Five Months Into Climbing This Mountain of Grief – A Man’s Journey Through Grief, #16

Five months have gone by since God called Mary Helen home. As the hours of each day pass, I begin to say, “I’ve finally got my grief over her home-going under control. I can do this. I can build a new life alone. Two days a week, I spend time with some men around the open Bible. Sunday means connecting with my church family.

I wash and dry clothes. Keep up with the dishes. Think about a new meal I’m going to cook. Buy groceries. Swiffer the floors. On Facebook, I put up a new roadside flower every day. I spend time writing down my memories of our life together in a series of posts. I touch base with my kids. Maybe have Debbie and Brian for supper or drop in on them in their office for a few minutes. Try to think of someone I can phone or send a card to so I can rise above this everlasting thinking of myself and our lives together. Get to know someone else in the condo community. Busy. Keep busy.

Then evening comes and feelings of grief begin to surface. I drown them out by turning on the news or watching some program on UTube or Netflix. I look forward to sleep. It will be so good to sleep, I think. As Shakespeare wrote in MacBeth;

“Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,

The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,

Chief nourisher in life’s feat.”

And, thank the Lord, I’ve been sleeping fairly well.

Morning dawns. I splash my face with water, wander into the kitchen and make coffee. Stagger over to my recliner. Collapse and look around the condo. Unbidden, tears begin to come—as they do almost every morning. Life seems so empty. In the morning light, the whole struggle without Mary Helen in her recliner beside me seems so difficult. Indeed, so pointless. Where am I going alone?

I dimly realize that my feelings are intensified by my age and sense of uselessness. Although I’ve been in gospel ministry all my life, I now have no formal outlet. No class to teach. No sermon to preach. But the impulse still pulses within, so I turn to the internet and to writing.

Then, as I do every morning, I pick up my hymn book with a determination to hear what others have said about this “vale of tears.” The next one marked in my hymn book by a sticky note is: “Sweet hour of prayer…in seasons of distress and grief, my soul has often found relief, oft escaped the tempter’s snare by thy return, sweet hour of prayer.”

As I ponder the words and pray, some relief begins to overcome the tears. And I realize that again and again, morning after morning in my now—my seasons of distress and grief—I have been finding relief and comfort, and a building sense of the Lord’s love and presence.

Relief…and oft escaped the tempter’s snare. Now, that bears some thought. How is the devil using my grief against God’s purposes? Making me think that my situation is unique? It isn’t. People all around are grieving or have gone through seasons like this and built a life afterwards. Making me feel despair? Making the loneliness so crushing I neglect the sweet hour of prayer? Neglect the book of comfort, consolation and inspiration?

And for a man like me, at an age such as mine, with over 61 years of companionship behind me, tempting me to seek female companionship to relieve the loneliness? Others who have gone through this warn that this is a real danger. Yes, Lord, we are human. How foolish I would be to let down my guard and carelessly embrace someone offering consolation. But Lord, the women seem so much more understanding. Lord, help me to escape any thoughts along this line, and all the tempter’s snares by talking to you and listening to you all day, every day.

The day I wrote this, an amazing providence of God brought two things together. The day before, our men’s study group had read Spurgeon’s Morning and Evening for August tenth. The verse was Colossians 3:4, “Christ, who is your life.” At that time, it didn’t grip me much. But then reading in my devotions through Colossians the day after, the very same verse confronted me. “Set your hearts on things above where Christ is seated at the right hand of God. Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things. For you died, and your life is now hidden with Christ, in God. When Christ who is your life, appears, then you also will appear with him in glory.”

I went back and read Spurgeon’s thoughts again and pondered what it meant to me now. He said:

Christ is the substance of my spiritual life—even though my life with Mary Helen as a couple is over, nothing has changed my eternal destiny, my position in God’s family.Christ is the sustenance for my life. He is the water of life and the bread of life. I need to draw strength, purpose, and energy from him.Christ is the solace of life. It is in him that I find peace, comfort, joy, and consolation—even without Mary Helen, for underneath are the everlasting arms.Christ is the object of this life. He is the one who gives direction, who gives us a goal to shoot for, to extend his kingdom, to make known his gospel—which has not, or should not, change.Christ is the exemplar of life. He is the example of how to live—how to be interested in people, to adjust every encounter according to the needs of the person, to show love and practical help. I need more meditation on his incredible life, how in spite of knowing that he was headed to the cross and death, he took time for 12 disciples and unnumbered others!Christ is the crown towards which we strive—Mary Helen has received hers. I don’t understand this whole concept of crowns as reward. Surely, to be with Christ will be reward enough. But I guess, if given crowns, we will see how much a gift of grace they are and cast them at Jesus’ feet. Perhaps, the whole point of this is to avoid losing our reward by laziness, complacency, misdirection of our gifts, etc.

This grief-thing is like an impossible mountain to climb. But with Christ who is my life, giving me sustenance and solace and grace and mercy and love, I can begin to catch glimpses of a summit somewhere ahead in the mists.  

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