Seashells and Shaving Cream

But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart. Luke 2:19

I  decide on coral and teal. If I cannot go to my happy place at the beach this year, I tell myself, I will bring the beach to me, beachy colors that will calm my soul every time I take a shower. Happily, I order a shower curtain and a window shade online. While I wait for the packages to arrive, I gather other items: new peach and white flowers for the washing pitcher that belonged to my grandmother, the little jar of seashells we bought in Bermuda, a pink candle I find in the downstairs cabinet. Amazon delivers on Thursday and on Friday, armed with cleaning supplies and a trash bag, I head up to the hall bathroom to refresh my soul with happy things.

I am delighted with the colors, glad that the light gray walls allow me to change the decor without major expense. I have even indulged in new curtain hooks in the shapes of seashells and starfish. I delve into the top drawer of the cabinet under the window. Time to clear out the clutter! I toss empty shampoo bottles, old toothbrushes, and a dried up jar of Vaseline with happy abandon. I reach into the very back of the cabinet and pull out a can.

And I stop and sink to the teal colored rug on the floor of the bathroom, holding a can of Barbisol shaving cream in my hand, and cry.

This was Ron's. The only kind he ever used, the kind that was put into his Christmas stocking by one of the kids every year and given on each Father's Day along with Old Spice aftershave. The can still emits the faint, clean scent of my late husband. Quickly, the memories come pouring into my mind: Ron on our honeymoon, carefully shaving while I watched, fascinated by the contours on my new husband's face. Ron on our trip to Jamaica, needing to buy a different brand of shaving cream at the gift shop--at an outrageous price--because he forgot to pack it. I probably said a few unkind words. Ron sitting in his wheelchair, no longer able to hold the razor, giving me instructions while I lathered his face and prayed I would not cut him. Ron in his hospital bed, the nursing aide using an electric razor to trim his bushy gray beard.

Memories, psychology tells us,  allow us to relive special moments in our lives, both good and bad (Psychology Today). And God designed memories so we could relive not only the grand moments of our lives, but the small and  intimate details that make up the years, the relationships. A marriage.

There on the bathroom rug, the shaving cream in my hand, I recall Luke 2:19, "But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart." I want to believe that these small moments--Jesus in his infancy and childhood, ordinary moments to anyone but a mother--are what gave her the courage she needed to bide him farewell.

It has been a year and a little since I bide Ron farewell. Not forever, but for now. I am learning to negotiate the path one step at a time, making a new life for myself and my autistic son, allowing myself to cry over a can of shaving cream and store up a few more treasures in my heart.

It was a long battle for us,  an uphill battle of many years and many illnesses. We learned in those years, Ron and I, to treasure the small moments of peace: a shared meal from a hospital tray, a day without surgery, a cup of tea after work drunk at his bedside. God was faithful on our upward climb. The road was often dark and treacherous, the path unknown.

The path led Ron to Heaven.

I walk alone now, on a new path of widowhood. I have not "moved on" from Ron, but I have "moved forward," twisting those many years of care taking--what was often back-breaking and soul-crushing--into my life. I hang coral colored curtains and seashell curtain rings. I cry over small things.

God is still faithful.

The tears are a healing balm. Soon I am able to get up from the rug in the middle of the bathroom floor and toss the empty can into the trash bag. I hang my new curtains, place my little memories around the room. I touch the seashell shaped curtain hooks one by one, each one a memory of a happy day. 

My husband is still here, in each action I take, each thought I think. Like the coral and the teal colors I have chosen, he calms my soul.

GOD IS GOOD. ALL THE TIME.

Back when our husbands worked at the same plant, I knew her better. We'd get together occasionally; I thought her to be loud and a bit brassy. She wasn't someone I would really choose to be friends with.

God can bring change to people, though. She and her husband met Lord Jesus one day. They joined a faith community and found that God--rather than money--could provide for their every need. And it wasn't always easy. Jack lost a couple of jobs and they weren't able to go through with an adoption for a child they wanted. They moved down South, hit hard times, moved back North. Their daughter had a difficult marriage and divorced. They took on the task of raising grandchildren.

Still, she wasn't someone I would choose to be friends with. Except for both being teachers, we had little in common. She and Jack would still stop by the house occasionally, usually at inopportune moments--like the time the ceiling in the hallway had fallen down!--and we'd go back to our own lives. After Ron had the car accident, Cheryl sent a card and a meal. We visited their church once or twice. But ours was a fragile relationship; we were pleasant to each other, nothing more.

God, however, can use all sorts of people in our lives. We never know where encouragement or inspiration may come from. We never know who is watching us. If we are godly people, we need to remember who it is we represent.

I was on my way through Walmart yesterday, picking up a few items for a family party. I wasn't feeling particularly well. The heat had kicked up my asthma and I'd developed a cough. But we only manage one cook-out a summer, so I was still gathering supplies and determinedly plowing ahead. That's when I saw Cheryl outside the restrooms and while I was tempted to just nod and move on, I stopped. And talked.

It's been a year since I talked to Cheryl for more than a second or two. We quickly filled each other in. She'd lost her job a few months ago and was unemployed, trying to find another job. She'd had an interview at a Christian school, but she said the salary offered was pitiable. She was still looking. I told her I was going to a new school as a Title 1 teacher, not thrilled that it was further away then I'd hoped. I wanted to teach four more years, I said, until I could get full retirement.

She sighed. "God is good. All the time."

I nodded. People were always saying that. After Ron's car accident, I heard it ad nauseum.

"I really mean it" she said. "I wanted to stay three more years and get full retirement. Now I can't find a job and we're probably going to have to move. But I still believe it. God is good. All the time. Even when it seems like He's NOT being good, He is. All the time."

Her words gave me pause. I told her about my eye problems and the likelihood of a cornea transplant. I told her I was worried about driving into the city again. I told her I had left the school placement up to God, and this is what He had given me.

"God is good," she said again. "All the time. If He sent you there, He has a reason. Just trust Him." We exchanged a few more words until her grandchildren and my husband expressed some impatience and we moved on.

But Cheryl's words stayed with me. God is good. All the time. Even when it doesn't seem as if He is good. I wondered if one of the reasons I was having trouble finishing writing my latest novel in progress--Doodle Cat--was because the main character, a woman minister, seemed to be struggling with her own lot in life. God knew that while I tried to handle it all  with grace, I often struggled with my load. Why couldn't I, for example, have a husband who was healthy and worked? Why couldn't I have a school 5 minutes away? Why did I have to have a stupid eye disease?

Because God is good. All the time. I may not know why the things in my life have transpired as they have, but I have to believe in the goodness of God. My plans are not His. His are better.

So even as I struggle to reconcile all  the pieces of  my life and try valiantly to write faith into my woman preacher character, I need to let Cheryl's word echo in my heart.

God is good. All the time. I do not have to understand it. I just have to believe it.