More random thoughts from my journey following the death of my wife, Renee.

Loss.

If humans of every race, nation and language were to be examined and compared in the smallest detail, I wonder if the most common factor found in all of humanity could be wrapped up in this tiny four-letter word: loss.

Loss. It's part of our heritage, our inheritance from Adam and Eve. They lost The Garden, they lost unending life, they lost the closest, most intimate and personal walk with God, and they passed on all of that loss to us. We live with a legacy of loss. And as we experience more loss, we re-affirm our standing as part of human-kind.

Loss comes to us in all forms, all shapes, all sizes - lost toys, lost games, lost pets, lost friends, lost jobs, lost money, lost homes, lost opportunities, lost freedom, lost chances, lost love, lost marriages, lost abilities, lost limbs, lost connections, lost time, lost youth, lost health, lost strength, lost hopes, lost dreams, lost sheep, lost coins, lost sons. The pain of the loss may vary, but there is always pain.

Perhaps some of the smaller losses we experience along the way prepare us, in some way, for the bigger losses which are to come. Wouldn't that be nice? The lost toys, help us deal with the lost pets, which help us deal with the lost friends, etc. Right? Maybe?

The problem with this theory is that there is no rule that says losses always start small and only get bigger as we become better able to deal with them. When it comes to loss, there appears to be no rule book at all. Loss happens suddenly, randomly, without rhyme or reason, without logic, without explanation, without understanding, without justice. We think our loss is wrong because we don't deserve it, and we should only get what we deserve. But Loss doesn't "think" like us. Instead, Loss "thinks" like William Munny, as played so wonderfully by Clint Eastwood in the movie, "Unforgiven". Just before killing "Little Bill" Daggett, played by the great Gene Hackman, Munny responded to Little Bill's assertion that he didn't deserve this by saying - "Deserve's got nothin' to do with it."

And yeah, I know what you're thinking - "see the Book of Job".

Look - I'm a preacher. I know Job. I know everything I'm saying now was written in that book thousands of years ago, and written far more eloquently there than I can say it. I get it. And Job, a far more righteous man than I, after essentially saying to God, "I don't deserve this", didn't get the answers he was looking for either.

But I've always wondered about Job, and what his life looked like after the last chapter ended. Sure, he became rich again, and sure, he had more children in place of the ones whose lives had been suddenly taken. But wasn't the loss still there? He didn't just "get over" his loss, did he? Do you ever really completely refill or replace a loss to the point that it never has any place in your life, or in your memory anymore? I don't think so.

I'm not sure where all this is coming from. When I sat down to write today, I kind of thought I was going to be writing about a strange aspect of my loss: re-learning how to sleep alone. Maybe you'll get that one next week.

But it seems that what is happening here today is one of the characteristics of how we respond to loss. The thoughts, the memories, the feelings, the emotion, the hurt can, without warning, be triggered by who knows what - a song, a picture, a sound, a smell, a task she used to do so effortlessly, but which now, in my hands, is like trying to juggle jello. And when it happens, all you can do is go where it takes you. I think.

Actually, maybe I do know where this is coming from. The funeral is over. And, in an experience that was surreal in its own way, I selected an urn and picked up my wife's ashes. Now, I am approaching the last physical actions of this loss process - the dedication of a Memorial, and the scattering and the final disposition of my wife's ashes.

And despite everything that has happened in the six and a half months since her spirit left her body - despite everything I have seen and everything I have experienced, despite every moment of loneliness, despite every moment of turning to say something to her, despite every moment of needing her, despite the silence - despite each of those experiences and moments verifying the fact - despite the silence even screaming the fact - that she is gone - I am still incredulous. Despite everything, I find it hard to believe that those words - "the scattering and the final disposition of my wife's ashes'' - are real.

How can they be real? I don't deserve this.

Ambrose Ramsey | Pastor and Shepherd