Six Weeks a Widow. Where are you, God?

Where are you, God? Where are you? I can't feel you; I can't hear you. I am drowning.

People say that Kirk is by me. No, he is not. He is awaiting the Lord's return. I don't feel his presence; I feel only his absence.

So this is why we are to hate the world, I suppose.

What would he want me to do?

I have no idea.

I know what he would have done, for he told me. If I had gone before him, he would have joined a hermitage in Southern Missouri. But he didn't tell me what to do. He told me what he THOUGHT I would do, and that is to move back to Pennsylvania. He said it in an off-handed way, as in "duh" of course you would move back to PA. But he certainly did not say it as that is what he would want me to do, just that he assumed I would do that.

My job is here. The home we shared is here. He is buried here.

My family wants me to move back East. But, let's think this through. My siblings are not all in PA. Only one sister is in Pennsylvania. My brother is in New York; and my other sister is in Virginia. Granted, a lot closer than the 1000 miles between them and me right now. But. They have their own families. What exactly would I be going back for?

Everyone says (the omniscient "they") that I should not make any major decisions for at least a year. OK, I can understand that, because decisions like whether to buy blueberry yogurt or peach yogurt have me stymied. My mother asked me if I wanted the curtains opened today. I couldn't even make that decision, and I am supposed to make the decision of what to do for the rest of my life?

Somehow being a waitress doesn't hold the appeal it once did. Simply because now I no longer have retirement with Kirk to look forward to. Previously I would have reworked that sentence so as not to end with a preposition. Now I don't care. I care about little to nothing anymore.

I search Jerusalem Post and Breaking News to look for some glimmer of hope that the world is coming to an end and the Lord is returning soon.

I look at the stack of paperwork and housework and other things that I have to do; and instead of tackling them, I just sit and stare... and cry.

I used to love cooking. Loved it! I used to use a microwave only to warm up my coffee, and for those handy steam-in-the-bag vegetables. Now every meal is made in the microwave. We have had the same meal for days and days in a row. My mother's forgetfulness is handy that way. She has no idea.

Why is God silent? And why am I deaf? Is it one? Is it both?

I can't do this for 40 or 50 more years. I just can't.