A Tale of Two Bubbles

I have been traveling a lot this fall, frequently waking up in strange places with a sort of scripturient hangover. My urge to write is so instinctual that not putting pen to paper becomes a near-physical ache.

However, the Holy Spirit stayed my pen while I gathered unique experiences across three countries. I had wanted to share about one nation’s artistic beauty and another’s incredible history. Instead, God is guiding my pen to write about a half-eaten cheeseburger, even though it’s an uncomfortable, quasi-embarrassing story. So, dear reader, here we are.

When I first became widowed, I immediately searched out support for myself and my children. I found a Christ-centered widow’s organization that seemed like a good fit and tentatively applied for a scholarship to attend one of their widow’s retreats, this one geared toward widows of military or first responders.

My initial application wasn’t accepted as the retreat was full, and I promptly forgot about it as I was swept along in the currents of my new life, reluctantly adapting to the painful ebb and flow of life after ’til death do us part.’

One morning, after savoring the last morsels of memories, nestled inside my dreams, the place where two remain one, I received an email in my inbox. An invitation awaited me to the next widow’s retreat. I had forgotten them, but they hadn’t forgotten me. My spot for this year’s retreat was secured and paid for.

I boarded the plane to the sunny Gold Coast of Florida last weekend, a bundle of nerves, about to meet twenty other widows. I didn’t have huge expectations, other than to hope my sarcastic nature would be welcome.

Reader, I will confess: before I became a widow, widowhood conjured images of silver-haired women in their late 80s with a golden anniversary behind them, biding their time knitting until they went home to heaven.

God forgive my ignorance. I happily shared the crystal-clear ocean water and white sand with a beautiful bikini-clad widow who noted that this trip might be the end of breastfeeding her rainbow baby son, born two weeks before his precious father died of cancer. She was incredibly kind and invited me to her home in the Midwest, where I had never traveled. Another mom of two children under two years old cried when she described her love for them, but her need for help – for ‘Jesus with skin on.’ One widow shared my struggle of raising special needs teens without the strong guiding force of a father, being expected to navigate all their therapies and specialists while aching deep inside.

These amazing widows ranged in age from their early 20s to their late 50s. Death had claimed our husbands through cancers and cardiac issues, drowning, illness, medical errors, military accidents, murders, and suicides.

We had arrived on a Thursday night, small groups trickling in from the airport, having traveled from all across the United States to receive healing and hope.

Entering into a stunning oceanfront home brimming with the vibrant voices of young widows from every imaginable walk of life was both a sensory overload for my introverted nature but, more importantly, incredibly restorative to my soul, which had been starving for like-minded connection and normalcy for the past 21 months.

This sorority is unlike any other. We are a diverse group of women both surviving and thriving through a heartache we never asked for. As one widow put it so poignantly, we had suffered ‘the death of dreams.’ Countless dreams for our futures and our children were wrenched from our grasp with our husbands’ final breath. Common themes in our raw, vulnerable round-table meetings were questions of identity, both in ourselves and in God: “Who am I now?” and “Whose am I?” “Does God hate me? Is He punishing me?” Red-hot anger at those who had wronged – or continued to wrong our families, wishing for the scales of justice to tip that might never be tipped this side of heaven. Frustration at those who made initial claims to help us but then were nowhere to be found in the long days and lonely nights of our sorrow. Confusion and shock: “How is this my life? I still keep waiting for him to walk through the door.” Misplaced guilt and shame that only comes from Satan: “If only I had known/ did/ said….” Honest conversations about what dating or remarriage would look like. Profound sorrow. Each widow passed the tissues or was handed the tissues, endlessly.

Healing was happening incrementally. We were drenched in God’s love, over and over. Prayed over, hugged constantly, fed until stuffed, cleaned up after, showered with gifts, emotionally nourished, seen, heard, appreciated. Light entered our dark places, and laughter bubbled up. Our dark humor came out in this bubble of safety, understood only by us.

Widows founded this organization and continue to spearhead it. Before our arrival, the prayer team was activated. Each widow is prayed over continuously, for safe travels, for our caregivers back home to be patient, for our children and pets not to get sick, for our peace of mind and strength of body. For deep healing.

Each day of the retreat, the widows gathered for scrumptious catered meals, with special attention given to anyone with food allergies, served up with heaping side dishes of smiles and laughter. We never had to clean up after ourselves. We were the ones being spoiled and cared for, which took some getting used to. It’s been a long time since someone matched my socks from the dryer!

Each of us got a cozy sweatshirt for chilly beach nights. A precious staff member and fellow widow helped each woman decorate Panama hats with stunning ribbons and pins to shield us from the bright Florida sun and to take home as a loving reminder that we are covered and protected. Not gonna lie, I look pretty dang sassy in my hat.

Saturday night was the culmination of our retreat. We were asked to bring one dressy outfit for a night out. Twenty widows prepping for a fancy dinner is a sight to behold, as we all reverted to our teenage selves – giggling loudly and primping in the mirror.

We were whisked off to a 5-star restaurant for a dining experience that felt like something from our past. Widows don’t prioritize eating out, especially when we are thinking about how to budget food, clothes, haircuts, and medical appointments for our children. It was lovely to be wined and dined again, but this time with God as our husband: “A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.” Psalm 68:5.

We were offered wine if we wanted it; our savory appetizer was whipped honeyed ricotta with balsamic glaze, cherry tomatoes, and multigrain crackers. I was then given filet mignon, cooked just as I like it, with a soft potato pave. Dessert was a decadent creme brulee – the caramelized sugar and vanilla custard perfectly matched to make a memorable confection.

During dinner, we were each gifted a beautiful ring box, engraved with our late husband’s initials and our wedding date. It was known as a ‘Mrs. Box’, meant to cradle our wedding ring and all the love it held when the time comes to take it off, should we choose to. The ring box was another part of feeling seen – knowing our future still holds multiple pain points, but they can be honored.

At the restaurant, I asked one of my new friends, “What are you most thankful for at the retreat?” Her immediate reply: “Feeling normal.” In unison, every woman at the table nodded her head faster than a bobblehead doll on a dashboard.

We returned to find our beds made up as if by magic (after we had left them sloppy in our haste to leave) and a gorgeous gift bag on our beds. Inside, we all had matching pajamas. The card attached to the bag read, “In peace I will lie down and sleep, for you alone, Lord, make me dwell in safety.” Psalm 4:8.

We were invited to sing after slipping into our cozy jammies. When we arrived to sing praises to the Lord, we all burst into shocked laughter as one of our incredibly gifted musical moms had sneakily put on a campy blonde wig and stuffed her dress with fake bosoms, belting out Dolly Parton’s hit song, “Working 9- 5,” while we all sang along. Don’t worry – we did actually sing praises to the Lord after the fake bosoms were removed and thrown across the room to gales of laughter.

Sunday morning, three women were baptized, set free from sin, embracing being a new creation in Christ. Cheers, tears, and applause followed. God is so good!

When it was time to leave, one widow said she was now taking home, “The belief that God has a purpose for my pain.”

Another said, “I wish I didn’t have to leave this beautiful ‘God bubble.'” We all felt the same way, wishing for one more day in the God bubble.

On our trip to the airport, we were warned to be on guard against spiritual warfare, that Satan would come against us to try to steal, kill, and destroy what was given, birthed, and created at this retreat. Personally, I was heading home with a meeting on my calendar to discuss what a widow’s ministry could or would look like at a local church that offered to start one.

I had two flights on the way home – my connecting flight landed me in a major southern airport at dinner time. I knew I should eat, as I wouldn’t arrive home until 3:30 in the morning. I craved a cheeseburger, and I wandered alone from noisy terminal to noisy terminal, weighing my options, since ten different places served burgers. The sports-themed burger joint was jammed with a dozen or more televisions all blaring out different games I wasn’t interested in. The ‘famous country music singer’ themed restaurant was too dark, and I like being able to see my food. I walked past one that seemed promising. I kept my options open, but kept circling back to this one place.

I noticed a cheeseburger sitting in a basket, cut neatly in half with the accompanying steak knife. A few other baskets were next to the cheeseburger basket, with only the remnants of a few French fries. Before I was a wife, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I was a busgirl at a bar-and-grill restaurant. I immediately clocked that basket as, “Party has paid the bill and left; a woman cut the cheeseburger in half (it’s always a woman who doesn’t want to look like she actually eats on the first date), and the staff is slow in throwing it away.” I walked up to the entryway and waited politely for the hostess to seat me.

Did you hear a pop? That’s the sound of me abruptly leaving the God bubble.

The hostess took one look at me and clocked me as “Single, no man, no good tip, no table.”

The hostess told me I could sit at the bar. I was tired and didn’t want to sit on a bar stool with no back support. I politely asked for a table. She replied that the bar was open. I could see there were tables open because the cheeseburger lady and her party had left. I had been waiting for a while. I politely repeated my desire for a table.

Then… the hostess simply walked away. She went through the kitchen doors and talked to a co-worker. I could see her clearly, as all restaurant kitchen doors have windows so you don’t smash into the wait staff as they come and go.

When she finally returned, she dismissed me with, “Seat yourself.”

Hungry and out of patience, I walked away from the hostess, grabbed the neatly cut-in-half cheeseburger out of its basket, and ‘sat myself’ in an airport lounge area under renovation. I ate First Date Girl’s leftovers without hesitation. Feel free to go all judgy wudgy on me, if you need to.

It didn’t escape me that twenty-four hours earlier I had been served filet mignon and creme brulee. I had a ‘seat at the table.’ All the widows had. We were ‘normal’ again.

Satan’s bubble would have me see myself as invisible and unloved, living on the perimeters and feeling guilty, ashamed, only worth the world’s leftovers.

God’s bubble has filet mignon on the table. I know my worth. God said it, my husband said it, and now I’m saying it. A widow’s worth is precious.

There was more spiritual warfare to come – a drunk girl on the plane yelling expletives, my brother texting me that he had dreamt someone was trying to murder my daughter, but he saved her. A spider bit me as I entered my car to drive home.

I arrived at my meeting on Wednesday, ready to discuss their church’s desire to start a widow’s ministry. I was empowered, emboldened, ready. A weekend spent in the God bubble, being loved on, will do that. My widow sisters deserve hope and healing – for them and for their children. They need to know God has a purpose for their pain. They deserve to be wrapped up gently in the bubble wrap of God’s love – expressed through his church. And maybe given a fresh cheeseburger. =)

“Learn to do good. Seek justice. Help the oppressed. Defend the cause of orphans. Fight for the rights of widows.” Isaiah 1:17.

Written with my deepest thanks to the entire care team of the Never Alone Widows Retreat, October 2026, for your attention to detail, your love, and for being the hands and feet of Jesus. Your husbands would be so proud of you! To the Gary Sinise Foundation, I thank you for remembering the military and first responders. To Gary, Moira, Sophie, and Ella Sinise, know that your precious Mac is not forgotten. To my Widow Sisters – I miss you, and I pray we see each other again soon! To my friends and family who have wrapped me in the bubble wrap of God’s love these past 21 months – I am forever grateful.

Resources:

https://www.neveralonewidows.com/

https://www.garysinisefoundation.org/programs/honoring-families-of-fallen-heroes

https://www.molleymoody.com/about