Today was R's day for surgery. Thankfully we were not dealt any surprises, and he seems to have come through the procedure well. I had no reason to doubt that things would go according to schedule, but my mind always has the "Grief" app running in the background and draining my battery. Thankfully, The Lord stepped in and shut that business down through the servant hands of so many dear friends and my beautiful, sweet pastor, all of whom were there for our family and have blessed us with meals, child care, prolific prayers, and great conversation.
It's hard to know exactly what to expect from here. Obviously there will be a recovery period from surgery and further information about the degree and severity of his cancer. Will he or won't he need to undergo radiation therapy? How will he feel from the lack of thyroid hormones in his system? Or will there be an overabundance of the hormones, and if so, what surprises will that bring? How will this affect his long term health and attitude? Will our relationship change? Will his relationship with our children change?
One thing I know will not change, and that is the fact that I love him and never leave his side. In fact, he probably wishes I would leave his side -- he detests being hovered over, which is one area in which I happen to specialize. In fact, I struggle with knowing how best to support him in a way that will touch his heart. I want to be able to take care of him and soothe him -- he wants to be left alone. He wants me to leave him at the hospital, visit once or twice, and pick him up when it's time to go home. I cannot handle that type of laissez faire policy. I want nothing more than to see him lean on me and let me in to what he is experiencing, and instead I feel like more of a spectator. I don't want to whine about this or complain. Put simply, it is difficult to find a balance between what he needs and what I feel.
We thank everyone for all of the prayers, love, and support you have shown our family. This is just the beginning, my friends. As I told R earlier, the journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. This was just the first one in that journey. Praise God this journey has begun on a strong foot.
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marriage. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Five Years
Dearest T.,
Five years ago we had a change of plans in our lives, didn't we? Saying goodbye in a Shreveport hospital room was not something either of us had remotely thought about or planned for -- you were supposed to be going to Afghanistan, we were planning what to get the kids for Christmas, and I was concerned you might deploy before Bud's first birthday. We had barely finished the Thanksgiving leftovers; in fact, they might have still been in the refrigerator when the kids and I packed up to follow the helicopter that would take you to better medical care north of our home at Fort Polk. I always thought that, if you knew that you died in Louisiana, you would've been mad that I hadn't insisted that you be flown to a hospital just over the state line into Texas -- not really angry, but you really didn't like Louisiana. I guess none of us have any control over when these moments in life occur, do we?
Five years ago I was bracing for Afghanistan, our first deployment not just as a couple but as a family with small children who were going to miss Daddy. I was wondering how we were going to remember to work you into our daily routines in absentia, how to keep in touch with you so that the distance would be easier for all of us, how to make the house feel like you had only just walked out the door instead of realizing you had been gone for months and months. I was bracing, like all military spouses, for the possibility that the last time I saw you could be the last time I saw you. I attended the briefings about Casualty Assistance, knew who to call for emergencies, and things like that. I was trying to prepare our home and my heart for the worst but hope and pray for the best.
Five years ago I was a frazzled, tired mother of two toddlers. You were all that as well as the first commander of a brand new company in a fledgling battalion. I have to chuckle when I think about all the characters in our company and all the drama you and First Sargeant had to deal with, especially the infamous Tylenol Kid. From FRGs to the dreaded Christmas wrapping volunteering at the PX (remember, that was our last phone conversation?), from two times the dirty diapers to being sick of eating spaghetti, our lives were busy. Happy, but busy.
Five years ago Li'l G was two and a half -- definitely a Daddy's girl who had you wrapped around her chubby little finger. Bud was only nine months old but a very active little guy who you predicted would be walking by Christmas. Did you ever get to see him walk? Turns out you were right -- he took his first steps two weeks after you died.
Five years ago you lost the fight for your life, but not the way you might've thought, off on a dusty, cold, windswept mountain plain in Southwest Asia. I think I felt you slip away. Maybe you were trying to tell me goodbye, but I can't be sure. But something woke me at 6:40 that morning, and time stood still. Only when we got to the hospital hours later did they tell me what happened during the 7 AM shift change. Was that you? I cannot help but think that it was, and I am so thankful for that experience. It has been such a precious memory these last five years.
Five years ago I watched the doctors perform the last tests to see if you were still alive. I watched as they moved quickly from one to the other, each time with no response from your body. The last thing they did was turn off the breathing machine. I watched quietly, but inside my head I was screaming at you as loud as I could: "JUST BREATHE! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS BREATHE! IN AND OUT! JUST BREATHE!" It was then that I realized that was the one thing you could not do. I was not used to seeing you fail at something. You would make up your mind you were going to do something, and almost every time you were successful. Remember how you had just started training for a marathon? Why couldn't your strong, young body do this one thing? I remember looking at you and thinking this wasn't real and not really happening, but then again, it was happening.
Five years ago your brother and sister lost their hero. Your mother and father's hearts shattered into a million pieces. My family lost another son and brother. Your buddies lost a fellow Rough Rider. Your soldiers lost their commander. Your children lost their father. I lost the love of my life.
Five years ago you arrived, in a robe washed white with the blood of the Lamb, at the foot of the throne of grace. The pain and struggles you endured in this life scattered like leaves in the fall caught in a whirling wind as you took your first steps on heavenly feet. I know Grandpa was waiting for you with a huge smile on his face. Have you felt warm rushes wash over you like gentle waves at the beach? That has been the love I send your way each time I think of you and miss you.
Five years ago it felt as if my life had ended, too. What were we going to do? We needed you. We had nothing without you. Lost. In a word that is how I felt. As I lay prostrate on the bathroom floor and begged God to take this cup from me, not as I willed but as God willed, I, too, felt scattered to the wind, out of control, flung out a window and falling like a rock. That's where I was five years ago.
Five years has gone by, and I hope and pray that God has allowed you to see some of the steps we've made forward from that point in time. There are still some days where I can't believe you were here and now are gone, still so surreal. Then there are days when I feel as though we are face to face once again in a twinkle in Bud's mischievous grin or in the lifted eyebrow of Li'l G. I look at the shape of her hands, the toes and arches of his feet and realize you are there in the very DNA of our children. They both love your mom's pumpkin bread, too, and Bud has always loved hot salsa just like you. And Bud has most definitely got your sense of humor -- he is the jokester of the family.
Five years has gone by, and I hope and pray that it didn't break your heart to see me move on. It has been no easy task. It has been incredibly painful to love you and him at the same time, differently but similarly. I want him to know that I am his wife now, but I will always love you, too. I want you to know that you have not been replaced in my heart or my life. I have been so very blessed to have you both in my life. I hope you approve of how we are raising the children. He loves these kids and does a great job of being a father.
Five years ago I'd have never thought I would be writing you this letter. The pain of losing you will always be a part of me but is somehow evolving over the years. I hope and pray that you won't forget me, the kids, your friends and family who carry precious memories of you close to their hearts. We have not forgotten you.
Love Always,
Kim
P.S. -- Remember our song? Still a good one, Schmupps. :)
Five years ago we had a change of plans in our lives, didn't we? Saying goodbye in a Shreveport hospital room was not something either of us had remotely thought about or planned for -- you were supposed to be going to Afghanistan, we were planning what to get the kids for Christmas, and I was concerned you might deploy before Bud's first birthday. We had barely finished the Thanksgiving leftovers; in fact, they might have still been in the refrigerator when the kids and I packed up to follow the helicopter that would take you to better medical care north of our home at Fort Polk. I always thought that, if you knew that you died in Louisiana, you would've been mad that I hadn't insisted that you be flown to a hospital just over the state line into Texas -- not really angry, but you really didn't like Louisiana. I guess none of us have any control over when these moments in life occur, do we?
Five years ago I was bracing for Afghanistan, our first deployment not just as a couple but as a family with small children who were going to miss Daddy. I was wondering how we were going to remember to work you into our daily routines in absentia, how to keep in touch with you so that the distance would be easier for all of us, how to make the house feel like you had only just walked out the door instead of realizing you had been gone for months and months. I was bracing, like all military spouses, for the possibility that the last time I saw you could be the last time I saw you. I attended the briefings about Casualty Assistance, knew who to call for emergencies, and things like that. I was trying to prepare our home and my heart for the worst but hope and pray for the best.
Five years ago I was a frazzled, tired mother of two toddlers. You were all that as well as the first commander of a brand new company in a fledgling battalion. I have to chuckle when I think about all the characters in our company and all the drama you and First Sargeant had to deal with, especially the infamous Tylenol Kid. From FRGs to the dreaded Christmas wrapping volunteering at the PX (remember, that was our last phone conversation?), from two times the dirty diapers to being sick of eating spaghetti, our lives were busy. Happy, but busy.
Five years ago Li'l G was two and a half -- definitely a Daddy's girl who had you wrapped around her chubby little finger. Bud was only nine months old but a very active little guy who you predicted would be walking by Christmas. Did you ever get to see him walk? Turns out you were right -- he took his first steps two weeks after you died.Five years ago you lost the fight for your life, but not the way you might've thought, off on a dusty, cold, windswept mountain plain in Southwest Asia. I think I felt you slip away. Maybe you were trying to tell me goodbye, but I can't be sure. But something woke me at 6:40 that morning, and time stood still. Only when we got to the hospital hours later did they tell me what happened during the 7 AM shift change. Was that you? I cannot help but think that it was, and I am so thankful for that experience. It has been such a precious memory these last five years.
Five years ago I watched the doctors perform the last tests to see if you were still alive. I watched as they moved quickly from one to the other, each time with no response from your body. The last thing they did was turn off the breathing machine. I watched quietly, but inside my head I was screaming at you as loud as I could: "JUST BREATHE! ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS BREATHE! IN AND OUT! JUST BREATHE!" It was then that I realized that was the one thing you could not do. I was not used to seeing you fail at something. You would make up your mind you were going to do something, and almost every time you were successful. Remember how you had just started training for a marathon? Why couldn't your strong, young body do this one thing? I remember looking at you and thinking this wasn't real and not really happening, but then again, it was happening.
Five years ago your brother and sister lost their hero. Your mother and father's hearts shattered into a million pieces. My family lost another son and brother. Your buddies lost a fellow Rough Rider. Your soldiers lost their commander. Your children lost their father. I lost the love of my life.
Five years ago you arrived, in a robe washed white with the blood of the Lamb, at the foot of the throne of grace. The pain and struggles you endured in this life scattered like leaves in the fall caught in a whirling wind as you took your first steps on heavenly feet. I know Grandpa was waiting for you with a huge smile on his face. Have you felt warm rushes wash over you like gentle waves at the beach? That has been the love I send your way each time I think of you and miss you.
Five years ago it felt as if my life had ended, too. What were we going to do? We needed you. We had nothing without you. Lost. In a word that is how I felt. As I lay prostrate on the bathroom floor and begged God to take this cup from me, not as I willed but as God willed, I, too, felt scattered to the wind, out of control, flung out a window and falling like a rock. That's where I was five years ago.
Five years has gone by, and I hope and pray that God has allowed you to see some of the steps we've made forward from that point in time. There are still some days where I can't believe you were here and now are gone, still so surreal. Then there are days when I feel as though we are face to face once again in a twinkle in Bud's mischievous grin or in the lifted eyebrow of Li'l G. I look at the shape of her hands, the toes and arches of his feet and realize you are there in the very DNA of our children. They both love your mom's pumpkin bread, too, and Bud has always loved hot salsa just like you. And Bud has most definitely got your sense of humor -- he is the jokester of the family.
Five years has gone by, and I hope and pray that it didn't break your heart to see me move on. It has been no easy task. It has been incredibly painful to love you and him at the same time, differently but similarly. I want him to know that I am his wife now, but I will always love you, too. I want you to know that you have not been replaced in my heart or my life. I have been so very blessed to have you both in my life. I hope you approve of how we are raising the children. He loves these kids and does a great job of being a father.
Five years ago I'd have never thought I would be writing you this letter. The pain of losing you will always be a part of me but is somehow evolving over the years. I hope and pray that you won't forget me, the kids, your friends and family who carry precious memories of you close to their hearts. We have not forgotten you.
Love Always,
Kim
P.S. -- Remember our song? Still a good one, Schmupps. :)
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Transformation: Becoming An "SP" Again
Wow. Here it is, already April, and life is moving so fast once again. Spring brings about recitals, team sports, and class programs if you have school-aged children. It also brings about much hustle and bustle for anyone involved in a church as you move from the reflective season of Lent into the shining glory of the empty tomb on Resurrection Morning. In my family, add to all this a slew of family birthdays and anniversaries. Tired yet? TOO BAD! Because now my life has spun back into action as a new wife. And not just any wife, the wife to an active duty soldier in the Army. One who is making a transcontinental move in, oh, about five days. In what took the ID card lady about 10 minutes to change in her omnipotent computer system, I went from being a "URW" (Unremarried Widow) to being a "SP" (spouse) again in a few keystrokes. What those keystrokes symbolize absolutely blows my mind.
It's crazy to think about where my life was six months ago, a year ago, five years ago, etc. R. and I recently married (see S4J and His Girl for some hysterical footage and on-the-go vlogging), and with the wedding/life planning process there came a lot of opportunity for reflection. I would be remiss if I glossed over all of this, so I need to document it now while it is still fresh in my mind, before my feeble brain is clogged with other details that need more immediate attention.
WEDDING PLANNING
This is, in the minds of some, like childbirth: something amazing to experience, painful while going through it, yet you only remember the good stuff about it, although you pray to the good Lord to never have to do it again and swear to pay off your children so that they elope when the time comes. Also, there is this misconception that there is an "appropriate" amount of time to be engaged or that it takes at least a year to plan an amazing, wonderful event. To quote John Pinette, "I say 'nay-nay'!" We were engaged for just shy of four months. In the first three weeks I was able to secure an amazing florist, our reception site which handled our food and beverages, a wedding cake, buy my dream gown, and order my invites and paper goods. I didn't exactly cut corners, but I also didn't want to break the bank. I did all that in three weeks being a single parent, albeit I don't work outside the home. Folks, it can be done.
I happened upon some really great vendors who are skilled at their craft. As the days dwindled down, both my groom and I were able to enjoy looking forward to our big day without having to put out fires and come up with lots of scatterbrained contingency plans last minute. Overall, I'd say we got what we wanted and the whole event was even better than we could have dreamed.
THE ROAD TO THE CHAPEL
As lovely as all this is, wedding planning for me was not just about procuring the perfect flowers, dress, or menu. Wedding planning was another step in the grief process. It was about really learning what it means to join with this person and become one. That is hard to do when it means completely cleaving yourself from the one you lost and can take time. There is no room for three people in a marriage. It was, for me, one of the most amazing, surreal days of my life.
I know this may sound really confusing to some of you. I will attempt to describe what was going on in my heart over those months, but I just don't know if I can do this justice or not. I promise not to be unduly dark or sarcastic (aww, maaaannn!), just telling it like it was for me and trying to put you in my brain as best I can.
If you are married, picture yourself back on your own wedding day, exuberant and brimming with love for this person you married. Think over some of the best days and worst days of your marriage. Think about the children you have had, or something over which you have both bonded. Think about some of the dreams and goals you have set for your lives together. Take one last look at your spouse now. Remember every minute detail that you can, because this will be the last look you ever get. Touch them, smell them, feel the warmth in their skin before it is gone. That's gonna have to last you a while. Now turn around and walk out the door. Once you leave, you can never go back -- it's a one-way ticket to your new life.
Now imagine you, your children, all of your things, and put them in a different state. Take your friends, your church, the things you see during your daily grind, and erase those from your daily landscape. Put a new, pleasant but unfamiliar environment outside your door. You can have as many pictures and artifacts of your spouse as you want. You can pretend to talk to them on the phone, set a place for them at the table, whatever you want, but you will never see them again. You still feel like a family waiting on someone to come home from a business trip, but that traveller's key will never turn in your door again. Do this day in and day out. Oh yeah, and keep your chin up while you're at it.
Let a few years pass. The feeling finally comes back to your body and your heart, slowly as if you are thawing from a hard freeze. The shock and pain has worn off, and you no longer feel as if you are waiting for missing link. You've developed a new sense of normal. Normal relative to you. You might look at the lives of others and wonder what it was ever like to be a traditional family. Ponder what effect your life events will have on your children as they grow up, fall in love, and decide whether or not they will marry. Scarier still, ponder what effect your own grief has had on your children and how much time and money they will have to spend in therapy! Now that you're pretty much done thawing out, you have a stark realization: you want to step away from the one you lost into the arms of another.
Maybe you will take that step, maybe you won't. For the sake of our narrative, let's say you do. How will you handle telling a love interest about the significantly ginormous, neon flashing sign on your head that says, "WIDOW" or "WIDOWER"? Will he/she ask about it? Will you tell? Will you say something before they have a chance to ask? Will they freak out about it? What about if you cry? Will they freak out about that? Will they accept the situation or not? How will you handle this with your children? Will you listen to advice from married friends? Family? Other single people? Other single parents? Your religion? What is appropriate and what isn't? Left or right? Up or down? Black, white, or nuanced shades of grey? I'm so glad you don't have anything else going in your life so you can devote all your time to figuring out these questions... oh wait a minute...!!!
Now do you guys understand why this blog is called, "One More Thing"?!? :)
Let's fastforward to your wedding day. You have taken innumerable careful steps leading up to this day. You've come a long way from still feeling like a spouse who's waiting on their other half to return to them to a completely separate, independent individual who is strong and evolved enough to know when they are ready to fall in love and bond with someone again. Thinking about a life and a future without your newly betrothed spouse is unimaginable, and you marvel at how lucky you are to have found this love and acceptance in this person. You have wonderful plans of raising children and growing old together when something begins to stir, almost like the beginnings of a sneeze deep inside your head, but this is in your heart. You think, "Wait a minute, this sounds familiar..."
What you've done is transformed: you have felt like this squishy, awkward caterpillar feeling its way around a garden, trying to find some sustenance upon which to survive. You gathered your strength, spun your cocoon, and emerged as a completely new creature -- beautiful, graceful, and free. You don't feel bound by such gravity any more. You are light and basking in the warm sun.
THE BOTTOM LINE(S)
It was one thing to decide I wanted to date again. It was another thing to actually go out and date people, socialize, put yourself in an emotionally vulnerable position. It was one thing to meet an amazing man that put a smile back into my heart. It was another thing to completely give it over to him and trust him not to break it after coming through so much. It was one thing to tell T. goodbye and soldier on these last 4 1/2 years, knowing we would high-five each other again in the presence of the Lord. It was another thing to allow myself to fall in love again and not worry about feeling as though I was betraying T. It was one thing to say "yes" to R. when he proposed and get excited about making wedding plans. It was another thing to look into R.'s sparkling, gentle blue eyes, say my vows to him, slip the ring on his finger, and become his wife. When I walked with my sweet Dad down the aisle, praise Jesus, I did not feel as though I was walking away from T. I felt like I was running full force toward R., and that right next to him was exactly where I belonged. Standing there looking at him, I wasn't aware of anyone else in the room with us -- all I could see was soft light coming in through stained glass windows and flickering on candles, framing his sweet, smiling face. As the kids clambered between us and and we had our nuptial smooch, I felt like I had something new, yet something I sort of had all along: our family.
I started noticing something the day I picked up my gown. Real love is not to be taken for granted. It is a rare and precious thing. I hear R.'s voice on the phone, or I say something to someone about "my husband," and I'm reminded of this. I pray that it's something I never forget. I also hope I never forget where I've been, the hopelessness and lonliness I felt, the awkwardness and feeling disconnected that set in sometimes. I wasn't completely pessimistic about my life, but it's hard to be truly happy in life when things just aren't right. I hope I never forget the kinds of advice not to give. I hope my friends and family will know someday how thankful I am that they didn't give up on me even when I was feeling fairly tormented at the time. I hope I haven't damaged my poor, sweet children, who I know are gifts from God that have given me purpose in life. (Embarassed? Yes, and I'll likely do it again. Damaged, hopefully not!)
NERVOUS NEWLYWED?!?
I'll be honest. This all seems too good to be true. Is that pessimistic or negative of me? Does it communicate a deep-seated distrust of God and therefore underdeveloped spirituality? Maybe, but quite frankly I'm not interested in a psycho-theological explanation here. I remember I was completely stressed out with breastfeeding with my second child because of dire complications I had with my first. Until we got past that point I was a stress bucket. After that it was smooth sailing. My neighbor/friend/consultant also did a great job to reassure me and restore some of my confidence.
I think this is where prayer will prove quite helpful for me. My nerves began to fray a little bit, admittedly, on our honeymoon. We were preparing to fly over to see some friends the following day before we came back home. Some of these friends are some of the most precious people I've had the privilege to know, having come alongside me and ministered to me through music, laughter, and friendship during losing T. After I got off the phone with one of my friends and started remembering all those tough times she loved me through, I nearly had an anxiety attack. What had I done?!? I went off and got married again!!! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Don't you know all this is going to happen again and you're going to be left with a twice-broken heart?
I just stuffed it and put it out of mind. We had a great time the last couple of days, came home, and started back into the daily grind. But the night before R. left to go home, I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I cried almost as hard that night as he just held me as I had the day T. died. I will admit: it almost makes me throw up spontaneously to think about R. dying and being gone. I have come through so much to be at this point in my life. My understanding of life and love is so much more profound than it was ten years ago. At the hotel I had looked at his shaving items there by the sink and heard him talking on the phone in the room and then envisioned it all gone, and I just wanted the earth to swallow me up.
I know I won't always be this panicky about him dying. God has proven to be faithful to God's word time and time again to me. I hate being worried at a time of renewal in my life, when so many great things are starting to happen for us. I hate that grief is like an ugly tattoo that is with you, whether or not anyone else can see it. But I do love him and can't imagine not being his "SP". What is most important to me is that he loves me as I am, crazy and worried and energized all at the same time. I just want to take each moment, with God's help, and cherish it -- with him, with our children, with each new step in life. I could waste away my days in tears of this thing I fear so much, or I could choose to take advantage of the time we have. I will not lose heart; I choose to be of good courage.
"I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait on the LORD; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on the LORD!" -- Psalm 27:13-14
It's crazy to think about where my life was six months ago, a year ago, five years ago, etc. R. and I recently married (see S4J and His Girl for some hysterical footage and on-the-go vlogging), and with the wedding/life planning process there came a lot of opportunity for reflection. I would be remiss if I glossed over all of this, so I need to document it now while it is still fresh in my mind, before my feeble brain is clogged with other details that need more immediate attention.
WEDDING PLANNING
This is, in the minds of some, like childbirth: something amazing to experience, painful while going through it, yet you only remember the good stuff about it, although you pray to the good Lord to never have to do it again and swear to pay off your children so that they elope when the time comes. Also, there is this misconception that there is an "appropriate" amount of time to be engaged or that it takes at least a year to plan an amazing, wonderful event. To quote John Pinette, "I say 'nay-nay'!" We were engaged for just shy of four months. In the first three weeks I was able to secure an amazing florist, our reception site which handled our food and beverages, a wedding cake, buy my dream gown, and order my invites and paper goods. I didn't exactly cut corners, but I also didn't want to break the bank. I did all that in three weeks being a single parent, albeit I don't work outside the home. Folks, it can be done.
I happened upon some really great vendors who are skilled at their craft. As the days dwindled down, both my groom and I were able to enjoy looking forward to our big day without having to put out fires and come up with lots of scatterbrained contingency plans last minute. Overall, I'd say we got what we wanted and the whole event was even better than we could have dreamed.
THE ROAD TO THE CHAPEL
As lovely as all this is, wedding planning for me was not just about procuring the perfect flowers, dress, or menu. Wedding planning was another step in the grief process. It was about really learning what it means to join with this person and become one. That is hard to do when it means completely cleaving yourself from the one you lost and can take time. There is no room for three people in a marriage. It was, for me, one of the most amazing, surreal days of my life.
I know this may sound really confusing to some of you. I will attempt to describe what was going on in my heart over those months, but I just don't know if I can do this justice or not. I promise not to be unduly dark or sarcastic (aww, maaaannn!), just telling it like it was for me and trying to put you in my brain as best I can.
If you are married, picture yourself back on your own wedding day, exuberant and brimming with love for this person you married. Think over some of the best days and worst days of your marriage. Think about the children you have had, or something over which you have both bonded. Think about some of the dreams and goals you have set for your lives together. Take one last look at your spouse now. Remember every minute detail that you can, because this will be the last look you ever get. Touch them, smell them, feel the warmth in their skin before it is gone. That's gonna have to last you a while. Now turn around and walk out the door. Once you leave, you can never go back -- it's a one-way ticket to your new life.
Now imagine you, your children, all of your things, and put them in a different state. Take your friends, your church, the things you see during your daily grind, and erase those from your daily landscape. Put a new, pleasant but unfamiliar environment outside your door. You can have as many pictures and artifacts of your spouse as you want. You can pretend to talk to them on the phone, set a place for them at the table, whatever you want, but you will never see them again. You still feel like a family waiting on someone to come home from a business trip, but that traveller's key will never turn in your door again. Do this day in and day out. Oh yeah, and keep your chin up while you're at it.
Let a few years pass. The feeling finally comes back to your body and your heart, slowly as if you are thawing from a hard freeze. The shock and pain has worn off, and you no longer feel as if you are waiting for missing link. You've developed a new sense of normal. Normal relative to you. You might look at the lives of others and wonder what it was ever like to be a traditional family. Ponder what effect your life events will have on your children as they grow up, fall in love, and decide whether or not they will marry. Scarier still, ponder what effect your own grief has had on your children and how much time and money they will have to spend in therapy! Now that you're pretty much done thawing out, you have a stark realization: you want to step away from the one you lost into the arms of another.
Maybe you will take that step, maybe you won't. For the sake of our narrative, let's say you do. How will you handle telling a love interest about the significantly ginormous, neon flashing sign on your head that says, "WIDOW" or "WIDOWER"? Will he/she ask about it? Will you tell? Will you say something before they have a chance to ask? Will they freak out about it? What about if you cry? Will they freak out about that? Will they accept the situation or not? How will you handle this with your children? Will you listen to advice from married friends? Family? Other single people? Other single parents? Your religion? What is appropriate and what isn't? Left or right? Up or down? Black, white, or nuanced shades of grey? I'm so glad you don't have anything else going in your life so you can devote all your time to figuring out these questions... oh wait a minute...!!!
Now do you guys understand why this blog is called, "One More Thing"?!? :)
Let's fastforward to your wedding day. You have taken innumerable careful steps leading up to this day. You've come a long way from still feeling like a spouse who's waiting on their other half to return to them to a completely separate, independent individual who is strong and evolved enough to know when they are ready to fall in love and bond with someone again. Thinking about a life and a future without your newly betrothed spouse is unimaginable, and you marvel at how lucky you are to have found this love and acceptance in this person. You have wonderful plans of raising children and growing old together when something begins to stir, almost like the beginnings of a sneeze deep inside your head, but this is in your heart. You think, "Wait a minute, this sounds familiar..."
What you've done is transformed: you have felt like this squishy, awkward caterpillar feeling its way around a garden, trying to find some sustenance upon which to survive. You gathered your strength, spun your cocoon, and emerged as a completely new creature -- beautiful, graceful, and free. You don't feel bound by such gravity any more. You are light and basking in the warm sun.
THE BOTTOM LINE(S)
It was one thing to decide I wanted to date again. It was another thing to actually go out and date people, socialize, put yourself in an emotionally vulnerable position. It was one thing to meet an amazing man that put a smile back into my heart. It was another thing to completely give it over to him and trust him not to break it after coming through so much. It was one thing to tell T. goodbye and soldier on these last 4 1/2 years, knowing we would high-five each other again in the presence of the Lord. It was another thing to allow myself to fall in love again and not worry about feeling as though I was betraying T. It was one thing to say "yes" to R. when he proposed and get excited about making wedding plans. It was another thing to look into R.'s sparkling, gentle blue eyes, say my vows to him, slip the ring on his finger, and become his wife. When I walked with my sweet Dad down the aisle, praise Jesus, I did not feel as though I was walking away from T. I felt like I was running full force toward R., and that right next to him was exactly where I belonged. Standing there looking at him, I wasn't aware of anyone else in the room with us -- all I could see was soft light coming in through stained glass windows and flickering on candles, framing his sweet, smiling face. As the kids clambered between us and and we had our nuptial smooch, I felt like I had something new, yet something I sort of had all along: our family.
I started noticing something the day I picked up my gown. Real love is not to be taken for granted. It is a rare and precious thing. I hear R.'s voice on the phone, or I say something to someone about "my husband," and I'm reminded of this. I pray that it's something I never forget. I also hope I never forget where I've been, the hopelessness and lonliness I felt, the awkwardness and feeling disconnected that set in sometimes. I wasn't completely pessimistic about my life, but it's hard to be truly happy in life when things just aren't right. I hope I never forget the kinds of advice not to give. I hope my friends and family will know someday how thankful I am that they didn't give up on me even when I was feeling fairly tormented at the time. I hope I haven't damaged my poor, sweet children, who I know are gifts from God that have given me purpose in life. (Embarassed? Yes, and I'll likely do it again. Damaged, hopefully not!)
NERVOUS NEWLYWED?!?
I'll be honest. This all seems too good to be true. Is that pessimistic or negative of me? Does it communicate a deep-seated distrust of God and therefore underdeveloped spirituality? Maybe, but quite frankly I'm not interested in a psycho-theological explanation here. I remember I was completely stressed out with breastfeeding with my second child because of dire complications I had with my first. Until we got past that point I was a stress bucket. After that it was smooth sailing. My neighbor/friend/consultant also did a great job to reassure me and restore some of my confidence.
I think this is where prayer will prove quite helpful for me. My nerves began to fray a little bit, admittedly, on our honeymoon. We were preparing to fly over to see some friends the following day before we came back home. Some of these friends are some of the most precious people I've had the privilege to know, having come alongside me and ministered to me through music, laughter, and friendship during losing T. After I got off the phone with one of my friends and started remembering all those tough times she loved me through, I nearly had an anxiety attack. What had I done?!? I went off and got married again!!! Stupid, stupid, stupid! Don't you know all this is going to happen again and you're going to be left with a twice-broken heart?
I just stuffed it and put it out of mind. We had a great time the last couple of days, came home, and started back into the daily grind. But the night before R. left to go home, I just couldn't hold it in any longer. I cried almost as hard that night as he just held me as I had the day T. died. I will admit: it almost makes me throw up spontaneously to think about R. dying and being gone. I have come through so much to be at this point in my life. My understanding of life and love is so much more profound than it was ten years ago. At the hotel I had looked at his shaving items there by the sink and heard him talking on the phone in the room and then envisioned it all gone, and I just wanted the earth to swallow me up.
I know I won't always be this panicky about him dying. God has proven to be faithful to God's word time and time again to me. I hate being worried at a time of renewal in my life, when so many great things are starting to happen for us. I hate that grief is like an ugly tattoo that is with you, whether or not anyone else can see it. But I do love him and can't imagine not being his "SP". What is most important to me is that he loves me as I am, crazy and worried and energized all at the same time. I just want to take each moment, with God's help, and cherish it -- with him, with our children, with each new step in life. I could waste away my days in tears of this thing I fear so much, or I could choose to take advantage of the time we have. I will not lose heart; I choose to be of good courage.
"I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait on the LORD; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on the LORD!" -- Psalm 27:13-14
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
33
As I sit here today on my thirty-third birthday, I've got a lot to ponder, a lot for which to be thankful. I wish I could show you every image racing through my mind of things I've experienced, people I've loved and admired, heartbreak I've endured, and every song my heart has sung, but Apple hasn't released that type of technology yet.
So many people grieve turning thirty, as if the best years of their lives have already passed them by. I feel as though life began for me, in some ways, once I got to my thirties. I may not have the neck-high perky boobs of a college tart, but mine are still hanging in there. They have given life to two children, have comforted broken hearts in an embrace, and even made a couple of trips to Hawai'i. I am healthier and stronger than ever before in my life, and I feel as though I am navigating the proving grounds of physical health that will pay off in future decades. I have learned things about myself, about others, about our world, about God, that I could have never comprehended with any clarity in the days of my "youth".
By the time I turned thirty, I was a widow and mother of two children ages 2 1/2 and 9 months. In my thirties, I have learned that being a single parent really isn't the end of the world. Being tired and frustrated with life isn't an excuse to be a jerk to your kids. If you are going to survive, you adapt. Kind of a modern twist on natural selection, and quite frankly, I'm not ready to raise my white flag. I was able to reflect on the ways in which my marriage could have been much better and what things I was so fortunate to have found in T. I listened to so many of my married friends talk about their spouses, sometimes to their spouses, and discuss marriage in general. Sometimes I would cringe and wonder if I had spoken that way to or about T., which I know I had, and I could only wish that I could tell him how sorry I was, if I only had the chance to apologize face to face. I realized how quickly married couples can overlook what they mean to each other and to their children. It has made me determined that, when R. and I tie the knot, I will remember what I have learned so that I can be a better wife to him.
I've been privileged to meet so many beautiful, wonderful people who have touched my life or inspired me in ways I didn't realize until much later. Some of these people have gone on to be friends, some have wandered off in their own direction, and I don't love one less than another. My friends are truly part of my family, and if God is taking requests the day I get to heaven, I hope God will put us all around a wonderful meal or a campfire in the mountains so I can be with all of the people I love all at once.
Travel has impacted my life in such a meaningful way, too. I told R. recently that, although I don't want to be cremated when I die, if I was cremated, my ashes couldn't just be spread in one place. I would want a little piece of me to be taken to dozens of different places that I have loved. My grandparents' farm, the cemetery where T. and all my family is buried, Mount Rainier, Waimea Bay, the beach where I've gone with my parents, Washington, D.C., the pyramids in Egypt, Rome, Kusadasi, Istanbul, Rhodes, Fort Benning, and so many other places -- I have carried something beautiful from them in my heart that I simply can't describe.
I remember my birthday four years ago: a cold, crisp autumn day in Louisiana on the back of the motorcycle with T. I had specifically asked to ride to a battalion function on the bike because he was going to deploy the following spring and wouldn't be there to take me out on my thirtieth birthday on the bike. Little did I know that almost exactly a month later he would be gone. I remember being behind him on the bike and looking at the sky, thinking that if I died that day, I would have been the happiest person in the world because my life had never been happier than it was on that day. I had a great husband and two beautiful children, my health, friends and family. As I looked up at a blazing sunny sky yesterday, it was cold and crisp and I mused at how I felt the same way then as I had four years ago, and I couldn't help but offer up quiet praise to God. I know my birthday was a good one last year, but I swear they keep getting better and better.
I don't know how to make a slideshows on YouTube, but this song says pretty close to how I feel today. I hope your next birthday brings you the peace which passes all understanding as this one has brought me today.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7P8pPYSXhk
So many people grieve turning thirty, as if the best years of their lives have already passed them by. I feel as though life began for me, in some ways, once I got to my thirties. I may not have the neck-high perky boobs of a college tart, but mine are still hanging in there. They have given life to two children, have comforted broken hearts in an embrace, and even made a couple of trips to Hawai'i. I am healthier and stronger than ever before in my life, and I feel as though I am navigating the proving grounds of physical health that will pay off in future decades. I have learned things about myself, about others, about our world, about God, that I could have never comprehended with any clarity in the days of my "youth".
By the time I turned thirty, I was a widow and mother of two children ages 2 1/2 and 9 months. In my thirties, I have learned that being a single parent really isn't the end of the world. Being tired and frustrated with life isn't an excuse to be a jerk to your kids. If you are going to survive, you adapt. Kind of a modern twist on natural selection, and quite frankly, I'm not ready to raise my white flag. I was able to reflect on the ways in which my marriage could have been much better and what things I was so fortunate to have found in T. I listened to so many of my married friends talk about their spouses, sometimes to their spouses, and discuss marriage in general. Sometimes I would cringe and wonder if I had spoken that way to or about T., which I know I had, and I could only wish that I could tell him how sorry I was, if I only had the chance to apologize face to face. I realized how quickly married couples can overlook what they mean to each other and to their children. It has made me determined that, when R. and I tie the knot, I will remember what I have learned so that I can be a better wife to him.
I've been privileged to meet so many beautiful, wonderful people who have touched my life or inspired me in ways I didn't realize until much later. Some of these people have gone on to be friends, some have wandered off in their own direction, and I don't love one less than another. My friends are truly part of my family, and if God is taking requests the day I get to heaven, I hope God will put us all around a wonderful meal or a campfire in the mountains so I can be with all of the people I love all at once.
Travel has impacted my life in such a meaningful way, too. I told R. recently that, although I don't want to be cremated when I die, if I was cremated, my ashes couldn't just be spread in one place. I would want a little piece of me to be taken to dozens of different places that I have loved. My grandparents' farm, the cemetery where T. and all my family is buried, Mount Rainier, Waimea Bay, the beach where I've gone with my parents, Washington, D.C., the pyramids in Egypt, Rome, Kusadasi, Istanbul, Rhodes, Fort Benning, and so many other places -- I have carried something beautiful from them in my heart that I simply can't describe.
I remember my birthday four years ago: a cold, crisp autumn day in Louisiana on the back of the motorcycle with T. I had specifically asked to ride to a battalion function on the bike because he was going to deploy the following spring and wouldn't be there to take me out on my thirtieth birthday on the bike. Little did I know that almost exactly a month later he would be gone. I remember being behind him on the bike and looking at the sky, thinking that if I died that day, I would have been the happiest person in the world because my life had never been happier than it was on that day. I had a great husband and two beautiful children, my health, friends and family. As I looked up at a blazing sunny sky yesterday, it was cold and crisp and I mused at how I felt the same way then as I had four years ago, and I couldn't help but offer up quiet praise to God. I know my birthday was a good one last year, but I swear they keep getting better and better.
I don't know how to make a slideshows on YouTube, but this song says pretty close to how I feel today. I hope your next birthday brings you the peace which passes all understanding as this one has brought me today.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N7P8pPYSXhk
Friday, June 12, 2009
C.S. Lewis: Narnia? Not Quite...
Let me lay the ground work; then, we'll get to the comments about C.S. Lewis...
"A Grief Observed," by C.S. Lewis. I had heard about this book and wanted to read it for some time but had forgotten about it. Having lost a spouse, I am able to relate on some level to those who have also gone through this type of loss, but I'm constantly trying to find a way to express thoughts, glimpses, wrestlings with God that I have experienced to those who have not had to go through this. This book gives a voice to those of us who have been down this road but can't quite put a finger on how to describe it. If you have been through the death of a spouse, please read this book. If you are married, please read this book. C.S. Lewis, like myself, had to do some serious restructuring of how he perceived death, marriage, eternal life, Heaven, God, and so forth. For us, we had to go through our grief as we navigated these murky spiritual waters. Do yourself a favor now and really take a hard look at how you answer some of these questions:
1) What is the role of death in a marriage?
2) Regardless of what my religion tells me, do I expect to be reunited with my spouse and/or loved ones?
3) Where, geographically, is Heaven?
4) What type of awareness does one have after death?
5) Do relationships continue on after death?
6) What is the point of enduring pain?
Most of the people I know who read my blog (if they haven't given up on me yet! haha!) will have a Bible verse for each of these answers. I encourage you here: put away the Bible. Step away from the reliable comfort of the Word and go into a graduate level application without your notes. Close your eyes, and picture your spouse gone. Their smell, gone. Their snoring, gone. Their companionship, gone. The heat of their body pressed against you as you sleep at night, gone. And not deployed, either. Gone. Imagine forgetting the sound of their voice. Imagine wondering if the way you remember him/her is really the way he/she was at all. All of these factors, and many more that we cannot perceive ahead of time, weigh heavily on a person's heart and affects the answers to those questions. The type of relationship you have with God prior to an event like this significantly affects how you navigate grief and loss, but the experience itself gets equal billing in the decision making process of someone left in the wake of their absent mate.
Clive Staples Lewis (yes, that's what C.S. stands for) apparently never intended to publish these four journals, now chapters, that he penned after the death of his wife. Writing being his mode of expression, he worked out his grief ponderings on paper and left us a gift therein. What you witness is a man desperately in love, desperately lost, wrestling with himself, God, and the "grief process." His words are tender, raw, scathing, sorrowful, hopeful, realistic, searching, disturbing -- he is real about what he is experiencing. You will not find theology in this book. There are no fictional allegories about Aslan, no floral writing about "glory to God" or "let it be Thy will." Instead, you will take a peek into the mind of a one who has had part of him amputated and realizes he must somehow survive.
From the first paragraph of Chapter One, Lewis hits the nail on the head: "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness... At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed." Chapter Two is not for the faint of heart. Here is where he gets to the dirty work of wrestling with God, reality, and eternity. He speaks at length about one's faith being like a rope and the level of trust we assign to our beliefs. Sure, we trust a rope to keep a box tied shut. There is no stress on its fibers. However, "suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn't you then first discover how much you really trusted it?" (p. 23) He also muses over how our beliefs and our faith is like a delicate house of cards that, however carefully constructed, is easily demolished. He comes around in Chapter Four to a beautiful change in perspective about his house of cards, demonstrating that this type of spiritual questioning and challenging is necessary to prune our spiritual bushes in order to stimulate healthy growth.
One of the most profound observations he made was regarding death and marriage. For many of us, we see these two concepts in perhaps one of two ways:
1) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies. When the second partner dies, the relationship continues, almost as if it had been paused in the meantime. We're reunited, walking hand in hand for eternity; or,
2) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies, at which time we are free to search for a partner and remarry. Wash; rinse; repeat. Reunification in heaven, maybe yes, maybe no.
In other words, we see death as either a cosmic pause in our relationship, or the finite end to it. Lewis believes that "bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love. It follows marriage as normally as marriage follows courtship or as autumn follows summer. It is not a truncation of the process but one of its phases; not the interruption of the dance, but the next figure." (p. 50) I felt as if someone had taken my hands out of cuffs the minute I read that. How freeing! For me, this makes marriage possible -- I don't have to fear death as being the unknown or the end. It is part of the process, the natural cycle of life and love, put into place by Life and Love Himself. It certainly does not remove pain, as pain is part of the natural experience of living as much as happiness or love. For some reason, it helps to make sense of pain to me.
I know this post may seem a little academic, and in a way, I would feel guilty reviewing C.S. Lewis and not paying closer attention to some of his details. I think this book was a great starting point for me, both personally and "professionally." Personally, I'm always in search of connecting with others who "get it." Professionally, I'm not a professional anything, besides maybe a speculator, but this is a great tool to hand to others who have not had this experience firsthand. It is a great tool for those going through a similar circumstance. Rather than preaching to people about what the Bible says about death, no more tears in Heaven, God will be your husband, and all the other ridiculous crap people have thrown my way, however well-intentioned it was at the time, I would rather hand this book to them and encourage them to see it as a conversation with a real person, looking realistically and practically at life, death, and love through a holy lens.
So I've embarked on this journey of trying to gird my brains with information this summer. Information that will hopefully be a resource as I attempt to piece together a care giving ministry at my church. When my pastor initially discussed this with me, I was surprisingly excited about the task at hand. My normal reaction would be one of, "Oh, no, not me. I'm not qualified/ordained/organized/"holy" enough..." So many times I would be tempted to back out of leading such an effort, but this time I met his gaze with some enthusiasm. It's an area of ministry that I would have never picked out to be involved with, much less coordinate or lead others' efforts. So hopefully that's a seed of God-planted affirmation.
My second reaction was, "Uh oh. I am really not qualified." I graduated from an informal, two year training of "average joes" who want to step up their involvement in their church and congregation. I am not any sort of professional counselor, pastor, etc. When my pastor left in late January, I saw a need to pick up a neglected ministry and fulfill a need. I began visiting with and taking communion to the sick and immobile people who cannot make it to church anymore, and I have received enough positive feedback to know that my efforts are appreciated. However, this should not and cannot be a pastor-centered ministry. There are too many people, both in our congregation and the world at-large, who need this type of one-on-one ministry. It's called care giving. My favorite way of putting it: ministry of presence. A ministry of presence is something that we're all qualified and called to do as believers. My job will be to gather a dedicated group of volunteers and connect them with those in need of this intentional fellowship.
So it occurs to me that the only experience I have is that of being literally plopped into people's homes and apartments, praying that God would be amongst our fellowship and keep me from doing or saying anything stupid. If I am to serve as a servant leader, I need to have some resources. Essentially, I need some tools in my belt. Out of all the books I have chosen to read, this is the one I have finished first:
"A Grief Observed," by C.S. Lewis. I had heard about this book and wanted to read it for some time but had forgotten about it. Having lost a spouse, I am able to relate on some level to those who have also gone through this type of loss, but I'm constantly trying to find a way to express thoughts, glimpses, wrestlings with God that I have experienced to those who have not had to go through this. This book gives a voice to those of us who have been down this road but can't quite put a finger on how to describe it. If you have been through the death of a spouse, please read this book. If you are married, please read this book. C.S. Lewis, like myself, had to do some serious restructuring of how he perceived death, marriage, eternal life, Heaven, God, and so forth. For us, we had to go through our grief as we navigated these murky spiritual waters. Do yourself a favor now and really take a hard look at how you answer some of these questions:1) What is the role of death in a marriage?
2) Regardless of what my religion tells me, do I expect to be reunited with my spouse and/or loved ones?
3) Where, geographically, is Heaven?
4) What type of awareness does one have after death?
5) Do relationships continue on after death?
6) What is the point of enduring pain?
Most of the people I know who read my blog (if they haven't given up on me yet! haha!) will have a Bible verse for each of these answers. I encourage you here: put away the Bible. Step away from the reliable comfort of the Word and go into a graduate level application without your notes. Close your eyes, and picture your spouse gone. Their smell, gone. Their snoring, gone. Their companionship, gone. The heat of their body pressed against you as you sleep at night, gone. And not deployed, either. Gone. Imagine forgetting the sound of their voice. Imagine wondering if the way you remember him/her is really the way he/she was at all. All of these factors, and many more that we cannot perceive ahead of time, weigh heavily on a person's heart and affects the answers to those questions. The type of relationship you have with God prior to an event like this significantly affects how you navigate grief and loss, but the experience itself gets equal billing in the decision making process of someone left in the wake of their absent mate.
Clive Staples Lewis (yes, that's what C.S. stands for) apparently never intended to publish these four journals, now chapters, that he penned after the death of his wife. Writing being his mode of expression, he worked out his grief ponderings on paper and left us a gift therein. What you witness is a man desperately in love, desperately lost, wrestling with himself, God, and the "grief process." His words are tender, raw, scathing, sorrowful, hopeful, realistic, searching, disturbing -- he is real about what he is experiencing. You will not find theology in this book. There are no fictional allegories about Aslan, no floral writing about "glory to God" or "let it be Thy will." Instead, you will take a peek into the mind of a one who has had part of him amputated and realizes he must somehow survive.
From the first paragraph of Chapter One, Lewis hits the nail on the head: "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness... At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed." Chapter Two is not for the faint of heart. Here is where he gets to the dirty work of wrestling with God, reality, and eternity. He speaks at length about one's faith being like a rope and the level of trust we assign to our beliefs. Sure, we trust a rope to keep a box tied shut. There is no stress on its fibers. However, "suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn't you then first discover how much you really trusted it?" (p. 23) He also muses over how our beliefs and our faith is like a delicate house of cards that, however carefully constructed, is easily demolished. He comes around in Chapter Four to a beautiful change in perspective about his house of cards, demonstrating that this type of spiritual questioning and challenging is necessary to prune our spiritual bushes in order to stimulate healthy growth.
One of the most profound observations he made was regarding death and marriage. For many of us, we see these two concepts in perhaps one of two ways:
1) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies. When the second partner dies, the relationship continues, almost as if it had been paused in the meantime. We're reunited, walking hand in hand for eternity; or,
2) We marry. We live together in marriage until one of the partners dies, at which time we are free to search for a partner and remarry. Wash; rinse; repeat. Reunification in heaven, maybe yes, maybe no.
In other words, we see death as either a cosmic pause in our relationship, or the finite end to it. Lewis believes that "bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love. It follows marriage as normally as marriage follows courtship or as autumn follows summer. It is not a truncation of the process but one of its phases; not the interruption of the dance, but the next figure." (p. 50) I felt as if someone had taken my hands out of cuffs the minute I read that. How freeing! For me, this makes marriage possible -- I don't have to fear death as being the unknown or the end. It is part of the process, the natural cycle of life and love, put into place by Life and Love Himself. It certainly does not remove pain, as pain is part of the natural experience of living as much as happiness or love. For some reason, it helps to make sense of pain to me.
I know this post may seem a little academic, and in a way, I would feel guilty reviewing C.S. Lewis and not paying closer attention to some of his details. I think this book was a great starting point for me, both personally and "professionally." Personally, I'm always in search of connecting with others who "get it." Professionally, I'm not a professional anything, besides maybe a speculator, but this is a great tool to hand to others who have not had this experience firsthand. It is a great tool for those going through a similar circumstance. Rather than preaching to people about what the Bible says about death, no more tears in Heaven, God will be your husband, and all the other ridiculous crap people have thrown my way, however well-intentioned it was at the time, I would rather hand this book to them and encourage them to see it as a conversation with a real person, looking realistically and practically at life, death, and love through a holy lens.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)