The Voice I Needed to Hear

As a widow and a farmer, I thought I was comfortable being on my own. The pandemic showed me otherwise

- RAYLENE NICKEL

THREE WEEKS INTO THIS TIME OF social distancing and my emotions were melting down.

Around the world, people were sheltering to prevent the spread of Covid-19. You’d think someone like me, a veteran at being alone, would have no problem with isolation. Since my husband John’s death from cancer seven years ago, I’ve managed our 468-acre farm and cattle operation on the North Dakota prairie by myself. I’ve learned to live with solitude, silence.

Yet this forced separation from my neighbors, my community, and the cooperative farming arrangements that had taken me years to develop was stretching me to my limit. I was 67. Never had I felt so alone.

It was Maundy Thursday, four days before Easter. How I longed for John’s companionship, his hardy strength and clear-headed wisdom.

“Lord, please let me hear his voice!” I said out loud during my morning prayer time.

It was an unusually bold prayer. Ordinarily, I am content with God’s own ways of communicating. A sudden feeling of joy perhaps or a flash of insight amid silence. A memory of something John had said during the many long conversations we shared during our nearly 30-year marriage.

Was it presumptuous to ask for something more direct? It was Holy Week. If ever God might grant such a prayer, it was now.

My partnership with John had been close, and I had not expected to be alone at this stage of my life. We did not have children. The farm was our life’s work, and we worked in a prayerful rhythm, alternating solitude, togetherness, silence, and conversation throughout each day.