Month: September 2026

For Better Again

Sketch of chameleon by my father, Staff Sergeant Wesley Dahlberg, while he served in Egypt during WWII © Craig Dahlberg

I shuffle carefully, avoiding lizards drowsing on the warming cement sidewalk outside my front door. They repeat this ritual daily, eyes fixed, scarcely evading my shuffling feet.

Eight months ago, I also searched for a warm landing place. Having lost my wife to cancer, I was newly inducted into the Widowers’ Club, a membership with no waiting list. Like the lizards, I searched for warmth.

I’m not alone. Grief spawns several offspring: divorce, illness, disability, and a myriad of other losses—relationships, independence, home, career.

When my wife and I married, we vowed, “For better or for worse…” We wanted a forever marriage.

We so enjoyed the “better” of fifty years of marriage. We saw the best in each other—the joys, quirks, marital flow, the sometimes-ridiculous humor. We even learned to treasure the occasional sour days.

Then, abruptly, it ended. A sudden upheaval. With her passing, I transitioned from the “better” to the “worse” side of that promise. With half my bed unoccupied, the beige goose-down comforter rested inert, the pillow needed no plumping, the pillowcase remained mascara-free. Date nights and medical appointments slid off my calendar like soggy sticky notes.

I kept asking myself, “Will my life ever become whole again?”

Friends coaxed me to join a club, volunteer, re-start a hobby, begin dating, or celebrate our fifty years together.

But none of that landed. I was bruised to the bone. All I felt was that the decades of companionship … suddenly vaporized.

For months, I heard a voice in the night—my hollow, unanswered wail, like a coyote in a tunnel.

Then, unexpected events started seeping in. An unexpected trickle—an artesian spring—found its way up through the cracks in my foundation. Other voices in the nighttime spoke quiet, unfamiliar dialogues, uninvited but welcome first-time visitors.

An angelic presence seemed to carry me—“Come along. Look ahead.”

Then, during waking hours, I noticed another subtle shift. Like a sailing ship with battered masts, I felt the storm of grief quieting. Sunlight lay ahead. Calming waters lapped gently. A newfound peace and quiet gratitude warmed my chill.

I was not “moving on” from loss. Instead, I “moved with” the recovering grace.

I was certain that my wife did not intend for my life to end with hers.

I am “moving with,” gradually, gratefully, departing the ranks of the heat-seeking sidewalk lizards, ever watchful and ready to scatter.

I am more like a chameleon at rest—eyes peering both backward and ahead, observing where I have been, yet strengthened to watch the path unfolding before me.

At night, I still lie awake and grope across the bed, still uncertain how to move forward. Yet a bridge toward hope is being built, one plank at a time.

Through hope, we are tutored by both remembering the past and recalling how God led us through it.

“For better or for worse…” conveys the spirit of commitment. It expresses gratitude for the marital past and sorrow for the present. But “for worse” need not describe the rest of the story.

So, I submit this amendment:

“For better or for worse…

…and for better again.”

What He’s Doing Now?


Sacramento Busker © Craig Dahlberg

No matter what you think of Los Angeles or San Francisco, the Sierra Nevada, the Central Coast, the Mojave Desert, and a few other places, they all carry a certain vibe—Kalifornia Kool.

But in the broad sweep of the Central Valley, where two rivers meet, sits Sacramento, the state capital.

There’s just not much Kool in Sacramento.

Flat as a tortilla, Sacramento is intensely hot in summer. Wildfires threaten the region year-round. And for such a vast state, its Capitol building seems undernourished and underwhelming—a California raisin instead of a plump, proud grape.

Drowsing on the banks of the Sacramento River, downtown Sacramento drifts toward its nighttime slumber. Thin trickles of departing shoppers abandon the outdoor mall.

As Sacramento pulls on its pajamas for the night, I head toward my hotel. Rounding a corner near a closing shop, I nearly collide with a street busker packing up. He wears a top hat, a long-tailed formal coat, a white frilled shirt, and a red cummerbund. He is stuffing his white clown mask into a blue Walmart shopping bag.

“Whoops! Sorry I missed your performance. Finished for the day?” I ask.

“Well, no, not if you want to hear me sing! Sure! I’ll stay!”

His hands tremble as he quickly reverses his packing-up routine. I wonder if I am the only audience he has had all day. He fumbles with a tiny amplifier, trying to switch it on.

In his left hand, he clutches a miniature cassette player. In his right, he holds a microphone pressed close to his mouth. The effort proves futile. His singing bears no discernible relationship to the cassette player’s tinny output. Is he three bars ahead, or four bars behind? Or perhaps, tone-deaf, he is simply guessing, tossing a note here, a note there—surely one of them will land.

He warbles through the lyrics, “What’s she doing now?”

The plaintive song reflects upon a precious, long-lost relationship, wondering where she is now and what has become of her.

How appropriate, I think. Where has this costumed busker been, and what will become of him?

Despite the cacophony and his lack of talent, some inner magnet draws me in and keeps me listening. His face is far kinder and brighter than his voice deserves. A hopeful expression elevates his presence. Somehow, his soul seems lifted above his circumstances.

He stares directly at me. Then, after his ten-minute caterwaul, I realize the obvious. He’s attempting to earn a tip from his audience—me.

I clandestinely dig through my wallet.

Nope. No one-dollar bills. No five-dollar bills. Only one solitary bill—a twenty.

I catch my breath. Too late now. He saw me digging.

A twenty? I can’t give that much to a stranger. Would my generous gift encourage this hopeless musical wannabe? Worse, what about the drugs he might buy? The booze? Would I be promoting a derelict lifestyle?

I do it. I swiftly fold a sharp crease across Andrew Jackson’s face and stuff the bill into the singer’s hand. Then I step back quickly, as if it never happened.

He steps uncomfortably close. The lines on his face seem to melt away, his anxiety thawing.

“Thank you!” he exclaims, stunned to be holding a twenty-dollar bill. He looks from the bill to me and grins, gap-toothed.

“This is all I’ve earned today—and nobody has ever given me twenty dollars! Now I’ll buy some food because, you know, a friend is letting me sleep on his couch for a few nights. I’m so happy. Thank you! God bless!”

I stand beside him as he packs up.

“I won’t forget this…” he declares.

Then he turns and walks away, dragging his amplifier and blue Walmart bag behind him.

Each time I hear that song, I still wonder “What’s he doing now?”

That evening, I gave away more than a twenty-dollar bill. My tight fist opened, and my hard heart opened with it.

Ever since, I carry an extra Andrew Jackson twenty-dollar bill in my wallet and gently turn up the volume of my heart.