I knew the first week would be busy, setting up the funeral and being with family. But everyone had to go home. And that’s when the dreaded second week began. That’s when I’m surrounded with the uncomfortable silence. The real grief would start Monday, the first day I was alone. The black hole I feared would have free reign in my mind, and I felt there was no place to hide.
JK Rowling’s incredible book series Harry Potter has metaphors that apply to our non-magical world. Her black ghost-like creators called “dementors” would float around and “kiss” humans, sucking the life out of them. Literally. People would describe encounters with these things as “It’s like they sucked every good thought from me.” I think I understand. The dementors are in the black hole. My pain would come and suck every good memory from me. It was like I was left a shell of myself. I think I lost myself when I lost my wife. She was my north star.
I figured since I was too proud to buy whisky (which really tastes terrible, if you didn’t know), I put my energies into “fast-forwarding” the grief process. Or attempt to fast forward the grief process. But you can’t fast-forward grief. It isn’t very comfortable to suggest that I could. Even the casual observer knows you can’t “force” grief. It moves at its own pace. I keep thinking it will be better in a year, but that seems so far away. And I don’t know if that will be true of me.
Doubt
What happened to me? Why am I so afraid of making “the wrong choice?” No, that’s not right. I’m not afraid; I’m petrified. I shouldn’t be this consumed with fear of making a mistake. The catastrophizing button in my head is stuck in the “on” position.
I had no confidence in anything I did, including my decisions regarding money, food, housing, finances, cars, or even my future. I remember C.S. Lewis saying, “No one told me grief was so much like fear.” I understand that now. I’m almost debilitated with doubt.
I think there is a lingering fear of becoming an alcoholic. Alcohol was a battle my father fought most of his life, even though he had decades of success. He believed he was always one drink away from losing it all. The same was true of my grandfather, who feared a single slip. And my oldest brother lost the battle with alcohol, dying decades before he should have.
I want to get drunk for a few nights “to ease the pain.” But I knew if I did enter the prison of alcohol, I would not be able to walk out so easily. I can start, but I don’t think I could stop. This fear is generational, deep in me, fearing I will “slip” and lose everything. I think it’s always been somewhere in my chest, but it’s making a lot of noise right now in the wake of Deb’s death. It’s distracting me from my life. It’s making me doubt everything. And it’s inside me.
My fear of running to alcohol manifested itself in me as doubt. I questioned myself. I questioned my motives. And I doubt if what I want is a good thing to want. I feel safer not wanting anything.
There is a monster inside me, a monster of pain that I fear will jump out and pull me into that black pit. And I can’t control when he jumps out. He’s done it several times, and I needed a day to recover each time. The attacks wear me down. I am so tired now; I don’t have the energy to fight him. I feel weak, which only increases my fear of it.
Undercurrents of suicide float gently into my focus. I hold on to these terrible thoughts longer than I should. I rationalized, “Getting drunk is better than suicide,” but there is something wrong with this thought. Sometimes, I feel I’m teetering between two worlds, this one and a very dark world of hopelessness. This terrible world is consumed with thirst, thirst for more of what will never be satisfied. The word death means “to separate.” That’s how I feel. I am separated from Deb, I’m separated from happiness, and I’m separated from any reason to live through the end of the day. I’m that astronaut drifting into the dark, dark space. Sometimes, I even doubt who I am. I don’t plan on killing myself, but the thought is not as offensive as it should be—no clear plan, just an idea, one that lingers. Sometimes, being dead was more attractive than it should be.
I am usually a man of prayer. I know its value. I don’t want to cry to God, and I say this to my shame, but I simply don’t care.
Do You Feel Close to God?
My therapist recommended the book, “Mountains Will Crumble,” by Danita Jenae. This book has questions at the end of the short chapters so you can interact with the material (less head knowledge, more application). On Sunday, I read the question, “Do you feel close to God right now?”
Hmmmmmm. I had to think about that one.
Was God close to me? I knew the Biblical answer, “Yes,” and could quote scripture indicating his promises, “Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?” 1 Corinthians 3:16 (ESV). But that wasn’t the question. The question was, do I FEEL close to God in this present moment? It wanted me to be honest.
I wrote the answer, “In the middle, not far, but not close.”
Moments after writing this answer down in the uncomfortably tiny awkward space provided in the small book, I felt God gently tapping me on the shoulder. He remembered the many times he was with me the past week. One event after the other came to mind how God came through for me. He did something remarkable; I received it.
I’ve spoken to other widowers who said similar things. After their wife died, God’s hand was clearly on them, and things fell together in incredible ways. “I knew the hand of God was on me,” said one widower after his wife and child both died in car accidents.
God had shown up; I was just ignoring (perhaps forgetting) his wonderful works. He held me in his hand, and it felt very good. He was close to me, and I was close to him.
Let me share a few miracles/blessings I received from God.
- The day after I buried my wife, I was talking with my daughter in my living room, much as I would with Deb. I glanced outside and noticed an odd light on the tree line. My daughter didn’t see the tree line; she only noticed the double rainbow above the street (how did I miss the rainbow?) I don’t remember seeing a double rainbow before, so we both went outside to look at it better. As my daughter and I were admiring it, I realized the rainbow trajectory would end behind my house, right where Deb was buried. From where I was standing, the rainbow would end at Deb’s grave.
It was an incredible act of love from God to me. He arranged the sky in a pattern at a certain time to show me he hadn’t forgotten about me. If that’s not of God, I don’t know what is. My Deb was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Wow. Now, there’s a big stamp of “I haven’t forgotten about you, Andy” in the sky for everyone to see. Man, that felt good. It was almost hard to take in.
- The car ride home from the Ann Arbor area was incredible. It was raining; I was driving home in weekend traffic from Detroit, calling people while driving (not recommended), and somehow made it home without getting in a car accident. I also called both daughters and told them their mom died and set up funeral arrangements while driving 80 miles an hour. I’m not that good. God did it for me. He protected me when I couldn’t stay focused.
- Sue, a good friend, made two batches of homemade vegetable soup the Saturday Deb’s passing was announced on the church prayer list. Sue didn’t know why she did it; she just felt God wanted her to. It was under a half hour between when she read the announcement and the soup ended up at my sister’s house (where I was staying).
- Don, my pastor, arrived at my house before me and was wonderfully comforting. I remember pounding on his knee on my living room floor as I first saw Deb’s body. His presence was so appreciated at a time of complete chaos.
- After the family had left my house and I was alone, I saw an adult hawk in the middle of the upstairs window. At first, I noticed it in the corner of my eye as I made the upstairs bed. But when I finally looked at it, it didn’t move. It was in the middle of the upstairs window, perched on a branch that seemed too small. Once I realized it was there, I just stared at it. I’ve never seen that hawk before or since. I waited several minutes, but the thing stayed right there. It did move a little, but not much. I smiled and thanked God for the weird gift I hadn’t expected to receive, the beauty of a majestic hawk in the middle of my upstairs bedroom. It was like God was patting me on the shoulder, saying, “Gotcha Andy. You’re not alone.”
- There was unity. As several families converged in my house, I never heard a single fight. I didn’t receive this blessing until I put this list together. Family not fighting is a remarkable gift that is easy to overlook.
- When I thought I had run out of thank you notes, I began calling people and thanking them for their presence. Matt, who was meeting with a friend he wanted me to meet, answered the phone, and the three of us could talk for a while. My next call fit perfectly into my friend’s time frame, so we talked for an hour. This friend owns his own business, so free time is never guaranteed.
- My work “passed the hat,” and I had hundreds of dollars I never expected to get. I received money from people I’d never met before. My supervisor’s supervisor lost his wife years ago and pitched my story to them. I didn’t need the money, but it was a blessing.
- Perhaps the most significant gift I received was the many prayers from friends who lifted me up when I didn’t know which end was up. God worked wonderfully in various details I would have never figured out. I attribute this to the prayers from my friends. I can’t tell you how much I was blessed.
My crassness was revealed that morning. It was like I had been saved from a sinking ship in the middle of the ocean and somehow forgot that I had been saved. God loved me. He was close to me. I was close to him. God had saved me in a hundred ways. How could I not be thankful? How could I not feel close to him? He’s the only reason I’m still alive right now.
I interpret these events as from God. I can’t prove it; however, I receive these gifts from God. He wanted me to feel loved. I may be overinterpreting these circumstances, but I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. All I know is I’ve never seen so many natural oddities in such a concentrated amount of time. I also know God loves me.
Deb’s death was the worst thing that ever happened to me. So, God opened heaven’s door and dumped blessings on me. His love humbles me. And others love me so well, which I also interpret as gifts from him. Friends I haven’t spoken to in years tell me, “When I drive by your street Andy, I pray for you.” Isn’t that love?
God is with me. He wanted me to see his hand at work. He wasn’t trying to wow others; he wanted me to feel loved. He just showed himself to me. Can you get any better than that? God showed himself to me. I am a blessed man.
As I think about it, I feel God is close. I had to apologize to God for implying he was distant. He’s not distant; he’s in the middle of everything. He was here all along. I was the problem, not him. He never went anywhere. He’s making my paths smooth. He loves me—like a lot.
And that nasty black hole turns gray, losing its power over me.
The Dread of Holiday
Thanksgiving is, to me, our holiday. It belonged to Deb and I. I always took the Friday after Thanksgiving off so we could go shopping in the morning (at a reasonable time) and knock off our Christmas list. Later in the day the family would set up the Christmas tree, play music, and argue if there were too many bulbs in one area. While the kids and I would set the tree up, Deb would be in the other room, “Christmasfying” the rest of the house with figurines, plates, and other cute Christmas items she has gathered over the decades. The kids loved it. I loved it. But Deb loved it the most. It was her thing.
Once dinner was done and the dishes were washed, the family would sit around the Christmas tree, which had way too many lights and ornaments, turn the lights off, and talk about Christmas past. We’d share stories in the soft glow of electric Christmas, with the Michael W. Smith Christmas Convert playing somewhere in the background. It was magical.
Now Deb is gone, and so is that tradition. The kids are out of the house, and I’m alone. My desire to “Christmasfy” my house is gone. I could never do what she did, and honestly, I don’t care. I don’t care about presents anymore. It hurts too much to do that again. I can’t figure out what the kids want. I’m lost without her. It’s like the house is hallowed, like someone robbed our joy from us.
I don’t know what will happen at Christmas. And right now, forgive me, I don’t care.