Friday Night
It was Friday night, and I had promised my buddy Troy I’d be over to this house by 7:00 pm. He was having a prayer meeting for men from all over the place. A few years before, he wanted to build an addition to his house to accommodate his highly social lifestyle until he found out how much it cost for an addition. So, he made his garage into a big man cave. He insulated, put in extra heat, threw in several discarded couches and chairs (so when you spill something on them, it doesn’t matter), and provided enough room to fight twenty guys into it if you squeeze them in just right. He calls it “the Garag-mahol.” He texted me, “You won’t go to hell if you don’t show up tonight but it would be really nice to have you here.” Needless to say, I was looking forward to the evening.
I had a little time before I had to go, so I took a quick walk to see Deb. When I got to her grave, I just stared at it as I always do. I am staring a lot now, especially at her grave. I have no rationale for doing this; I do it. I guess I feel close to her when I’m there. I’m not thinking about her or remembering moments we shared; I just stare. I think it’s a physical response, but I’m not sure.
Then something inside began to stir. The words, “I miss her so badly…” scrolled slowly across my mind. As it scrolled, feelings of sorrow welled up from deep inside me. I’m alone now, and I can do nothing about it. The grief monster in my chest moved a little.
I walked away from her grave, head down, and felt terrible. I still wanted to go to Troy’s, so I tried to “hold my horses.” I began to cry while still on the grave path. I could feel it would grow into a full crying episode. I stifled it the best I could until I was inside my house.
Please understand that this isn’t what others should do. It’s just what I do. I don’t encourage others to be like me; I’m only trying to explain myself (so, hopefully, I can understand myself). This is my story. It’s physically and emotionally overwhelming. Grief is disruptive, rendering me unable to function. I can’t do anything when these Deb attacks hit me. I have no power to alter the wave’s path when it hits. I wish I could seep out a few tears here and there, like most people I see morn, but I can’t. I’m ashamed of how I do this, so I always do it alone.
I went to her chair, the one she would sit in when we would talk. It’s where I mourn. It’s where I have my crying fits. I turned off all the lights and rocked continuously. For some reason, I feel a little closer to her when I’m in my chair.
My wailing episode went on for about twenty minutes. I can’t stop the shame of crying like this, even though no one is in the house. I peek out the window to ensure no one sees me do this.
These Deb attacks are painful. They wear me out, physically draining me. And when I’m done, I’m spent. I don’t have the energy to do anything, let alone drive to my friend’s house.
The Deb attacks don’t make sense; how could I explain them to him? I’m unsure if this is a control or boundary issue, but sometimes, I have to say no, even to good things. I hate breaking promises. It’s my fault for not showing up, so I had to lean on Troy’s forgiveness muscle.
I had fallen into the black hole again, so I needed space. When I fall apart, the best thing to do is listen to my body. Instead of pushing through the pain with an extra dose of “intestinal fortitude,” I allow myself to space to decompensate. This is one of the healthier things I do in my grief. When it hits me, I let it in. I let grief win. I retreat to Deb’s chair, turn off the lights, and rock and cry. I allow it to have the run of my body and my emotions.
I have a strong fundamentalist guilt muscle that says, “Keep your promises, no matter what, you filthy animal!” But tonight, I let my body call the shots. Life is different in the “post-Deb” era. Now, I’m apt to change appointments depending on my mood. Going to or staying at work is held loosely. If I have an Attack in prison, I go home. I’ve become less dependable than a 14-year-old, but it’s my new normal. I don’t like it, but I don’t think I’m given a choice.
I wish I understood myself better. I feel like a hypocrite. I tell prisoners not to focus on what’s outside of them (which consumes most of their waking moments) but to focus on themselves (what they can control). But I can’t control myself. I’m a stranger in my own body. I feel like I’m at someone else’s house and don’t know where the bathroom is. This leaves me a little uneasy most of my waking hours. And frankly, I don’t like it.
Sunday Afternoon
Two days later, on a sunny Sunday afternoon, I took another walk to see Deb. This time, I had no pressing appointment after my walk. I had just finished an on-call shift at the prison, so I needed some down time, and walking in my graveyard was refreshing.
Of course, legally, it’s not my graveyard any more than Grand Rapids is my city, but it feels like mine. I don’t like it, I spend a lot of time in it. And sometimes, the two are confused in my mind. It’s connected to my backyard, and I look out my dining room widow every night.
And Biblically, Deb is no longer my wife. Death broke our marital vows. I find myself unable to explain who she is to me now. Is she my ex-wife? That’s not right. Is she my former wife? That’s not good either. Is she my dead wife? That’s just rude. So, since I’m at a loss for words, I’ll keep calling her “my wife.” I don’t think I’m being territorial, but I could be wrong. And she’s buried in my graveyard, which is a little territorial.
Anyway, walking is healing. It allows me to slow down and take in the world’s splendor and let it inside my soul (mine). It quiets my grief monster. I feel whole again. The beauty of nature, the cool air blowing the naked leafless trees, with leaves spattered strewn. I walk on the brightly colored wet leaves blanketing the cemetery road. It’s my safe place. It’s where I belong. Others go there, too, which is fine, as long as they aren’t on Deb’s gravesite. That’s when I get territorial.
Walking, I noticed an older couple meandering around Deb’s gravesite. They looked like they were shopping for fruit in a grocery store. They stopped to read this gravestone, then that one, with the dignity and respect of a grade-schooler on recess. It was like they owned the graveyard or something. I don’t know what they were doing, but it seemed disrespectful. My inner “Judgmental Andy” stood inside my chest and determined that I didn’t like these people. It’s embarrassing how quickly I came up with my character assassination. I wanted to yell, “Hey, get away from that area! That’s my area,” much as a 10-year-old boy would if someone came into his room and started playing with his models. I wanted to yell, “It’s a graveyard, not a fruit stand, have some respect!”
So I picked up my pace. I didn’t plan on throwing a punch at these graveyard-mongers, but you never know. I made it to Deb’s site and looked at them. Behind me, they were nosing around the other graves, much like a stray dog would through a garbage can. I tried to ignore them, but I was a little putout.
I heard them talking, which further interrupted my afternoon mourning.
“Oh look, Lloyd. This one has flowers on it. I think they’re plastic.”
“Yup, they’re plastic alright.”
I couldn’t stare properly at the grave like I like to do, so I just had to leave. And if this couple had the decency to look at me pouting, I think they’d understand exactly what I was too wimpy to say verbally. I felt self-righteous (in a good way) and tried to forget about the plastic flower people.
I planned two more laps around to work up a good sweat. I like combining sweating and mourning whenever possible, like two birds with one gravestone. On the north end, I saw these weird birds flying up in a tree, then flapping back down to the ground, only to fly back up in the tree they just left. It was like a science experiment gone bad. The loud, sudden flapping wings of two dozen birds were startling but not startling enough for them to stop doing it. So, I became annoyed at the feathered creatures (annoyed in a good, slightly self-righteous way). Why do they keep flying back and forth? Aren’t they wasting all their energy? What were they thinking? Can they think?
I wonder if birds think the same thing of me when I mow my lawn. “Why is he working so hard for no good reason? It must be a human thing.” In some ways, the birds might be right. On the other hand, birds are stupid, so pretending they had an intelligent thought would be a stretch.
On my second time around, the couple wandered off somewhere else, perhaps making babies cry or something like that. It was my third time seeing the same couple (the graveyard-whores) wandering around another section. This time, they were far away from Deb’s grave. For some reason, I was still irritated with them. They were looking for a lost contact lens on the ground.
I was being opinionated, but for some reason, I felt justified. I walked by them and made sure not to make any positive eye contact or even offer a friendly “hi” grunt. They overlooked my social rejection earlier, so why be nice now?
When I got to Deb’s section, an old man snooped around Deb’s gravesite. I thought, “Great! What is this, National Annoy Mourners Day?” He was by himself, snooping around Deb’s area. Irritated, I picked up my pace. What’s the deal? Why is everyone in my mourning space today? How can I mourn properly if I feel in a line at Meijer’s?
Before I could reach him, he was leaning over and reading Deb’s gravestone (also my gravestone). Now I was really upset. This was a clear invasion of privacy. It was like a stranger pulling out the back of my pants and saying, “Just checking your inseam, sir.”
“Did you know her?” I asked. I had a tone.
Surprised, he turned to face me, “No…no. You know her?”
“She’s my wife,” I said, more defensively than I should have.
He nodded slowly, then pointed a few yards away, “That’s my wife over there. She died in August.” I think he was in his 80s. He was dressed casually. A bike was leaning against a wooden post.
He was my peer—a fellow widower.
Suddenly, I felt compassion for him. A switch flipped inside me. In a second, I went from “irritated and self-righteous” to “feeling sorry for this poor man.” I realized how selfish I was. Instead of shoving him to the ground, I wanted to get to know him better.
“Deb died in October,” I said, like my grief was somehow worse because it was more recent.
He nodded slowly.
I had to backtrack from my judgmental, condescending, self-righteous fit and began to act like a Christian because… I am a Christian. “Honestly,” I told him, “I couldn’t make it without my Church family. God’s been very good to me.”
He shared the name of his church and how God had been good to him. “I mostly watch Church on TV. I just stay at home.” He looked down and wondered why I’d stared at nothing so often these last few months. “I can’t…” almost like a confession, “I can’t sing hymns any more. I end up crying through the whole thing. It’s just too much.” He looked away as if it was painful to even talk about.
For some reason (likely the Lord), I shared my passion for bringing men together. I invited him to a Men’s Breakfast the following Saturday. “I’d Love to have you come. Free coffee, and I’m the one who is speaking.” I’m unsure if that was a good thing to say; it just came out. We are going to be talking about 1 Corinthians 13, about kindness.”
We shook hands and parted ways as fellow widowers who love God. My self-righteous fell to the ground, kind of like a 4 by 8 sheet of dry-wall slipping from my fingers, hitting the ground with a soft “Wwappp.” God was using me (once I got over myself) to help this lonely man be known. Perhaps this isolated brother would join me for breakfast.
“…love is patient and kind…” I Corinthians 13:4 (NIV)
I realized how kind God was with my judgmental, condescending, self-righteous attitude. I was being a dork. He brought me into contact with a fellow widower, a man who likely was lonelier than he had to be, and we shared a moment.
The topic of the breakfast talk was kindness, something I was NOT being. If such a medal existed, I would have won the “Biggest Hypocrite of Kent County Award. ” It’s not a metal medal (I always wanted to put those two words together in a sentence but could never figure out how) but an action. God gently reminded me of my sin by using my own words to rebuke myself. He also reminded me that I’m not the only one suffering.
I’ve never been a “babe-magnet,” but it seems I’ve become a “widower-magnet.” God keeps bringing men into my life who have lost their wives. He’s good to me, even when I’m not kind (and speak to others about kindness). Instead of reminding me of my sin, he allowed me to see it myself and never stopped loving me in the process. Wow, I have a really good God.