I sit here now, somewhat bemused, and still struggling to make sense of the fact that Susie is gone. Dead. This time last year she was alive and well, bursting with her characteristic enthusiasm, eagerly looking forward to crafting a bigger and better future, for our marriage, for our family, for our church.
Oh, but the future: how quickly it became a myth for us. What we didn’t know this time last year was that the future we imagined was not going to eventuate. In just three days time, she would no longer have a future. Not in this world at least. In three days time, my kids, my family and I would enter a future none of us wanted. A future “without”. Without our Mum. Without our daughter. Without our friend. How? Why? So many questions which will never be answered.
At times it’s been almost as impossible to tolerate as it has been to comprehend. Certainly one of the tortures of grief is trying to withstand what is entirely inexplicable. How could someone so wonderful just vanish? How could something so precious just dissolve in an instant. I miss my wife. I miss her friendship. I miss her playfulness. But there’s more to it than that. I miss what held us together. I miss our bond, our relationship, our love. I miss the role I played in that. I miss the role she played for me. I miss being loved. And I miss loving. I miss the way she loved others. I sit here now, wanting a cuddle. Wanting a chat. Wanting the safety and the refuge she would offer after a difficult day.
But, here I am, three days shy of one year on, and I sit, bemused. Still. With no end to my confusion in sight.
And one year on, I begin to question myself. Have I gone about this the right way? Am I grieving well? Am I doing well? Or have I done things wrong? Has my strategy of letting grief just run its course in me been correct? Or should have I sought to rage against it. Shown myself to be stronger? Tougher? Able to rise above this? Should I have shown more resilience? More grit? No platitude or word of affirmation can subdue those questions.
Because I do sit here, lacking confidence, ashamed of my weakness, perhaps even embarrassed by the stupid things I’ve done and said and thought in grief. Did I have a choice? Could I – should I – have acted wiser? More wisdom would have helped, no doubt. But it would have required a strength beyond my ability to muster.
Certainly I’ve lacked what I need to be the person so many people wish me to be. Happy. Functional. Productive. “Screw that”, I may retort. But it’s these people, so many, who have rallied around me, supporting our family. And they’ve given so much. Should I not offer them some respite, some respect, some recompense for their efforts towards me these last twelve months? I want to repay you, friends, by offering up happiness. I want you who have worked so hard to see that your efforts have not been in vain, that your love has not been without fruit. And at times I do offer you that. But it’s a struggle. And often it’s a facade. A happy face covering a tortured soul. And even if the happiness is real…it doesn’t last. Soon enough, day becomes night, and the gravity of grief draws away all joy.
But, I must admit, that that’s only sometimes. Because I do sit here, now, in this moment, and I can say that grief no longer cripples me. It continues to shape me. But it doesn’t seem to be strangling me anymore. Not like it was. Certainly there have been times in these last 12 months when grief has pushed me to the edge. Times when it’s lead me to the precipice and made me stare into it’s cold emptiness. Times, even, when I’ve been tempted to resign myself to it’s hopelessness.
But somehow, I’ve been carried. Somehow, I’ve avoided grief’s insidious pull towards nothingness. By God’s grace, I am here. And tomorrow is almost something I look forward to. In the dark before the dawn I see mornings glow. And I’m approaching that dawn as a different man. I am not who I was. Twelve months on, grief has changed me.
And, as a changed man, I look back on that fellow who was me twelve months ago – naively happy, blissfully ignorant – and I pity him for what he’s about to endure. Him and his family. I feel so sorry for them. I ache for them. I want to go back there and help them. I want to tell that husband who is about to lose his wife to cherish that last kiss. I want to be there for him. Because I’m a different person now. I know it. Grief has changed me.
But I’m under no allusion that it’s finished its work. Grief, I anticipate, will continue to cause me to act stupidly and strangely. But I hope it will mature me. I don’t like the prospect of the process, but the worth of the outcome I’d like to think I’m more open to now. Especially if that outcome is the service of others and the glory of God. I hope it will be worth it.
One year on. Hard to believe. Emptiness still pervades. But a softer glow teases the horizon. And I try to keep my eyes on that. I try to be carried forward. I’ve done some things well. I’ve done some things poorly. But whatever I’ve done, it’s been accompanied by a perpetual longing for my wife. Even now, no moment goes by when she’s not on my mind. I miss her every moment. But the fact she loved me gives me courage. The miracle of someone like her loving someone like me buoys me to step into whatever comes next.
