She wanted to talk. Years ago she traveled through a spiritual journey that ended with her kneeling on the floor of the church parlor, on a Sunday when a blizzard had shut down the city and only six folks showed up for worship, to be baptized. Her journey and that snowy day bounded the parson to her and she to him.
Today the parson mostly listened.
A week ago an apparently disgruntled customer walked into her and her husband’s business, pulled out a gun and murdered him.
“I never knew how much you were hurting when your wife died,” she said.
“I know,” the parson replied quietly. “No one can know until it happens to them.”
“How do you stand it?”
“I don’t.”
“When did you get over it?”
“I haven’t?”
“But, you’re happy with Lynn now.”
“I am. And Lynn’s happy with me, but Lynn still cries for her Gary like I cry for Geri.”
“How can you two make a life for yourself when your heart is empty.”
The parson thought a moment, then replied, “My heart’s not empty. Your heart’s not empty. My heart contains the love for my children and grandchildren. It has the love I have for Lynn. But my heart has this tremendous hole in it. I don’t think anything will patch that hole; it’s the hole caused by Geri’s exit. And your heart is not empty. You have the love for those two precious girls. You’re more aware of the hole now because it’s fresh and raw. Someday, someday you’ll learn to live with it, but it’s not going away.”
“Everybody tells me it’s going to be okay.”
“Everybody has never lost a spouse. It’s not going to be okay. He’s dead. He was senselessly murdered and that’s not okay. Two children will never see their daddy again, and that’s not okay. You are a widow. That’s not okay. You’re sitting here talking to me the way you are because your life has been turned upside down and that is not okay. Your family, your friends, and I cannot make it okay. Jesus cannot make it okay. It will never, never be okay.”
She sat silently, looking out the window. After a moment she got up and walked across the hall to look in on her child playing with an aunt. She came back, sat on the sofa again, with what was almost a huff she pushed herself back into the cushions. She looked at the parson intently.
“Tell me when it happened.”
“When what happened?”
“When you realized you were going to get through it.”
The parson leaned forward; he took her hand, and said, “Sweetheart, I haven’t gotten through it. I never will. But one day I woke up and I looked over to the side of the bed where she used to sleep. Somehow, that morning it hit me that she was dead. She was dead and I was alive. I was alone, but I was alive. It wasn’t my choice, but that’s how it was. That morning I claimed being alive again. And somehow when I came to that realization I quit wallowing in my grief and I claimed it and wrapped my arms and my heart around it. I quit letting my grief weigh me down and made it the impetus for going on with life.” The parson, leaned closer and whispered, “So, here we are. I’m alive and, when it’s the right time for you, you’ll be alive too.”
“But that will be tomorrow, right?”
The parson smiled at this strong, talented, and now fragile woman. “It may not be tomorrow; it could be a few months.”
Before the smile could completely form on her face, the three-year-old escaped her aunt and bounded into the room to pounce into her Mommy’s lap.
Graphic by subscription with Clip Art [dot] Com
Amen
And thank you for another resource to pass to people
Posted by: Gord | October 13, 2009 at 09:09 AM
A friend who lost her 56yo husband last year, six months before we lost our 24yo son, and I were just having this conversation on the phone.
While it will most likely take a good while longer than a few months to reach any acceptable state of being, it is always a relief to read the words of someone who gets it.
Maybe you'd like to come over and comment on the poll I've got going.
Posted by: Gannet Girl | October 14, 2009 at 06:30 PM