Reflections for the Grieving Soul

Scriptures: Matthew 5:4, Lamentations 3:49-50, Romans 8:26, Psalms 116:3-5

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. MATTHEW 5:4 NET 

Jesus, what an odd promise you’ve made here. 

I mourn today, just like I did yesterday, just as I will tomorrow. I can do nothing else, despite my best intentions. So why don’t I feel blessed? 

I know the history. I’ve seen the dictionaries. I know that the word “blessed” meant “happy”—or in literal Hebrew, “How happy!”—when You said it. The Greek equivalent that Matthew wrote down is makarios, a heavenly “state of happiness and well-being.” So Your promise in Matthew 5:4 could be interpreted, “How happy are those who are sad!” 

That makes very little sense to me right now. 

I will dig deeper. 

It appears that makarios carries many shades of meaning. It actually implies that one is “lucky,” not so much in the sense of random luck, but in the sense that You orchestrate seemingly random—even devastating—events to deliver happiness in a person’s life. And, strangely, it is a congratulatory term, as in, “Congratulations for being chosen to endure sorrow!” 

Hmm. If this is true, then even in the worst of circumstances . . . even when my wife has died painfully from cancer . . . I can still find a way to be happy? 

Funny, that’s exactly what she told me to do. “After I’m gone, don’t close up this house and hide away from the world. Open the curtains. Let the sunshine in. Find a way to be happy.” 

I do not yet understand this. My soul hurts with what feels like impenetrable anguish. And yet, Jesus, You have promised me blessing in this pain. So today I ask You to keep Your Word. 

I mourn today, Jesus. I can do nothing else. 

Please keep Your promise and makarios all over me today.

PRAYER FOR TODAY Jesus, teach me personally, intimately, how blessing works. Open my curtains, and let Your sunshine in. For just a few minutes today, help me find a way to be happy. Amen.

Scriptures: Psalms 34:1, Psalms 119:50, Psalms 34:17-18

I will praise the Lord at all times; my mouth will continually praise him. PSALM 34:1 NET 

Amy died on a Sunday. She spent the last week of her earthly life in a coma, sometimes groaning, sometimes crying, never opening her eyes, unable to move or speak. 

It was awful, Jesus. You know. You were there. 

On the Friday before her death, I had Amy’s favorite worship music playing near her hospital bed. It was just You, me, and Amy in the hospice room. And Kalley Heiligenthal of Bethel Music singing “Ever Be” softly over my tinny little speaker. 

I wonder, Can I sing this worship song, right here, right now, in this heartbreaking place? Do I have it in me to promise God that I will continually praise Him, no matter what?

I opened my mouth, and a dry, cracking sound came out. I looked at Amy, already more gone than here. My throat constricted, and I started weeping (again). 

She was so small, my girl. 

But Kalley Heiligenthal kept singing, so I tried again. 

“Your praise will ever be on my lips,” I rasped through tears. Not good enough, I told myself. Either you mean it, or you don’t. Make up your mind.

So I swallowed once, twice, and opened my mouth again. 

The words came out right that time. I won’t say they were strong or loud (because You know; You were there), but they were firm. I could tell I meant them. In that moment, a moment worse than I could ever imagine, King David’s words were still true for me. 

I will praise the Lord at all times . . . .

I discovered later that David wrote those words while in enemy territory, in a place where his life was in imminent danger. Apparently his situation was so desperate that he had to pretend to be insane in order to escape . . .and still he sang praise to God. 

I’m going to be honest. My singing praise to Jesus in that moment didn’t help me feel better. When I was done, sorrow still filled my soul like a dirty glass spilling ugly water inside all of me. But it was important for me to look at the woman I loved most in this world, the thing I loved more than my own body—the person I’d loved for longer than I could remember—to watch my own life dying within her tiny frame and to know that even then, even there, I could still remember that God is good. 

God is always good. 

So, Lord, I will praise You at all times. 

When my eyes are filled with tears, when my heart is ruptured and my head throbs from sorrow, my mouth will still, forever, continue to praise You. 

PRAYER FOR TODAY Lord, I will praise You at all times— even today, when I just don’t feel like it. Because it really is true: You are always good. Amen.

Scriptures: John 11:32-33, John 11:35-37, Psalms 91:4-5, Psalms 34:15

Now when Mary came to where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell at HIs feet, saying to him, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in His spirit and . . . . Jesus wept. So the Jews said, “See how He loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not He who opened the eyes of the blind man also have kept this man from dying?” JOHN 11:32–33, 35–37 ESV

It is the Friday after Thanksgiving. Black Friday as they call it in retail. Though I’m supposed to be preparing to celebrate the birth of Christ, I find myself instead thinking about Mary, the sister of Lazarus, and how she wept with Christ. 

Bible historians tell me that Mary was to Jesus a “special friend and devoted follower.” [1] That Christ always had a home when He came to Bethany because Mary lived there—because her family always made a place for Him to stay. That she sat at His feet soaking up His presence, longing only for more of Him. That when she wept…Jesus wept. That He voluntarily took for Himself the sorrow that was hers, in the moment when it was hers, knowing it would only minutes later be turned to inexpressible joy. And yet still, He wept. With her. 

So late last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I too fell facedown at Jesus’ feet, nose buried in the musty carpet of my bedroom, asking a question similar to hers: 

“Lord, where were You? If You’d been paying attention, my wife would not have died.” 

And like the Jews, I’m asking myself today, “Couldn’t He who opened the eyes of the blind man . . . who raised Lazarus from the dead . . . couldn’t He have kept Amy from dying?” 

One year ago today, Amy and I set up our Christmas tree in the family room of our house. When I say that, what I really mean is that Amy set it up and I watched. 

It was always our tradition to decorate the tree the day after Thanksgiving. This was probably our second-favorite night of the year—second only to Christmas itself. Amy’s job was to assemble the artificial tree, to lovingly unpack all the ornaments, and to make beauty out of the ragtag decorations we’d collected over our last few decades together. 

My job was to make sure we had plenty of Christmas music. Originally working with piles of CDs, I finally got smart and put all our holiday music onto a few playlists. So after getting the Christmas supplies out of storage, my job was really just to enjoy watching my girl do her thing with them. It was a treasure to watch her work. She was rarely more beautiful than when her heart was fixed on Christmas. 

On this After-Thanksgiving-Day last year, Amy was still struggling through difficult chemotherapy treatments. She was unable to eat solid food, barely 100 pounds, and surviving solely on fourteen-hour-a-day infusions of IV nutrition. And yet she was so filled with joy. 

She laughed and sang along to Christmas songs, and she delighted in pulling her ornaments out of storage. In our house, there are no cookie-cutter decorations. Every ornament for our tree has a history and comes with a story. “Tony made this lambkin ornament in grade school.” “You gave me this Mickey ornament for my birthday.” “I’ve had this elf since I was a child—it was my mom’s. I have to find a good place to hide it in the tree so Tony can find it next time he comes over.” 

When our tree was finally ready, we indulged in our family’s second Christmas tradition. Amy made two mugs of hot cocoa, gave one to me, and kept the other for herself. We turned off all the lights except those on the Christmas tree. We sat close to each other on the couch, held hands, and sipped from our steaming cups as we watched the tree lights wink and grin in the darkened family room. 

My girl was so happy she started sobbing next to me. “I love Christmas,” she said to me, gripping my hand in tight little squeezes, making the couch tremble as she let her tears flow. “I’m so glad I’m here for it.” 

“Me too,” I said. Me too. 

The tree lights flickered and danced. We let silence be our conversation for a bit, while Kenny Loggins serenaded us with “Walking in the Air” (Amy’s favorite Christmas song). We didn’t say it out loud, but I think we both knew then that maybe . . . probably . . . it was going to be our last Christmas together on this earth. 

Now it’s a year later. Only one year. Such a short time, really, even though it feels like ages have gone by. I’m staring at the space where our giant tree is supposed to go. And wondering what I’m supposed to do now. 

PRAYER FOR TODAY I feel lost today, Jesus. Alone. When I weep, will You share my sorrow and weep alongside me? For some reason, I think that’ll make me feel better. I love You. Amen. 

Scriptures: Ephesians 2:14, Romans 5:3-5, Romans 8:18

Christ Himself is our peace. EPHESIANS 2:14 NCV 

We were sitting in the basement, wrapped up in blankets (because it’s always chilly down there), watching something funny on TV. To Amy’s left was the ubiquitous glass of iced tea that, over the years, had earned a seat of its own on the couch. I sat to her right, where it had been my job for nearly thirty years to scratch her back while our show was playing. While I scratched, she rested her hand on my leg, gently rubbing my aching muscles. 

I see everything in this memory, the gray Captain America T-shirt of mine that she wore as her pajamas, the green Mickey Mouse pillows scattered nearby, the Red Vines on the counter. It’s almost as if my mind took a photo and stored it in there while I wasn’t looking. 

And then, in between our binge-watching episodes, she turned to me. “This feels like just a normal night,” she said earnestly, “like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and find out that cancer was all just a bad dream.” 

She breathed. I waited. And then she leaned forward and rested her head on my knee. 

“I don’t want to die,” she said quietly. 

We were both crying now. “I know,” I said. I leaned over and wrapped my arms around her waist. She returned my embrace, and we were silent for a while. Finally, she kissed my face and smiled. 

“It’s going to be OK,” she said, “no matter what happens.” She leaned back into her seat. “Now turn on the next episode. I like feeling normal, even if it’s just for tonight.” 

So we spent the rest of the evening being “normal.” It was a strange island of peace within a long, difficult sea-journey from our married life to Amy’s death. It was not just a night blown on mindless TV anymore. It had become a holy thing, a supernatural gift of kindness from the Spirit of Christ, wrapping us in His comfort, keeping us warmed by both His love and ours. 

And two months later she was gone. 

Now it is nearly a year since I’ve been forced to sit alone in that chilly little basement. I still can’t watch new episodes of our show; I don’t even record them anymore. It just feels awkward to watch without her. It doesn’t feel normal. 

I understand now what Amy felt that night, what she shared with me. It was the peace that settles over a life unhindered by worry or fear, blanketed in the strength and unity of a loving relationship. It is that sense of awareness of goodness, of well- being and security— of the Old Testament’s shalom or the New Testament’s eirēnē, or what we call peace. The certainty that in spite of everything, everything is going to be all right. 

That used to be “normal” for both Amy and me. An ordinary thing . . . but it is difficult to find that kind of peace without her sitting beside me, drinking iced tea, laughing at the imaginary world on our TV. 

The apostle Paul tells me today that “Christ Himself is our eirēnē.” He is our peace. And I believe it in my mind. I’ve known that peace myself, intimately, though it seems like ages ago since I last saw it here in my life. 

Christ, You are my peace. In my head I know this without question. But how long, oh Lord, must I wait before my lonely heart remembers it too? 

PRAYER FOR TODAY Lord Christ, You are my eirēnē. May Your supernatural peace rest in, on, and through me today. And especially tonight when I feel most alone. Amen.

Scriptures: Isaiah 60:20, Lamentations 3:26, Psalms 40:1-2

The Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of sorrow will end. ISAIAH 60:20 NIV 

I’ve discovered that the things you really miss when you lose a loved one are the not-so-obvious ones. 

I mean, of course you miss the obvious things—her touch, her laugh, seeing her smile when you walk into the room, the warmth of her frame pressed into yours, holding her hand, the scent of her life filling your home, the gentle weight of her body sleeping quietly beside you. But you also miss the unexpected things: 

The joy of anticipating her arrival home. 

The way her spirit filled your house when she was in it. 

The comfort of feeling obligated to someone because you just longed for nothing more than to be obligated to her. 

Those little, loving obligations are what I’m missing most right now. I find when I go somewhere, I want to text and tell her I made it there safely. But there’s no one who cares that I made it to Walmart today. When it’s almost time for dinner, I want to ask her, “What do you want to eat tonight?” But of course, no one cares whether I order Chinese takeout or have cold cereal for dinner. 

I want to tell her, “Hey, I made your Academy Awards ballot today!” and, “Let’s take Friday off work and go see that movie you wanted to see” and, “I put gas in your car so you should be fine going to the airport and back on Thursday.” And I’m realizing that the reason I struggle to write now is that, despite what I pretended, I always wrote for her. 

Every book, every article, it always mattered to me because it mattered to her, because she wanted me to do it because she thought my writing was worth reading. I have no one like that in my life now, no one who makes me want to work so, so hard to delight them with silly words strung in rows on a page. 

This is what I miss right now, the salvation of all those little obligations, the unfiltered joy I felt from just being able to make her happy. That, I’ve learned, is what made me happy, what gave me purpose. 

It is tempting to think I will always mourn these little losses, to assume my best days are behind me and that only sorrow awaits in my tomorrows. I have believed that from time to time these past lonely months. 

But today I saw Isaiah 60:20. It felt as if I were reading it for the first time: 

The Lord will be your everlasting light, and your days of sorrow will end.

Did God really say that? Can it be true for a broken thing like me? 

If this Scripture is true (and I know that it is), then sorrow has something in common with the cancer that killed my wife: It is terminal. It cannot go on forever. This must be why the ancient prophet coupled the symbol of God’s undying light with sorrow’s fatal diagnosis. As my theology books report about Isaiah 60, “While darkness signifies despair, light signifies hope” (italics mine). [1] 

It has been hard for me to have any real hope for my future since my wife died. This morning, though, I read a promise of Scripture and almost believed it for myself. That feels new. Those words from Isaiah have given me something today that seems different than yesterday: 

I have hope that someday I’ll have hope again.

Hey, it’s a start, right?

PRAYER FOR TODAY God, You promised that days of sorrow would end. I know that takes time, but how about if You and I work toward that a little more today? Amen.