able to buy into all that stuff," the voice said.  Positive thinking wasn't exactly my forte, but I ignored the voice and focused on drowning out the doubt.  "Come on," I told myself, "don't listen to that.  You need help.  This might help.  At this point, how could it possibly hurt?"


Our friend went above and beyond in walking me through the details of her emotional roller coaster ride and the ways in which religion had provided her with the tools she previously lacked in dealing with life's many heartaches and challenges.  I was hesitant...but again, I knew that if I gave in to the negativity, I'd be right back to where I started, if not worse.  When she emailed me a few days later to let me know that she'd found a great church in my area and had already called them personally to ensure they were as good as they sounded, I was touched.  I didn't expect her to do all that for me, and I felt humbled by her kindness, especially after I'd held such a silly grudge for so long.  So on Sunday, I went to church.  And then the next Sunday, I went to church again.  And I actually liked it - it made some sense to me.  In fact, I found myself in tears during one of the songs because it made me realize how desperately I need something more than my own strength to get through all of this.  For now, my plan is to remain cautiously optimistic and stick with it this time around to see how it goes.  Crazy though it may sound coming from me, I think it might actually be helping.  

My memorial tattoo, complete with cross.  The inscription reads:  "Loved Always & Forever"

Jon and I talked about death once.  I vividly remember sitting in the car in our driveway and pondering the great beyond.  I don't even remember why we started talking about it.  It was just one of those taboo things that you can only really talk about with someone who knows all your deepest and darkest secrets.  We mused on what it would be like if there was nothing, just blackness, and what it would feel like to no longer be able to feel, to no longer be "us."  It was a scary thought.  We both shuddered and quickly moved on, afraid to dwell for too long on the possibility of nothing but interminable blackness - a deep sleep that goes on forever.  That possibility is way too depressing.  I'd rather it be the way they show it in the movies, where everything is peaceful and quiet and beautiful.  There's a scene in one of Jon's favorite movies, The Lord of the Rings:  The Return of the King (we saw it 3 times together in the theater when it first came out), that paints a picture of a heaven that has no more pain and no more tears.  In the scene, the wise old wizard Gandalf is trying to make the scared little hobbit Pippin feel better before they go into battle...so, yes, I'll be the first to admit that maybe Gandalf was just being nice so that Pippin didn't chicken out.  But it all sounds so wonderful - no more tears?  I sure hope heaven is like that.  


For years after Jon died, I carried around a coin on which was inscribed the message:  "Destiny - I believe we will meet again."  On one of my trips to visit him at Arlington, I finally buried the coin at Jon's headstone.  I may not carry around the coin itself anymore, but I think I might finally be starting to believe its message.  I heard someone say once that all of life is just one big waiting room, and if waiting is all I have to do to see my sweetheart again, then that's what I'll do.  I'll wait for as long as it takes.  I often wonder if he'll recognize me.  What if I live until I'm 90?  I'll be old and gray and wrinkled and he'll still be only 25.  How will he know it's me?  Upon leaving this world, do we all just revert back to the best version of ourselves for all of eternity?  That possibility doesn't scare me nearly so much.  In fact, it makes me smile a little.  I think I'd like that.  Heaven - an eternal version of my life with Jon.

I was notified of Jon's death on Saturday, April 7th, 2007.  April 8th was Easter Sunday.   In the early morning hours of April 8th, I boarded a plane with Jon's dad and his brother to fly up to New Hampshire where we would plan a funeral to bid my beloved husband goodbye.  It was still dark outside when the plane reached its cruising altitude, but as I stared blankly out the window on that cold Easter morning, I watched the beautiful, glowing orange orb of the sun break through the dawn and crest the clouds.  I turned to Jon's brother, who was sitting next to me, and said "Look, Jason.  That's Jon - that's heaven."