Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. 

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NIV

God's timing is always perfect; I gently tiptoe into another woman's heartbreak. We belong to a club we never wanted to join.  I know He rules over the calendar of ministry because my wound is no longer ripped apart, only rubbed as I reach out.

It's a prickly walk...how do I offer comfort without shining the light on my own darkness? How do I offer love, not my own fix?  We each walk this arduous path of grief on our own timetable, in our own fashion. 

Today, I added handwritten love to a simple card of sympathy.  It cost me something valuable; each stroke of my pen bled painful memories of the early days of paralysis when I could barely navigate my own loss.

Perhaps my most profound gift was simply inscribed on a powder blue envelope.  

How do we address half a couple?

I remember...

These three words still bring joy, but even more so amidst the rubble of Rob's death.

They were my history.

They were my God-ordained position.

They still shout much of 

my ripped-apart identity.

Within a few weeks of his death, I ordered return labels so I could make known my preference or at least hold on to the only life I knew.

(Most people don't ask Emily Post anymore.)

Occasionally, I still receive an invitation or a greeting card addressed with Mrs. Rob Moore and I know my dear Rob is still written on the sender's heart and they deeply understand our lengthy love affair.

So today, I carefully penned the same beloved title on my friend's envelope, hoping she, too, would be reminded that her love of a lifetime matters.

Three powerful words...don't be afraid 

to use them.

*This is my personal preference, and is a good place to begin with a woman experiencing fresh loss. But as time passes, she might prefer her name or professional title.  You will not offend us by asking.

Think me crazy, think me stuck, think whatever you want, but I can't take the Rob out of "Rob and Robin."  Several months ago I caved to guilt and removed a picture of the two of us from my social media and every time I look at my wall, I just feel empty. There's been a lot of talk about marriage lately; it's caused me to take a deep look at my own. Rob and I were the lucky ones.  It's a mystery how two imperfect, very flawed people could not only survive 37 years together, but enjoy a marriage as complete and deep as ours. Pure grace which I continue to celebrate, even after death's divide.   
Experts tell me I should be shaping a new identity, one with new goals and purpose. Pardon my chuckle, but it's hard to teach this old dog new tricks. Oh sure, I'm writing some new, shaky chapters, but I'm afraid Rob is permanently etched on my heart and planted deep in my soul.  
This weekend, two teens reminded me that "R-Squared" is kind of a legacy not easily forgotten.  So for now, I'm just placing any guilt and pressure back on a dusty ol' shelf and smiling each time I look at my photo of one happy, married couple.