When my wife, Kathryn, died of cancer earlier this year, I was plucked from society to live in the land of the grieving. The land of grief is a cold and barren land devoid of laughter and sunshine. Its main features include deep valleys, twilight, thick fog, and a chill wind. There is no way around the land of grief, only the way through. There’s no bus to carry you, no private car service to whisk you through in a hurry. It must be walked, every inch of the way. I’ve known grief to take the form of anger, disbelief, and other days it comes upon you as a weighty sorrow. Still, other days, I feel a great numbness, feeling sorry for myself, and even wondering how and why I should get out of bed and try any more.
In studying the process of grief, I find in this swirl of emotions that I am quite normal. Grief is a long process of letting go and taking hold of the new normal. It cannot be avoided. It cannot even be hurried. In the time of grief, I have known well-meaning friends who heap platitudes upon me. I have known others who have tried to say that they know exactly how I feel. Even others who try to talk to me about what it means to lose your wife, but I have not lost my wife. I know exactly where she is. She’s with Christ in heaven. Even though she will not come back to me, in time, I will surely go to join her. The best comforters in a time of mourning are those who have sat beside me in church and worshiped, those who have hugged me without words, or those who have done a practical deed of kindness like picking up groceries and delivering them for me or wheeling my trash to the street.
Probably the most helpful discipline in grief is thanksgiving. Gratitude teaches us to see what is, not to see what is not. As the sage, Dr. Seuss, puts it, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” In 49 and a half years of marriage, a lot happened for which I can be thankful–things like learning to love, forgiveness, shared laughter, endless conversations about things that matter, three children, nine grandchildren, trips to Bermuda, symphonies, and so much more. One of the greatest ways that a human being can achieve wealth is to have a lifetime of happy memories. Marriage for me was a treasure trove of such pleasant acknowledgements of the past. Indeed, Kathryn and I had nearly 50 years together which encompassed so very much that some people would give their right arm to have had just one year of it.
The Bible talks about Christians learning to grieve as those who have hope, not as those who have no hope. Indeed, I can look at the past, and riffle through a million good memories of what has been. But I can equally look to the future and understand all of the rich blessings of the Resurrection that we Christians know holds true. According to the hopeful gospel of Jesus Christ, I will see Kathryn again, I will recognize her, she will be healthy and in her prime, and we will have all of the time in eternity to catch up on our lives apart. Right now, the hard part of grieving for me is not coming to terms with what has been, or what will be, but what is right now. There are mornings that I awaken and my day won’t start, and my shoelaces weigh 60 pounds each. It’s all I can do to get out of bed, shower and dress. I am told by those wiser than me who have studied this in great detail, that it’s normal.
One of the things that I find oddly surprising to learn is that I am not alone in walking through “the valley of the shadow of death” (Psalm 23.) All around me I have met others whose spouse has died, people who have lost friends, a child, a parent, a beloved teacher, etc. So I know I’m not alone. In fact, Psalm 23 teaches us that God is with me, safeguarding my journey– “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” He even promises to “restore my soul.”
This is good medicine, and I take it daily.
Stephen Crotts
June 2023
