That’s how grief works. The hole in my life that took
his place is permanent. It’s a life sentence. The waves of sorrow are less
frequent now but, when they hit me, they’re just as turbulent as ever and I have
no choice but to ride them out.
I sought counseling right away just before he died,
thinking he had a long recovery ahead and I’d need help to navigate that
difficult road. Instead, I was the one with the long recovery ahead. Only, I
don’t believe you ever recover from losing your beloved. You learn to live
alongside it but the loss, the hole, is still there, because he isn’t. He isn’t
here.
Counseling felt like I was attending Grief School. It
was there that I learned firsthand how grief works.
I was late to class, I guess, something I’d always been thankful for, and also
a little bit worried about, inexperienced as I was. But I didn’t need to worry.
Whenever Grief finally shows up, it doesn’t leave. You’ll learn its lessons
right on time.
I didn’t want to meet with a “Christian” counselor.
I’d already heard the rounds of comments about trusting God from other
Christians. About being “tested” by God. Learning whatever lesson He was trying
to “teach” me. Basically, the word on the street was that God was the bad guy.
Or I was. Comfort from some people felt a lot like friendly fire. No one meant
to shoot me down, but they took aim on my grief and I got in the way.
The last thing you need when your heart is broken is
to feel guilty for not being a stronger believer, a faithful servant, a better
example. Being human was not allowed. I could be selling Christian counselors
short since I never spoke with one, but since I’d already been told by a few Christians
to “never question God,” that losing Rob was “God’s will,” that the reason God
took him and not me was that “God still has work for you to do, Eula,” and that
I should not “pitch a tent in the Valley of the Shadow of Death,” I felt
certain that this unfamiliar pain probably would not be understood by those who
had not yet lost their beloved spouse.
So, I met instead with a woman who respected my belief
in God, encouraged me to lean into Him and sit with Him, and told me the truth
about how long grief lasts. “It takes as long as it takes,” she said, shaking
her head at the statement that a lengthy grief was the equivalent of staking my
claim in the Land of Sorrow and trying to set up shop there. “There are no
shortcuts,” she told me. “The only way through it is through it.” She was
referring to grief, not the valley of the shadow of death. Which, in the case
of losing my darling, was way more than just a shadow. It was the real thing.
She was patient. She did not judge me or anything I
dared to tell her. After our sessions ended, I spent a year online connecting with
other widows and listening to a “grief coach.” You can’t say
I haven’t tried to find my way. It’s what I do. I keep trying.
But here’s the thing I’ve been thinking about
recently. I’ve been told that my relationship
with Rob didn’t die with him, but “it changes.” Well, that’s an understatement
if ever I heard one. I’ve also been encouraged to speak to Rob any time I need
to. I do that anyway. After forty-four years
together, even death can’t shut me up. And, in that regard, our communication
has definitely “changed,” since Rob doesn’t speak up the way he used to. Or,
another way of looking at it is that he’s as quiet as he always was when I took
too long to get to the point.
But what did they mean when they told me my
relationship with Rob would go on, but would change? It never made
sense, and you’d think it would since I’m the authority on what it’s like to
have to live without him now. The “advice” felt so ethereal, vague, woo woo.
I’m pretty sure it had Rob laughing if he was listening in. He's always been a practical kind of guy.
It was meant to comfort me, but it didn’t. And, I
suppose, in the world of widowing, maybe not every bit of advice will fit every
kind of widow. That’s fair. But if that widow is a believer in Jesus Christ, if
she knows that the Holy Spirit lives inside her as her Comforter and Counselor,
and if her darling is also a believer, then what is the comfort that actually
does its job when the two of them are torn apart and one of them must keep
living with her feet on ground muddied by her own tears?
This is where comfort happens for me. Jesus cries with
me. He never criticizes me, no matter what I have to say, and I’ve had a lot to
say in the last five and a half years. If that isn’t grace, then grace doesn’t
exist. On a side note, that’s also the reason I love Jesus, because He accepts
me as I am. A flawed human being who is also His.
He has carried me from Day One. Actually, from T-minus
35 and forward, for the five weeks that Rob’s life hung in the balance, and we hoped
against hope that he’d make it. And afterward, when I stopped talking to God
because I didn’t understand and I was hurting and blaming Him, He did not turn
His back on me. He held me. I knew He was doing it and after a while, I started
talking to Him again. Yet He’s never once made me rededicate my life or grovel
at His feet, begging His forgiveness for not having enough faith. He just kept
carrying me and walking with me through this thing that takes as long as it
takes.
And what about Rob? Where does he fit into all of
this? Well, I can tell you one thing. He isn’t dead. He’s more alive than he’s
ever been, more alive than I am. He’s “waiting” for me, if you can use that
word for a place that exists outside of time. I sometimes think of him as being
away on assignment. We’ve been in that position before, or maybe you didn’t
know that. We were engaged in April of 1975, two weeks before the Air Force
sent him overseas, and I didn’t see him again until a week before our wedding
in September of 1976. Eighteen months of letters and rare phone calls, a year
and half spent waiting for him to come get me while he waited to be free to do
it.
I’m waiting again. In the Spirit, I sense him
sometimes. In this world, I get signs from him sometimes. In my dreams, I see
him often. But my arms are empty, my bed is cold, my tears come daily, and I
miss him like the moon would miss the sun.
I’ve heard all kinds of descriptions of where our
loved ones are once their bodies die, usually from people who are unsure if God
exists or if He loves them. I wish I was a better communicator of the reality
of who God is. I’m a pretty lousy witness. A terrible debater. Even a weary
widow. But Rob is not hiding among the stars. He’s not the energy around me. He’s
not my spirit guide or an angel or a personal assistant scheduling my future. He’s
also not relegated to just memories and photos, stories and a tombstone.
He’s alive. We’re apart and I hate it. I keep telling
God that I don’t understand death. I don’t understand the space between Rob and
me now, knowing he’s alive when I can’t see or hear him. But when I asked my
son, the Anglican priest, where Rob is, his answer came easily. “He’s in the
arms of God, Mom.” And so am I. I have been since Day One, T-minus 35, carried
by the One who also carries my darlin’.
If God carries both of us at the same time, then Rob
is as close as my heart.
I’ll try to keep remembering that on the days when my
hands look old, my tears keep falling, and I’d give my right arm to hear him
speak to me again. He’s waiting for me.
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