The Stories of Our Lives (Part Two)

This is part two in an ongoing series.
Part One Here: As The Story Turns

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death …
Psalm 23: 4

The death of someone you love is devastating. It doesn’t matter if you know the disease is incurable, or how long they have fought against it. It makes no difference whether it is sudden. The loss shakes you to the core of your being.

The days following my husband’s passing from pancreatic cancer is and was, a blur. I remember bits of those days, but most of them remain locked away somewhere in the hollow fogginess of loss. It’s fear I remember most. Confusion and doubt were fear’s closest companions.

Chris’s Celebration of Life service is cloudy. What I remember most is that my brother spoke, and he wore orange tennis shoes in honor of Chris—my husband was one of those obnoxious University of Tennessee fans, so orange was his color.

Sleepless nights, shutting myself up in our bedroom, crying uncontrollably … that was my life for weeks. Wonderful friends helped me through those things that must be done, because on my own, I didn’t have the wherewithal to muddle through.

The nights offered no consolation. Nor did sleep come to allow a reprieve. There’s no explaining the depth of this pain, nor can anyone tell you how to get out of the pit it creates.

Well, there’s one …

God put His arms around me after Chris passed, but I was too numb, too shocked to realize His presence was more than comfort. He was ever so gently guiding me, trying to lead me to the path He had established for me.

Let me first state that grieving people are broken. Speaking from my experience, grieving people don’t know how to act or how to talk to people. We don’t know what others expect of us or how others expect us to act. The whole being around other humans is uncomfortable and filled with anxiety.

But we understand others are struggling themselves with what to say and do for us.

We, the grieving, want others near, but we also want to push them away. All the while, we’re trying to act as normally as possible just to keep our heads above water and not show our struggle. Surviving grief is exhausting.

I knew little those first days and weeks of grief, but one thing I knew without doubt was that I had to be in church. As uncomfortable as being around people was, staying away from church was not an option. I was there the day after my husband’s Celebration of Life Service.

I needed to be there, but couldn’t deal with the sad looks, the hard conversations, and the inevitable crying. These people had loved my husband, prayed for my husband, stood by my husband, and were now doing the same for me.

But grief is a relentless, heartless beast, and in those weeks and months, that beast controlled my every emotion. Sunday became both my best and most difficult day of each week.

Chris and I built our life together around our belief in God, and from day one, church had been a major part of our everything. How could I possibly re-establish myself back into the one most important thing that was our foundation together without him? It was like walking on hot coals.

Torment …

I allowed my church—my people—to love me, comfort me, and be everything God called His church to be to the grieving. There is no doubt God was smiling and full of pride at how my wonderful church family fulfilled that calling. Love me, they did.

Alone in the bed I had shared with my husband for forty-two years was (and is) gut-wrenching. A few minutes of sleep here and there throughout the nights were all my mangled heart would allow my fatigued body.

The hopeless exhaustion. The fear I was losing my faith.

Yet, it was in those lonely, sleepless nights that I did the only other thing I knew to do. I prayed. I read my Bible.

There was nothing else. Nothing. Aside from God’s presence and His word, nothing touched me or the grief.

These were not hallelujah moments. There was no shouting or praise. What I came to realize was that this was obedience. Without comprehending it, in my emotionally compromised position, the Holy Spirt had been there all along, coaxing me in the loving, gentle—quiet way He works.

My first steps were plain and simply … obedience.

Obedience in going to church. Obedience in prayer. Obedience in reading God’s word.

I came to understand that obedience was God‘s stabilizing platform for me in my grief. The Holy Spirit whispered to my crushed heart that obedience was faith. I wasn’t losing my faith. I was building it. My obedience in following the steps God placed before me would prove the faithful character of God to my aching heart. Walk in this way, and the good outcome I desperately sought for my shattered heart, God would provide.

“What is more pleasing to the Lord … Listen! Obedience is better than sacrifice …”
~ 1 Samuel 15:22

I found strength in my obedience to honor God and to honor the godly husband He had given me. God’s stabilizing platform of obedience in my grief became the launching pad for the next steps God set before me.

Coming next—”Can You Hear What I Hear?”

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