When President Lincoln died from a gunshot wound on April 15th, 1865, his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, received messages of condolence from all around the world. She attempted to answer many of these messages personally. To Queen Victoria, who suffered the loss of her husband four years earlier, she wrote:
"I have received the letter which your Majesty has had the kindness to write. I am deeply grateful for this expression of tender sympathy, coming as it does from a heart which from its own sorrow, can appreciate the intense grief I now endure."
Almost exactly 142 years after Mrs. Lincoln penned these words, I too discovered the meaning of that "intense grief." I became a widow and a member of the club to which no one wants to belong. People ask me all the time what they can do or how they can help. Honestly, I don't really know. Maybe just let me talk about Jon instead of getting all quiet and uncomfortable whenever I bring him up? Try not to make me feel so awkward when I tell our stories and share memories of the time we spent together?
Realistically, though, there's no way to fix what's broken here. I miss him. All the time. Everything makes me think of him. So unless someone figures out how to resurrect the dead, there's only so much they can do or say. It's particularly frustrating when people tell me to "call if I need anything." In an ideal world, I'd probably take up just about anyone on that offer. On the rough nights, I'd love to to call up my friends and tell them I've had a bad day. More often than not, though, I don't pick up the phone and I don't call anyone because I'm a self-conscious, blubbering mess. The intensity of my emotions always makes perfect sense in my own mind, but when I try to explain these feelings out loud to others, the words come out sounding hollow and strange. I don't want to be "that friend" - the needy girl who's always sad and in tears because her husband died. So I often keep my tears to myself...or hold them inside and fight like hell to keep them there. And yet, despite all this, I know I'm still better off now than I was when I tried to bury my grief in work and unhealthy relationships. Those distractions didn't solve anything, besides protracting the inevitable heartache. Ironically, my decision to quit following everyone else's advice on how to be happy again is one of the best decisions I've made since the day I was notified of my husband's death.
President Lincoln once advised that we "put [our] feet in the right place, then stand firm." I've done plenty of tap-dancing around the right place since Jon died, but I think I've finally settled where I need to be. It's where I should have been all along, and now that I'm here, I plan to hold my ground. This past weekend, I was fortunate enough to attend a special screening of "Lincoln," a film based on the final four months of the President's life. For as long as I can remember, I've been a huge Civil War buff, so the screening was a highly anticipated and exciting event for me. In fact, one of my fondest memories is of traipsing around Bentonville Battlefield with Jon in North Carolina. We'd passed the site countless times before, and on this particular day, he turned to me and said, "hey babe, let's stop and check it out." I loved him for indulging my nerdy fascination with military history and for giving me the gift of that experience. I loved him even more for getting excited about our discoveries together on the battlefield. We were the only ones there that day...and I wouldn't have had it any other way.
Appropriately, the "Lincoln" movie began and ended with some of Lincoln's most famous oratorical words. On November 19th, 1863, President Lincoln gave a two-minute speech to commemorate the thousands of Soldiers who died four and a half months earlier on the outskirts of a little-known town called Gettysburg. The words he uttered that day have become imprinted on the very fabric of our national identity. When we consider the profound simplicity of his words in light of their monumental meaning, it's easy to understand why:
"In a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is, rather, for us to be here dedicated to the great tasking remaining before us - that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion - that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain - that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom - and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
Jon, baby, I'm so sorry it had to be you. I'm sorry you had the give the last full measure of devotion for our nation's freedom...but I know you wouldn't have it any other way. Within a few short years, you lived a full life. You died for the motto non sibi - not for one's self - and it is by this same moral code that I'll live out the rest of my days. I promise, no matter how many of those days there might be, that I will do my best to finish your work and advance the noble causes to which you devoted yourself with such passion. I promise you will not have died in vain. As President Lincoln so eloquently put it, although my words will fade in time, the things you did here will never be forgotten.
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