Last night was a very dark night. To the outside, it may seem obvious, but to me, these grief waves always catch me by surprise. It’s my first Christmas without Deb, a holiday she loved. She was my Elf. There was magic in the air at Christmas time with Deb, and she helped me see it. She was quick to smile, quick to laugh, and quick to bake. She was so sweet. She would decorate the house with untold items purchased from Hobby Lobby (where there is no practical item in the store). She’d make the house sparkle. She even had a little Dickins’ village made of two-inch-tall figures. They didn’t move, but it looked really cool.
It hit me hard; I was alone. All alone. She’s not coming back. She will never come back. It’s about a hundred miles between my head and my heart. It’s disorienting. I’m confused. I feel beaten and fear my despair will destroy me. What I know in my head is not what I experience in my heart. I know the facts, but my heart wants relief so badly that it is willing to believe lies. I need Jesus. I need him really badly. He must be present, or I couldn’t handle it. The winds of chaos fill me with doubt, and I’m unsure which direction to face. Or even if I’m safe.
I carry grief around like the COVID-19 virus; it tears and rips my body like a foreign intruder. I want relief. I want the pain to stop, even for a half hour. I can recalibrate my day so I can find small islands of respite. I’ve never been lost at sea, but I imagine it would feel like this. I’m terrified, overwhelmed, with no precise control of what’s happening inside me. If Jesus doesn’t come through for me, I’m dead. If he doesn’t turn on the lighthouse, I won’t find the shore and will be forever lost. Thoughts of giving up dart through my mind, I don’t think I know how. There is no off button.
My church is where I belong. They are my people. My purpose is to glorify a God I can’t see. And sometimes, that doesn’t sit well with me.
I pray selfishly. I start with my own pain and problems and neglect the pain of the rest of the world. But when I stay with it, my prayer opens my eyes to the rest of the world. The more I pray, the more I realize “I’m not the only one.” About midway through, my focus moves from me to others. The focus of my thoughts change, and I change.
When I let God define me, he reminds me of what I already know. He tells me who I am and who he is. I am created; he is the Creator. Life doesn’t make sense until I get my eyes off myself.
Some say a bride before her wedding day is one of the most selfish people in the world. I don’t think so. I think a person in grief is most consumed with self. My fears become tangible, and in terror, I forget others have needs.
“For everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible
And invisible, rank after rank of angels –everything got started in him and found its purpose in him.” Colossians 1:16 (MSG)
The first sentence in Rick Warren’s Bestselling Book “The Purpose Driving Life” is, “It’s not about you.” Everything in the book is built off that statement. I would go so far as to say everything in the Christian life is built on that statement. My purpose doesn’t start with me; it begins with God. It’s a reminder my identity is tied to who I worship.
“There Be Eyes on Me”
I need to pay a little more attention to my audience. “There be eyes on me” (spoken like a pirate with an “Arrrr” accident). People at church ask me how I’m doing all the time. When I’m in the foyer, I realize others are looking. They want to see how I handle life without Deb. It makes sense, but I never thought about it before Sunday. They are secretly asking, “Will he keep going to church?” “Will he start crying in the foyer?” “Will he be bitter and demanding?” “Will he go off the ‘deep end’ and stop taking care of himself, lose weight, and start voting Democrat?”
These questions are never asked out loud, but I can feel them in their eyes. I can’t judge them for this because I do the same thing when I see a brother who lost his wife. I have a great deal of sympathy for men who recently lost their wives. Because I’m so connected with the men’s ministries, these men have become my niche. I can’t say I know who has recently become a widow because I don’t do anything with women.
I need to find balance. I can’t forget who I am. Licking my wounds and complaining about “how hard I have it” only increases my suffering. I don’t want to pander to the audience and get people to offer more pity. The more I complain, the weaker I become. Whining tears at my integrity. I don’t think self-pity ever helped anyone.
But they are watching. They want to see if I think God is really worth it (think Job). In some ways, it’s a place of honor. In other ways, it feels like pressure, like I’m under a microscope. I don’t think anyone wants to put pressure on me; it’s just the situation I’m in. I believe (and chose to interpret their surveillance) as an act of love. They want to make sure I’m OK. Honestly, I like it. It’s like they are extended family. They are on my side. I want others to be willing to step forward into my life if I fall into that black hole again. It’s good to be loved. I need to accept their love.
Remembering, “It’s not about me,” is freeing. It’s not up to me to make things fit together. I don’t have to be afraid of “doing it wrong.” My fear of rejection has decreased since Deb’s death, so unless I kill someone, I’m not sure I can do grief “wrong.” I can’t live in scarcity (fear of not being enough), because I have all my needs met.
My actions speak loudly when I show up at Church. I’m saying, “God’s still good,” when I never get around to even saying it. I’m a source pf encouragement to others. I know because they have told me.
I don’t think I could heal without community. I need others in my life. The Church is God’s most precious resource; I need these people to survive. Sharing grief seems to cut it in half. Deb’s death goes from “too much” to “very bad but possible,” in the company of friends. When I heal, I share my brokenness with others, and they tend to share their brokenness with me. I get to hear what God’s doing in them. I can’t move a piano alone but can with six other guys. Community is my strength.
“Jesus, help me understand how to love others in my grief. Help me to
hear your whisper so I can take the next step. And forgive me for trying
to find relief on my own. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
Self-Pity
You can’t talk about grief without talking about self-pity. I don’t have the answers for everyone, and I’m just starting to learn about myself, but grief and self-pity are intertwined and pigs and poo.
I think I should be an expert on grief by now, but every day I’m learning new things all the time and think, “How did I not know that?” I’m scratching the surface. There is so much I don’t know about this terrible experience.
It also turns out I don’t know myself all that well. Grief doesn’t follow clear predictable patterns. It feels like being bossed around by someone you don’t like but is always right (which makes you want them less).
I confess I am not a crier. I will cry but instinctively push back when it raises its ugly head. My whole body moves back (or shoves down) sorrow when it shows up. And in the end, I have very little control over myself. And I don’t like that. I’m coming to the idea that most control is an illusion. I want to know what is to be expected, but with grief, I haven’t a clue.
But we are all on the same boat, aren’t we?
“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God,”
Romans 3:23 (NIV)
This means I twist reality to meet what I think is my best interests. Some call it manipulation; some call it justifiable, and I guess God calls it sin.
I’m not the judge of others’ motives. God has never called me to punish another for their sin. That’s not my job. I’m accountable to God for my actions (something I often conveniently forget). Jeremiah gives us clarity about what is really in our hearts:
“The heart is the most deceitful thing there is and desperately
wicked. No one can really know how bad it is.”
Jeremiah 17:9 (TLB)
I need to know how wicked my own heart is. Others are sinning, but I’m not in charge of them. I am in charge of me. I am responsible for me. I need to be aware of my sinfulness and work to surrender my heart to God.
In the classic movie “The Christmas Story,” young Ralphie secretly hopes to punish his parents for making him put soap in his mouth, something done as punishment for saying bad words. By the way, “Soap in the mouth” to correct cursing was commonly done as a form of discipline. What I found interesting is that Ralphie secretly wished, in his anger, to punish his parents, and he would do this by showing up at home, as an adult, blind. Then, he would blame his parents for “soap poisoning,” to which his parents would respond with weeping and gnashing of teeth. Young Ralphie wanted to get pity from his parents in epic proportions.
Am I like that?
Do I weaponize the death of my wife to punish others? Do I want them to pity me? Do I like that in “epic proportions”? Sometimes I do. I want a woman to cry over me. I want her to give me deep drafts of sympathy with lots of “I’m so sorry for your pain” comments.
How sick is that?
I confess there are times when I want others to surround me with “Oh you poor thing” statements or slow head shaking, low eye contact, and “I don’t have words,” as they pat my shoulder. I hate it when politicians and prisoners try to manipulate me with emotionally charged half-truths. But don’t I do that sometimes?
I tend to underestimate how wicked I am. The worst lie has elements of truth in it. C.S. Lewis suggested in the Screwtape Letters that Satan never created anything; he only twisted what had already been created. It was twisted so it could be offered without God, kind of like getting what we want without being accountable to anyone. Take the act of sex as an example. It was created to be enjoyed in marriage. It was part of God’s blessing, a way to strengthen the marriage bond and bring joy to a relationship. But humans have twisted it to separate sex from marriage. And degrade an “act of love” to something less. Now, sex just for the fun of it is perfectly acceptable in many circles.
Pornography takes sex to an even lower level of degradation by separating sex from people. Sex used to involve an intimate act between a male and a female. Now, you can have orgasms without the labor of trying to get to know another person. Satan offers you pleasure without connection, responsibility, or even another person. And always without God.
I must be vigilant in guarding my heart. I need to be aware of my immense capacity for deception. If I lie on my taxes, I will be found out. How will anyone know if I manipulate the next phone call to make others feel sorry for me? Are some sins acceptable because my wife died? When sin goes unchecked, it tends to twist relationships and destroy them.
The good news is, “It’s not about you.” But sometimes, I like it to be about me. Sometimes, I want that self-pity. I want to have someone to Swoop down into my life and take all the pain away (as long as they do it the way I want them to do it). Is this why I don’t trust God? I fear he will treat me like I want to treat others by manipulating them.
I need a Savior. I really need a God who can come in and fill me with his love. I need to be defined by his unconditional love so I can share that love with others (without strings attached).
I sometimes wonder why Jesus hasn’t turned his back on me. I imagine him shrugging his shoulders, holding out his arms in desperation, and saying, “Hey, I tried,” as he turns around and walks away. But that image is not God; it’s of me. My lies assume God is just like me and would do things I’d do. This lie is not based on any evidence; it’s based on my selfishness. I’d turn my back on God, but he’d never turn his back on me. I’ve created a God in my image, like my own sin. It’s a codependent form of idolatry. And it’s a lie.
The good news is his love is more significant than my selfishness. Hope is not based on my motives but on the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus. My hope is seeded in historical fact, not myself (which is pretty fickle). The Bible is the source of truth, not my fears.
That’s why I have access to joy. I can give my mess to him, and he offers me peace—not the feeling of peace, but the person of Jesus. He is my peace.
I realize that to be happy, I need to be like Jesus. He was obedient to his Father; I need to obey him. Because life is about him