The Gift of Sleep

Posted on July 12, 2010 by Margaret

During the night God gave me a gift – ten hours of sleep. I can’t remember ever sleeping like that, although as a teen I surely must have.

Yesterday had been strewn with melt-downs and tear-ups, and one thing I’ve learned during the eight months since Nate died is that grieving is exhausting. Although I didn’t expend much physical energy yesterday, by the time I crawled into bed, I was whipped.

Before Nate died, I had no idea about this part of new widowhood, but now I’m getting an education. Years ago I asked a recently widowed friend if she wanted to come for lunch, just her and me. I knew enough not to invite a crowd but had no understanding of how hard she was struggling to cope. Without even pausing to consider my offer, she said, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly. I don’t have the energy.”

Her response took me by surprise. I’d planned a simple lunch, assuming talking with someone who cared about her would be encouraging, maybe even strengthening. I had no knowledge of the drain it would be for her to get ready, drive to my house, answer my questions and struggle to maintain composure throughout her visit. Now, because I’ve been on the flip side of that situation, my friend’s rejection of the lunch makes complete sense.

The process of grieving a loved one is strenuous, and losing a spouse is wrenching. Although I’ve seen both of my parents pass away and experienced deep sadness both times, grieving for Nate is in a separate category. When people get married, they “leave and cleave,” which is biblically correct and should set parents down a peg on the priority list. After marriage, a husband trumps mom and dad.

As the years and decades of marriage compile, the marital bond strengthens, or at least that’s the way it should be. Though we’ve known our parents longer than our mates, the parental bond doesn’t have the power of two-becoming-one.

Mary asked me yesterday if I missed Nate more than I expected I would. The answer? Definitely. It seems there’s no end to my discovery of the ways he was dear to me. We were undeniably two halves of a whole, but when he was with me, I didn’t give much thought to that idea. Now that he’s gone, it’s painfully evident. And when half of anything is removed, the other half falls.

Since none of us can “walk in another’s moccasins” until our experiences overlap, we can’t appreciate someone else’s response to a life crisis, just as I couldn’t comprehend why my friend didn’t want to come for lunch. But as we live through our own experiences, we gain understanding. The gains come with pain, but they eventually become the way we can help others. Maybe that’s why my Widow Warriors are so precious to me and have blessed me profoundly. They’ve already walked the road I’m on, which validates their counsel. And many of them have advised me to “get good rest.”

After last night’s sweet sleep, which was God’s timely gift, today has been a much better day.

“This is what the Lord of Heaven’s Armies, the God of Israel, says: ^‘I have given rest to the weary and joy to the sorrowing.’ At this, I woke up and looked around. My sleep had been very sweet.” (Jeremiah 31:23,25-26)

Meltdown

Posted on July 11, 2010 by Margaret

I knew I shouldn’t have done it. After all, it was a Sunday.

* * * * * * * * *

I’d been by myself at the house this morning, unusual for a Sunday, and even though I was up and ready, it crossed my mind to skip church. No one would miss me, and I wouldn’t have to sit alone. But that sounded like going backwards, so I drank the last of my coffee and headed out. Despite wearing a skirt, I rode my bike rather than walk the six blocks, because I was late.

As I pedaled toward the church, I could hear a woman’s voice being piped from the pulpit to outdoor speakers. She was weeping as she asked for prayer to handle a challenge she was facing. Parking my bike near an out-of-the-way bush, I felt ashamed of my self-centeredness, having temporarily forgotten that no one is immune from serious pain.

By the end of the service, I felt weepy and headed away quickly, talking to no one, anxious to get back to the shelter of the cottage. Although our family tradition has always been to eat out on Sundays, a bowl of oatmeal sounded just right. But I should have known better than to accompany it with the hard-copy stack of emails from the early days of Nate’s cancer.

This stack of 8 X 11 papers, which I’ve tried to read several times, approaches the sacred to me, and a sad Sunday seemed like the right time to read a few more. I was missing Nate, and by looking back into those days when he was still alive, it was almost like a visit with him.

The 50-plus emails in my stack were all dated between Sept. 23, the day after Nate’s diagnosis, and Sept. 29 – six days of shock and hurt. When the girls had printed them out at my request, some of my own responses were still attached to many of them. It was one of my own paragraphs that made me burst into tears over my oatmeal. The following lines were written to Linnea on Sept. 24, two days into Nate’s cancer:

“Tonight as we were driving home from Chicago (me driving), Papa was beginning to share something about our family, but when he said the phrase ‘Remember when the kids were little and…’ he broke down and wept. I don’t know what it was, but I think he was thinking back to those happy days and one of you doing or saying something cute, and thinking of these difficult days now and the passing of time, and all of it mixed in together for him.”

Dabbing at my mascara, I set the stack of emails aside once again, wondering if I’d ever be able to get through them. I want so badly to re-read what our precious friends and relatives had sent in the beginning, knowing their words and verses had been chosen with care to encourage and support. They might hold even more power now.

All of a sudden I had an overpowering urge to look at Nate’s wedding ring. I ran upstairs and pulled the tiny green velvet bag from my dresser drawer and took out his gold band, hugging it and crying with longing for my man. It’s not easy when the only thing left to hug is a husband’s cold ring.

I took a gold chain off its hook, the one with the heart pendant that had Nate’s name engraved on it, and slipped his ring onto the same chain. Suddenly I couldn’t make sense of what seemed like a contradiction: God is good, but this is bad. Although I’ve accepted his goodness many times over in recent months, today it wouldn’t compute.

Immediately a favorite quote came to mind, and I knew right away Who was rushing toward me with understanding and comfort:

“If you can explain what God is doing, God is probably not doing it.” (Dr. Bob Cook)

In other words, because I can’t explain Nate’s cancer, his death and our grieving, I can be certain the whole thing IS of God, and I know he wouldn’t have taken Nate as he did without an excellent reason. God doesn’t expect me to understand his ways. (Both he and I know I never could.) He only asks me to believe he knows best… for Nate… and for me.

And I do.

“ ‘My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,’ says the Lord. ‘And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.’ ” (Isaiah 55:8-9)

Know or Be Known

Posted on July 8, 2010 by Margaret

Mom used to tell me she learned new things about Dad even after 50 years of marriage, but I couldn’t imagine it. Recently, though, I discovered something new about my own husband, who I haven’t seen for eight months. Actually, I discovered two things.

A guest at our cottage stumbled across a copy of “The Flashback,” a school yearbook published in 1958. It has Nate’s name printed on the inside flap, and his picture is on several of its 55 pages. He looks younger than his 12 years, but that might be because none of the cynicism of adolescence had yet set in.

Apparently Churchill Junior High School was brand new that year, opening its doors to 1000 students 53 years ago, on September 3, 1957. I went on line and learned the school is still functioning, although today it isn’t labeled “state of the art” as it was in the fifties.

Paging through the yearbook is a lesson in American history. Girls wore skirts or dresses with saddle shoes and rolled down socks. The rule, said one girl, was “blouses tucked in or a trip to the advisor’s office.” The boys had short hair, tucked shirts, belts, slacks, no blue jeans.

So, what did I learn about Nate? First of all, I never knew he played football! I did know of his interest in the high school newspaper (the editor) and the debate team (the captain) but was surprised to see him kneeling in the second row with the team (far left). In 40 years of marriage I never saw Nate toss a football, and he attended games only to see Hans play in the marching band.

The second surprise was his keen interest in girls. At the age of 12, he was already watching carefully. His yearbook has a penciled X next to the faces of those he considered cute and a line under their names. He’d selected eight girls in all.

I loved reading the farewell messages on the autograph pages, particularly the one that mentioned one of the X-ed girls: “Nathan. To a good friend who kept me up (April 12, Sunday morning) to 2:00 AM on Marilyn and her features. Lots of Luck. Bruce.” Had I seen this gem a year ago, I could have asked Nate a few questions.

None of us can know everything about somebody else, not even a long-term spouse. That’s because we’re good at covering things up, and we don’t necessarily even want to be fully known. But Scripture tells us God does know us fully, like it or not. It doesn’t affect what he feels about us, though, and what he feels is intense love.

Nothing we do surprises him or changes his mind about us. This is a huge relief, because it means we don’t have to play games or hide anything from him.

I’m sure young Nate hid his feelings about Marilyn and never let her know how enamored he was of her “features”. But all in all, it’s probably best that she never knew.

“God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” (Romans 5:8)