I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said “I don’t know” over the past three weeks. It’s like everything I once knew is now in question. I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. After spinning through the air, I’m disoriented, unsure of what is happening. “Why are the horses green and purple when they were black and white a few minutes ago?”
Maybe there is no right or wrong in grieving.
But that can’t be because there is right and wrong in life.
I want a shortcut. I want God to tell me which is the most direct route out of grief. Is there a fast lane? If there is no shortcut, I want to be the first one to find it. By the way, where’s the off button?
I realize I am regressing under the weight of sorrow. Is that OK? Can I regress a little? I want out. I want it to be over ASAP. Like a cell phone in the Huron National Forest, I constantly look for a signal while wearing my batteries down. How can I opt out of this Lord? I want to give up but don’t know how.
Is that pathetic, or what?
I assume the only way I could give up is suicide. But I can’t do that. It would hurt my children. I can’t do that to God. I can’t do that to my wife, family, friends, or even myself. That’s a rabbit hole I can’t pull myself out of once I go there. But another part of me knows things are as good as they can be, at least for now.
I am blessed. I am a rich man. I have friends I can call who will allow me to blather nonsense about my conflicted feelings for an hour and offer me no shame. I even have friends who call me to check in, and offer prayer. I’ve never had such a wide base of deep friendships. This is a good thing.
The periods in which I want to “give up,” are getting shorter. The desperation drifts away like the seeds of a dandelion if I hold onto the truth long enough. It’s just those intense times of grief are overwhelming. Often, I need to sleep and recalibrate my grief button. In the morning, I wake up blank most of the time.
Sometimes that works.
The secret is to be connected to others. I am reinventing myself. I purposely allow space to say yes to all dinner invites, which has become a big blessing. And what’s better, it happens often. I’ve had meals at more houses in the last month than in the previous 10 years. And I have a few planned next week. When I enter their home, they honor me, and I honor them. Both sides win. I think I win the most because dinner with friends chases the darkness away. And I don’t feel that black hole at my feet for a while. I forget about it.
Perhaps I could have been more social in the past. I should have been more involved in connecting with others. Deb and I didn’t always agree on this issue, so few families ever came over to our house. Now, I wish I had pushed the issue a little more.
The Fear
I have tripped and fallen into that terrible black hole. The experience is not quick but slow, like the slow burn of thirst. It’s almost subtle. It’s not splashing into water, but more like hiking at a high altitude where you realize it’s hard to get air in your lungs. The emotions float to the surface before I realize what they are. Then, they make me think terrible thoughts.
The hole is isolation. At church, I’m connected. In the hole, I’m alone and lost. It’s being in a vast desert with no end in sight. It’s a shame. It’s a desperate shame that feels like nausea. I’ve had shame before, but nothing so vivid, real, or guttural. It’s like life is being pulled from me. And I’m left feeling hollow like I don’t care about anything anymore.
The hole seems too powerful for me to get out of. I’m stuck like the slow burn of quicksand. No, it’s more like a pit of tar. I have thick, oppressive blackness that I can’t get off my body no matter how hard I try. It pulls me down into the darkness, where there is no mercy. It’s hard to breathe down there, like you can’t get enough air in your lungs, even after you try. And it pulls the will to live from my body and hides it.
There is something in the hole. I think it’s despair—a separation from all that is good and holy—a form of death. It fills me with a dark hopelessness that holds tightly to sin. Instead of condemning the sin, I justify it and volunteer to become a prisoner.
That’s why I’m so afraid of it. It’s all my vices piled into one centrally located hell. I guess the thing that terrifies me the most is my fear. I felt this when I was a child, afraid of nightmares and scary creatures. As a child, my nightmares had their category in my head, near the top of the list of things I didn’t want to experience, above bee stings. I fear being swallowed up by the blackness. It’s my fear that I am so afraid of. Why is its grip so hard?
I tend to self-depreciate and assume the worst of me. I think that even the good things I do are selfishly motivated and feeble attempts to get praise from others. “What a guy, that Andy. He’s such a good feller.”
I doubt myself. And sometimes, I doubt my doubting and chase my tail in a people-pleasing frenzy.
This loud inner judge begins to raise his accusing voice at me:
“You don’t have what it takes to be a man.”
“You’re a fraud. You’re just trying to impress others.”
“What were you thinking? How can you keep making the same stupid mistakes?”
“Quick, hide, before anyone sees how stupid you are.”
“Hide and never come back.”
God intervenes by answering prayers prayed by friends. I’m too disoriented to get the help I need. I lose my center and lose sight of Jesus.
“Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus.”
When I finally stand-alone, with my own two legs, I still hear these lies coming out of that terrible hole. They come from the ground. They are faint, but I listen to them clearly because they are my worst fears. Each phrase stings. They are too familiar to forget. They’ve left marks on my soul. They try to name me. And sometimes, honestly, I’ve let them.
I’ve been here before. I’ve seen this terrible place. I just never realized it looks like Deb’s grave.
So, I busy myself. If I keep moving, I can’t hear the whispers. At least, not as much. They seem quieter when I have lots to do.
“Jesus, help me. Jesus, be with me.”
So, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Neuroscientists tell me I’m exercising the “parasympathetic nervous system” (PNS) when I exhale. I literally push out the stress out of my body—not all of it, just some of it. Emma McAdams says, “The PNS acts like a parachute; it stops the stress as you slowly exhale.”
“Please Jesus, be my Savior. Save me from that hole. I can’t do this anymore.”
Taking a Walk
I notice when I go for walks, I don’t feel the terror of the black hole, at least not as much. Perhaps it has to do with my attention. I try to focus on the present and God’s creation surrounding me. I smell the Michigan fall, feel the October wind, and see the soft, wet leaves move by me as I walk the blacktop. I notice the smell of dirt and grass, hear the cars driving in the distance, and see a dog barking somewhere. I notice the barren trees with empty branches held up to the sky as the sun falls dark in the east. The sky, magnificent orange and pink as the sun sets, is beautiful. Captivating. How did I not notice that before? I’m a little cold, so I keep walking. I welcome the cool light breeze; it draws me back into the moment. It’s where I find relief.
Is she really dead?
The question hits me like a slap in the face. Thirty-two years I was with my precious bride before she was yanked from me. We were heading into the good years, the vacation years. I could never give Deb the gift she wanted long before we were together: travel. We had been planning vacations and toying with ideas for new places. It was her dream, so it became mine. I loved making her happy. But she died, and now that dream can’t happen. And I don’t care about traveling alone. So, I resign myself to take another loop around the graveyard.
The cool air quiets my anxiety. Maybe I’ll take one more trip around the graveyard. It’s dark, but who cares? I’m all by myself now; no one is concerned when I get home—no one to be accountable to.
I decide to keep walking. Again, I notice the smells. I breathe deeply and allow myself to enjoy the beauty of nature. Deb and I both loved going for walks in the fall. There is something magical about it, something authentic.
The desperation floats away, and I find some peace.
Don encouraged the church to choose a “word for the year” at the beginning of the year. The word God laid on my heart was “rest.” I’ve been trying to rest this year. I tend toward getting as much done as I can. I work on projects, putting in long hours to get them done as quickly as possible so I can take a break. A certain level of business was my sweet spot. I wanted to experience God at a deeper level, and that would only happen if I allowed space enough to be with him.
I don’t know how I did with rest before Deb’s death, but I did a lot of it after she died. I stopped doing it. I went to work and came home. Anything else was too much. Friends did not pressure me to follow up with them, which was good. I needed time alone to process. I knew I needed time to experience Jesus at a deeper level. I knew he was good. I wanted to enjoy him. Not by getting things done but by not getting anything done, just by spending time with him. Listening is hard to do with friends and harder with God. I needed to allow silence and space to hear him direct me. I had no idea this would be the last days with Deb when I chose this word. God was moving the chess pieces before I realized he was doing it.
For now, I will rest. I see God was trying to tell me something before. I think it’s time I listen. I can’t fix this. I have to live with it. I have to slow down and invite God into the black hole, my graveyard, and my empty house. “Help me to hear you Jesus. I know you are doing things I can’t see. Help me to trust you even more.”