One year ago this week, I received the poetic and prophetic email above from a longtime writer-friend. I’ve pasted here the entire contents of the email—it contained no greeting, no compassionate inquiry about how I was faring in my grief. It came seemingly from out of nowhere, just five months following the death of Janet, my beloved wife of 50 years. And the sentiment it conveyed was not a welcome one to me.

My first reaction was to push it away. Why would someone send this to me—just two days before my first Valentine’s Day in over five decades without the love of my life?! I was at the depths of my dread about the approaching holiday and our wedding anniversary looming only 8 days later, and here came this pithy, lovely, affirming yet jarring prod, poking at the ashes of my heart. I read and reread its message. I pushed it aside. I practically memorized it. I have since quoted it many times. I still reread it monthly. I knew my friend was wise and correct, but I had just been protesting to my GriefShare group leader—a widower now remarried—that he should quit telling us we could find happiness again “in another relationship.” Simply assure us we can find happiness again. FULL STOP!

After Janet’s swift death and the sudden loss of her companionship within just six weeks of my retirement, I poured myself fully into my grief journey to avoid getting stuck or alternatively stuffing my feelings and living miserably… something that would please neither God nor Janet.

After reviewing a dozen books and contacting friends who had preceded me into widowhood, I began reaching out to numerous others who were also newly grieving, to share our journeys and support one another.

Over time, one widow became very dear to me. I first met Heidi in late January 2024 and within a few months we gradually found our interests expanding beyond our griefs and toward one another. Contemplative visits to Mission San Juan Capistrano and Prince of Peace Abbey followed, and then barefoot walks along the beach and blanket picnics at the park. We lived 80 miles apart and found halfway points to spend the day together. We talked for many hours online about our pasts, presents and futures, and prayed together at length.

I confessed to her that I would like to explore a relationship, one that focused on us while continuing to welcome our dearly beloveds into our dialogs. We’ve done this faithfully now for over a year, moving forward together without ignoring our grief nor forgetting our wonderful marriage partners. I think we’ve honored God and our deceased spouses, while falling more and more in love with each other. She made a list, using every letter in the alphabet, of qualities that drew her to me. I wrote her a list of reasons why she’s practically ‘perfect’ for me. Since early on, we’ve been on an endless hunt for “red flags that would bring us to our senses.” We’ve submitted ourselves to a premarital pastoral counselor and attended a premarital weekend retreat. We’ve spent much time together and apart with our families and our friends, “going deep and going wide.”

Two weeks ago, we marked one full year since the first time we’d gotten together. I arranged for a black car service to pick her up and take her to the same place we first met, and after a little shell game of small decoy boxes building in affirmation and romance, I dropped to one knee and opened a final box containing an engagement ring. When I asked, she smiled sweetly and said yes, making it official. 

An intimate wedding is slated for June, and in the meantime, our lives are already changing. Heidi’s grandkids are very young (unlike mine!) and I told her early on that I’d be willing to move so she’d still be close to them. So, we’ve now purchased our soon-to-be-shared home in the San Diego area. It fell into our laps in a beautiful God-story, and I’ve recently moved there in order to stage and sell my condo—which is now sold! Things have seemed to move very briskly and smoothly, yet we’re not rushing (or we’d have married months ago)! Instead, we’re walking through open doors that seem to be swinging wide without much effort on our part. I’ve had great peace, even when hitting the inevitable bumps in the road of these myriad changes.

To be very clear, Heidi is not a “marigold missing something” from the analogy above. She’s a wonderful, warm person and an amazing gift of God to me. Both of us marvel that the Lord would allow us a second chance at love after such wonderful marriages already. How blessed are we?

There’s much more I could write, but I’ve already used too much “ink” to add a long spiritual reflection here. Instead, I’d like to end by excerpting a thoughtful essay by Andrew Collins in a recent Christian Century issue. He ponders Jesus’ parable of the Sower & Seed and wonders where the “good soil” comes from.

…When I think about the nature of literal soil, [I see a lesson] that Jesus ultimately lives out in his journey to the cross.

“Consider the soil in which your seeds will be planted,” I wrote in my notes… “What is that soil made of? Decomposed dead things—plants and animals that have long since ceased to exist. It’s from this that our new shoots of life and beauty will spring. Take a moment to reflect on the death and loss you have experienced, perhaps as recently as this past winter, that can make for fertile soil in this new spring season.”

In other words, good soil is pain, loss, and suffering transformed into the loam of the soul. If I have any hope of the seeds of my life eventually sprouting and growing, I must accept the dark concoction of corpses and waste that creates the conditions for fruitful life… [Here the author shares his own grief journey and how it has changed him, and then concludes…]

Through grief, the opportunity to take root in good soil will come to each of us sooner or later, and it will do so repeatedly. The invitation is to take up our cross and follow Jesus into the grave—into the compost heap and manure pile—the place where the kingdom of God, in due time, miraculously comes into bloom.

Without question, the deaths of each of our spouses were tragic losses. Their imprints and memories will stay with us forever. Yet, it’s also from that loamy ‘good soil’ that we see new shoots sprout and bloom; new hopes, a shared future.

Thanks be to God.

Cory, Valentine’s Weekend 2025