Category Archives: Spirituality

How Am I?

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Three weeks after ejecting from my roadbike and skimming across Center Street, I feel somewhere between two-thirds to three-fourths of the way back depending upon how much I’m asking of my bod. I don’t cry when choking on pistachios anymore. And I’m walking a lot, cycling a little, and I ran all of two miles yesterday even though I couldn’t breath very deeply at all. And I’m hoping to get the gills wet Monday at Masters swimming. Thanks to everyone who has checked in. Your texts and calls have meant a lot. They have made me feel a lot less alone.

More importantly, how is my soul five months after Lynn’s passing?

The second hardest adjustment has been the near complete loss of the connectedness to everyone who showed up for Lynn so consistently until the very end. Everyone, of course, quickly returned to their normal lives. I understand that, but it has still been disorienting. The house is so dang quiet.

However, the single hardest adjustment has been the loss of Lynn’s constant love, which as it turns out, I grew more dependent upon than I realized. As an introvert who digs solitude, I always fancied myself as fairly independent and resilient. LOL. In the immediate aftermath of her dying, I felt like the guy in the opening of MadMen.

Despite MSA’s slow motion devastation, I was unprepared for what, at the very end, felt like the pulling of a trap door. Which compelled me, two months ago, to go on a couple of dates which really upset my daughters whose well-being is as important to me as my own. And so now, as a result, I am disconnected from them. So disconnectedness upon disconnectedness.

Within that larger context, there have been what we in the Pacific Northwest call “sunbreaks”. Moments in the week, when the clouds separate just enough for warm, healing light to briefly shine through. When Steve calls during one of his Camino training walks to see how I’m doing. When Kevin calls. When MARN calls. When Lou, from high school, reaches out. When Mark invites me to walk. When Kris reaches out and comes over and listens to me ramble like the wonderful counselor she is. When Lil’ Chris sends a heartfelt card and note and invitation to a community event. When the college roommates write to see how we’re doing. When Marybeth sends this card.

Damn, that’s what everyone said, “I’m so happy I met Lynn.” I miss the KChrises, the roommates, Marybeth. Lynn’s people.

More sunshine than a sunbreak, I am not dating anymore because I’ve met someone special. Someone incredibly sensitive to my grieving and the family’s. Someone who watched Lynn’s memorial service on YouTube and said, “I wish I had known her.” Someone who gives me confidence that I will be alright. Especially when my daughters can accept my free falling self and we reconnect.

Sunday, Mother’s Day will be especially hard for A and J. Here’s what I want them to know. I turned on Lynn’s phone recently and there were 99 text messages. One dated 12/16/25, the day after she died, was piercing. Lisa, her boxing coach texted, “I love you Lynn. No more pain. Rest in peace.” Followed by a purple heart and strong arm emoji.

I want them to find solace in their mom’s legacy. So many people loved her. So deeply. We were very fortunate to be among them for as long as we were.

What I Believe

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A new friend I’m enjoying spending time with asked me recently, “Do you go to church? Did you? How were you raised, religiously?”

I can quickly and easily answer those questions. No. Yes. Semi-religiously. But those cryptic responses beg follow up questions, especially, what happened that caused you to stop attending church? But instead of explaining that here, I’m guessing she was most curious about what I believe.

I appreciate the meaning many people find in being active church goers. The way the music, liturgical traditions, friendships, and community service enrich their lives. Organized religion is almost always a net positive.

For me though, the ancient hymns, and too often patriarchal liturgies and prayers, combined with a dearth of opportunities for intentional and democratic small group communication, made church participation less and less compelling post-Covid. I also believe anyone who thinks their own faith tradition is the one and only true one needs to see more of the world.

I am not explaining my thinking to persuade you to think similarly. I do not need you to think similarly to me for me to be secure in my beliefs. I am all for church participation for thee, just not for me. But, as the numbers clearly show, I am not alone in finding transcendence elsewhere.

And although I am dechurched, I believe in the supernatural, more specifically in a holy spirit if you will.

I seek transcendence in three places primarily: nature; the arts; and close interpersonal relationships.

I believe in the Salish Sea, Aspen trees, the Cascades, the Pacific coast, and all of Western Canada.

I believe in words and imagination, and emotions and stories, and how some people combine them in ways, that for me, are truly transcendent. I believe in Ian McEwan, Richard Russo, Joan Didion, and Jonathan Franzen. And I believe in modern dance, painting, and the power of film. Artists convince me, over and over, that things will be okay in the long run.

And I believe in family, the kind that’s based on birth and the kind people thoughtfully cut and paste together over the years. I especially believe in caregivers, like Olga, Abigail, and Fufu, who hold families together.

And I believe in the emerging social scientific consensus that says well-being mostly consists of making close friends and then spending time with them. I believe in the simplicity of that formula.

And I don’t just believe, but know in the depths of my soul that tomorrow is not guaranteed and I cannot afford to put off being in nature, reading ebullient stories, celebrating art, hanging with family and friends, and loving deeply.    

Arrows Here, There, and Everywhere

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I hit the road last week for the first time in 20 months. Drove a long, long ways. Overdosed on podcasts (Epstein Files, Artificial Intelligence, MF Doom–look him up). When the car came to a stop, I got on my bike and road it uphill in warm sunshine.

When my bike came to a stop, I titled a document, “What I’ve Lost”. It’s a shit inventory. If you’ve been reading me recently, you can correctly guess parts of my “What I’ve Lost” notes, but you would not guess this part, “Lost connection to PLU students—lost meaningful service, exercising unique skills, youthful exuberance.” I decided to stop teaching a year ago, but didn’t make it formal until a few months ago.

My timing on pulling the plug on work isn’t the best, but there would never be an easy time to let go of something that’s been so rewarding for so long. I hope the university will be okay.

Alison and Jeanette seem to be experiencing grief similarly to me. In waves. Or maybe, more accurately for me, waves of piercing arrows.

Something as simple as going out to dinner while on my inaugural road trip proved surprisingly fraught with unsuspecting arrows suddenly materializing out of thin air. Order a pizza. Then pass time in an eclectic shop next door. One that has very nice Valentine’s cards. Arrow One. Lynn called me the “Card King”. Like the flowers I’d get her, she always, always liked my cards. She kept most of them. “Now,” I think to myself as I start to get woozy from the loss of blood, “I’ll never get to buy her another.”

After pizza, gelato. I get a large cup with four different flavors. Arrow Two. “One more thing Lynn was right about,” I can’t help but think, “blackberry is the best”. I’ll never get to share a blackberry gelato with her again.

In the later parts of a recent bicycle ride, I got blindsided by Arrow Three. Never even saw the archer, but somehow stayed upright. Lynn and I had a silly ritual whenever I got home from a group ride. She’d excitedly ask, “Were you the Alpha Dog?” She’d be genuinely happy and proud whenever I said “yes” and incredulous when I’d say, “Some days you’re the hammer and some days you’re the nail.” Now, when I get home from a group ride, there’s no one to ask me how was the ride, who was there, what did you see? If no one asks about an activity, did it really happen?

Recently, Jeanette lamented, “I just don’t know where she is.” I offered that her mom was in our hearts, to the degree we emulate her. But, as these remarkably unremarkable stories illustrate, she’s almost always in my head too.

Maybe We’re All Sign-Holders

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What do you think when you pass under political, sign-holding people on freeway overpasses? Of either variety, bright red or dark blue?

My internal dialogue. “Apart from posting on Facebook, I don’t think anyone could choose a less effective form of political persuasion. Has anyone ever, in world history, said, ‘You know, I was driving south on the I-5 when I looked up and saw an outstretched sign that said ‘X’. Until that moment, I really believed ‘Y’. But now, I realize how misguided I have been and I’ve completely come around to ‘X’.”

At 65 mph, the outstretched sign advert might last 1-2 seconds. That’s not even subliminal.

The sign holders are careful to keep a safe distance from their opponents they’re hoping to somehow convert. Their method is a metaphor for our modern age. We’re all steadily improving at keeping a safe distance from one another. Getting better and better at reducing the inconvenience and unpredictability of direct, interpersonal contact.

Abrupt shift. You may be wondering how I’m doing. Lots of people appreciated the “rawness” with which I described Lynn’s final chapter. Now though, I feel like the humble blog is completely inadequate for telling my story. Of how I’m doing.

I suppose, like the sign holders, I’m afraid too. Afraid to “keep it real” in way too impersonal a format.

So what to do? I don’t know.

Taking Turns

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I was awed by my daughters’ poise last weekend, both at the memorial and the “day after” brunch.

The Winter of Grief hit hard for Alison on Monday; for Jeanette, Friday night. Fortunately, like cars simultaneously arriving at a four-way stop, we’ve edged out and then taken turns losing it. Maybe not the best analogy because it hasn’t been that intentional; fortunately, it’s just the way it’s worked.

Similarly, while I have things I could communicate about my first quite lonely, quiet week post memorial, they seem less weighty than this paragraph from Jeanette’s most recent Substack. So without knowing it, it’s her turn.

“Mom’s memorial weekend was hard and surreal, and also beautiful, honoring, and full of loved ones; those who came to be with and support us, as well as those who sent their love from afar. I spent the reception looking for mom in the crowd, wanting to walk over and rest my head on her shoulder, get a hug, or simply stand by her side. I just wanted to stand beside her, listen to her wrap up her conversation before leaving with her by my side. When I was by her side, I knew I always belonged, I was always wanted. I came into this world by her side, cozy and comfortable in her womb for two weeks past my due date. I was born from her body, I fed from her as an infant, I grew up under the caring watch of her loving and attentive eye. Being by her side is the most natural environment I have ever existed in. I miss her every day. The longer it’s been, the more surreal it feels, the more I think, ‘it’s been long enough, she should be coming back now’. And she doesn’t.”

Fourteen Ways

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I have more end-of-life questions than answers, but I am certain of one thing. Some people, like Lynn, live in ways that inspire those they leave behind to emulate them. Here are several ideas on how we can keep her spirit alive. There was only one Lynn, so pick your favorite few.

Fourteen ways to be more Lynn-like.

  • Take your watch off on occasion and leave your phone behind. And don’t worry about being exactly on-time, instead be even more present to people.
  • Consciously choose intimacy and commit especially deeply to one person.
  • Jump in streams, lakes, or the sound, with or without clothes.
  • Pay closer attention to plants by learning their names and caring for them.
  • Never speak negatively of anyone, instead always give people the benefit of the doubt.
  • Be proactively friendly. When you move somewhere new, if your neighbors don’t initiate for whatever reason, bake them something, walk over with it, and introduce yourself.
  • Trust in kindness and resist the urge to keep score in relationships.
  • Travel, learn new languages, and immerse yourself in other cultures.
  • Eat a lot of fruit and leave a trail of apple cores wherever you go.
  • Volunteer at a food bank, respect the homeless, and give generously to non-profits that care for the most vulnerable among us.
  • Commit to a faith community.
  • Dance.
  • And if you want to embody the most Lynn-like attribute of all, make it this one. Be especially mindful of and friendly to the newcomer, the outsider, the immigrant, whomever is lonely.
  • And lastly, somehow, despite touching so many people’s lives so profoundly, self-compassion illuded Lynn. She often felt she wasn’t nearly enough of a daughter, sister, wife, mother, educator, citizen. She lived with a nagging sensation that there was so much more that she could and should do. Somehow, she understood and forgave others’ shortcomings with more of a generosity of spirit than her own. I struggled to accept this and felt relatively powerless in helping her muster some semblance of self-compassion. Given that, one more especially poignant way we can honor her legacy is to pick up that baton and practice self-compassion. To learn together to accept that although we’re flawed, we’re enough. And with that assurance, to keep her memory alive by consciously and imperfectly being as Lynn-like as we can in whatever time we have left.

Blessed be the life of Lynn Byrnes.

Reverse Psychology

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This morning, on my final Lynn CaringBridge post, I wrote, “Lynn’s memorial is going to be lit.” The truth of the matter is I’m dreading it.

Largely because almost all of Lynn’s most special friends will be there, but she won’t be. What she would give to be able to look each person in the eye, smile, and hug them one more time.

If you’re at the memorial and wondering what I’m thinking it’s, “I really, really wish Lynn was here to see everyone whose lives she touched and to enjoy their company.” Remember, she loved parties.

Last night, Alison asked me how I’m doing. I explained that it all depends upon the level of distraction. Like most people these days, I’m pretty damn good at distracting myself from the permanence of the loss that I wrote about previously. Landman, estate executor details, Facebook reels, UCLA portal comings and goings, U.S. imperialism and related bullshit, etc.

When someone thoughtfully checks-in, like Ali, and I’m forced to stop and remember all that’s been lost, I’m immediately overcome by emotion. I cried in the kitchen.

For me, Saturday afternoon will not be lit. Absent any distractions, I will be a complete and total mess.

I’m approaching the event mindful of what basketball analysts say an offensive player should do when going against a fearsome shot blocker/rim protector. The inclination is to opt for finesse, maintain a safe distance, and lob something high arching up and hope for the best. Counterintuitively, the advice of the best basketball minds is to negate their strengths by driving right into them. Or as the kids say, “Getting up in their grill.”

That’s what everyone coming together Saturday afternoon is going to help me do. Get up in the grill of grief. Jumpstart it. Press “fast forward” on the process.

Prob, so much so, I’ll be fine Sunday morn. Right?