Let Go Of Our Painful Past—Part 16
These readings will provide additional insight into the topic covered by this most recent set of blog posts:
READINGS – Part 4
As my husband’s coffin entered the earth, a scrap of paper fluttered onto its lid—Luke’s gift to a father he’d known so briefly. “I love you, Dad,” he’d written in child-scrawl. I embraced the silence, craved it. I wanted to be still for a long time, to heal and ponder this incomprehensible thing that had happened, to rant and shake my fist at God if need be. This was a pain so profound that the tears, the numbness, the disbelief, were all ripples on the surface of a deep, black pool of water. Nothing disturbed its depths. It seemed a well from which grief emanated, a core of my being I had reached only through extreme tribulation.
Yet I had children to raise who were as shaken and hurt as I, and a new baby coming. That lonely birth loomed ahead, a treacherous slope.
After two weeks, the kids were ready to return to school from sheer boredom. Relatives went home, and I resumed an unthinking housekeeping routine. Little Luke proudly occupied his dad’s empty place at the table as we sniffled through our first meal alone. “I can tell when you’ve been crying,” said nine-year-old Naomi, running for the tissue box. “Your nose turns red.” The box of tissues went round with the bowl of beans, and I’m not sure which was emptied first.
In a burst of energy, I tore the house apart that Easter, moving bed rails over the heads of startled guests, clearing a spot in my room for the•baby. Might as well do the heavy work while men were around.
That was the nature of my grief, to hurry it up. Feel the pain and get it over with. I gave away Richard’s clothes, clutching at the familiar smell and feel of that old sweater, his gray herringbone jacket.
I saved his wallet, still molded to the shape of his pocket. He could pull the most amazing things from that wallet—phone numbers and memorabilia from years gone by. I emptied his junk drawer, which, like every man’s, held his special stones and pennies—the same treasures I’m sure he pocketed as a boy. Again I breathed his closeness, the small change of his life. I took off my wedding ring very soon. It was uncomfortable to wear the symbol of a life that was no longer. Smooth from years of wear, its spot indented on my finger, the ring resisted being laid aside. My finger bore its mark for some time. I reached for it sometimes out of habit and was always startled to find it gone.
In some ways I had no choice but to hurry on. Self-pity and depression were indulgences my children would pay for. They tugged at me with the physical burden of their care, with worry over the emotional wounds they carried, with years of financial support to provide.
I didn’t know the best way through such a tempest, but I found I could trust my instincts; I knew what was good for me. Like a physical wound that seeps and bleeds, the spirit also struggles to heal. I felt wounded, an amputee; even my appearance felt different. A wound heals slowly from the inside out; some never heal completely, and all grievous wounds leave scars.
One thing I knew with certainty: I had begun a grueling journey, one I might not survive without a massive infusion of grace. Without God, some part of me might die. This very clarity was a grace; I was poised on the brink of a mortal test, a great experiment. Were God’s promises true and would they be enough?
I had no choice but to go forward in blind trust.
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Young Widow, Kate Convissor, Zondervan, pages 22-23 .
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Sunday’s coming. Do you have your sermon ready? Is it relevant? Will it effectively motivate your congregation to walk more in step with the Master? What about that Sermon Series you’ve been thinking about?
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