“A MAN LIKE ME”

 

(The following is an article I wrote just a month or so after the passing of my wife of fifty-two years. I share it now to edify widowed folks.)

The above quote from C. S. Lewis's A Grief Observed struck me this morning:

 "Nothing will shake a man -- or at any rate a man like me -- out of his merely verbal thinking and his merely notional beliefs. He has to be knocked silly before he comes to his senses. Only torture will bring out the truth. Only under torture does he discover it himself."

 That phrase, "a man like me," highlights the fact that we are individuals, and so our experience of grief is personal. And what God is trying to do in each of our lives through our common loss, is unique.

 I some ways I'm a man like Lewis (though not nearly of his intellectual stature!). I enjoy study and I love to discover new things. I like to ponder the implications of what I discover. How should this influence or even change my life?

I try to approach the Bible as a new adventure every time I read it, attempting to enter into the historical setting in which each passage was given, feeling what the writer and his audience would have been feeling. Then I look for the underlying, universal principle that applies to my life in this technological 21st century.

Lewis, on the other hand, though half-Welsh as I am, does not seem to have been as emotional or even mystical as I am. He was also more philosophical, while I'm more concrete. In contrast to Lewis's self-assessment, my beliefs and my faith were never, to the extent that I know myself, merely "verbal" or "notional." What I firmly believe, I believe deeply. If I'm not willing to die for it, I don't claim it has a conviction--only as a theory yet to be confirmed.

 So what does all this have to do with the loss of my wife and Lewis's observation about his loss? My convictions have been tested to the core and continue to be tested in this first year of my bereavement. And I have discovered that I'm not "a man like" Lewis. Just days after my wife's passing, alone in this big empty house, I was overtaken with profound, agonizing grief, and I cried out loud to God in sobs and tears. What came out of my mouth surprised me: "Oh God! You are good! You are always good!" What surprised me even more when I reflected on it later was that I meant it from the heart. There was no one else to hear it but me and God. I knew in that moment of extreme trial that my faith was genuine. The Spirit of God was testifying with my spirit that I am a son of God. (Romans 8:16).

Our grief will certainly bring to light things about ourselves that we didn't know--or didn't want to know. And I have learned a lot about my skewed priorities and my selfish desires in these months. But I've been greatly encouraged regarding my relationship with my Lord by faith. "My anchor holds!"

 

OLD FRIENDS

 "Old friends. Memory brushes the same years.” (Paul Simon)

That line from Simon and Garfunkel’s song “Old Friends” tenderly expresses what makes those old friends so special, and why their loss is so painful: They are the joint custodians of our memories. We old folks like to talk, and we tend to repeat ourselves. We tell the same stories again and again to whomever will listen. We want to live those memories again, and it feels good to talk about them.

But as our old friends die off, our stories become quaint history to our younger friends. And they may view our repetition of them as signs of senility. The absence of a common history leaves us with a sense of isolation. We feel like we no longer belong.

“Preserve your memories,” Simon and Garfunkel sang. “They’re all that’s left you.” Maybe the fear of losing those memories plays a part in our repetition of them. We fear that all our experiences may fade into oblivion. It has been said that in a house fire what people want most to save is their photo albums. (But, of course, now they are digital images stored in some “cloud” out there!)

About four years ago, I lost a very good friend who had shared much of my spiritual journey. Even after he moved to another state, we would talk for hours on the phone. I miss him. And three years ago, I lost the only friend who knew everything about me: my wife of fifty-two years. The comfortable conversations we enjoyed can never be replaced.

Of course, I can have new experiences. But new experiences must be aged like wine to become memories. And if, “by reason of strength,” I still have enough years left to build new memories, what will become of the old, cherished ones?

Memories do fade, or they get distorted and confused with other memories. I learned that when I reread some of the journals I have kept for decades. Some events did not happen exactly as I thought they had. My dad, too, recounted  stories that could not have happened as he "remembered" them. Dad used to tell in vivid detail how his dad, a Welsh coal miner, was moved to tears by the movie, "How Green Was My Valley." The movie, however, came out in 1941, and Grandpa died in 1934! I suspect that it was Dad's older brother Howard who was so moved by the film, since Howard was like a father to Dad.

Like other precious things, our memories are fragile. I trust that my old memories, preserved in their original form, are stored up in heaven with my old friends. And soon we’ll have eternity to share them. Then, like the householder of the parable, we will bring out of our treasury “things new and old.” (Matthew 13:52 KJV)

THE HOUSE

I was thinking about the house I sold last year. It was the house where Linda and I lived for over nineteen years and shared many happy times. The poet Edgar A. Guest said it right: “It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home.” Linda and I did a heap of living there. We loved Michigan’s Upper Peninsula and its people.

Our first two grandchildren spent five summers with us, and they enjoyed our pool and exploring along the creek that bordered our property. I built a sandbox for them and painted their names on the sides. Not too many years later, when the boys had long outgrown sandboxes and the wood was rotting, I very sadly tore it down. That happy episode became a memory.

Then it was only Linda and me. We enjoyed walks along the Lake Huron beach, colorful autumn drives along the Lake Superior shore, visits to lighthouses, sailing on Caribou Lake, and sharing thoughts about anything and everything. That sharing I so treasured began to fade in October 2019. Our walks in the country became more silent. Linda’s mind seemed far away. Her cognitive functions deteriorated, gradually at first, but much more rapidly after her bout with pneumonia in late November. On January 19, 2020, she was gone.

So I ask myself now: How do I feel about that house? What does it represent for me? Do I feel nostalgia for it? Perhaps in time (if I have more time) I’ll feel differently, but my most powerful memory of that house is devastating loneliness. That house, the yard with its flower gardens Linda planted and the abandoned vegetable garden Linda tended so diligently, are all testimonies to her absence. Emptiness best describes my final two years in that house.

So I can and must move on. Hope lies ahead—ultimately in heaven.

SINGING OUT OUR GRIEF . . . AND RELIEF

 Of the several books I read during my first painful year of widowhood, one written specifically for widowers mentioned various ways men, in particular, deal with their grief. Singing was one. The author mentioned songs that were written by grieving widowers that helped them cope.

It will surprise a lot of people to learn that only one song in 1968 sold more copies than the Beatles’ “Hey, Jude”: That song was “Honey (I miss you),” made popular by Bobby Goldsborough. Yet the song, written by Nashville song writer Bobby Russell, was inspired by a growing tree outside his window. Some song writers have such empathy that they can beautifully express the feelings of others, and “Honey” touched hearts worldwide, selling a million copies in only five weeks. It also gave widowers—who are reluctant to cry—a needed outlet for tears.

Another popular song released two years later, poetically described the real grief of singer/songwriter James Taylor. The song “Fire and Rain” was better received by cynical critics who considered “Honey” oversentimental and cloying. (Being unbelievers, the critics undoubtedly cringed at the mention of angels!) Taylor’s song, on the other hand, let everyone see in the lyrics their own heartaches, whatever they might be. But the backstory reveals that it was the loss of a beloved mate that prompted the song.

Taylor was in a recording session in London, sharing a studio with the Beatles, when a phone call brought news that Taylor’s long-time girlfriend had committed suicide. John Lennon advised withholding the news until the next day so Taylor could finish his recording session. After the news reached Taylor, he began working out his grief through a song. Knowing the story of Taylor’s grief brings new meaning to the lyrics.

The parents of Taylor’s girlfriend had put her into a drug rehab facility which she dreaded. Taylor blamed the suicide on that decision. Those “plans” put an end to her, in Taylor’s mind.

“Just yesterday morning they let me know you were gone.
Susan, the plans they made put an end to you.”

The song goes on to lament all the lost dreams that ended up “in pieces on the ground” when his loved one was lost. Though it’s a common experience to be “walking . . . through an easy time” with our “back turned toward the sun,” just to be blasted with that “cold wind” that “turn[s] your head around,” to the widowed person, it has special meaning, a meaning that only another widowed person can fully understand.  (See Taylor interview: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=15xiQxLAnd4&t=266s)

The song that gripped me most deeply in the early weeks of widowhood was “I Can Wait Forever,” popularized by Air Supply. I had listened to the CD album many times and found it relaxing. I had never paid attention to the words until I found myself alone and the woman I had spent most of my life with was in heaven. What was she thinking now? Was she thinking of me at all? The ethereal bridge to the song brought me down to sobs and profuse tears: “Where are you now? Alone with the thoughts we share. Keep them strong somehow, for you know I’ll always be there.”

I knew where Linda was. Her Lord Jesus Christ had secured her home in heaven. But I was still down here. And at that time, I almost lamented the fact that I was healthy! My father had lived to be ninety, and I dreaded a possible seventeen more years of loneliness.

What helped me retain my sanity was that I also knew that God had a reason for my being here on earth awhile longer. Joshua 14:10 became my anchor: “And now, behold, the LORD has kept me alive . . .” He still has a mission for me. As He had a purpose for old Caleb, He had a purpose for old Tom.

I am grateful that God brought me a new helper and companion, a godly woman with whom I can serve the Lord in this last chapter. And now I’m singing a song more fitting to this stage of my life: 

“And the older I get, the more thankful I feel

For the life I've had, and all the life I'm living still."

THE THOUGHTS WE SHARE

 For some of us, particularly those who had a long, happy marriage, remarriage doesn’t automatically end widowhood. It does end the loneliness. It ends the singleness, that odd, uncomfortable, foreign condition I had not known for over a half-century. But remarriage doesn’t erase a life, a life full of shared memories, emotions, struggles and victories.

A song by Air Supply came to mind the other day, and I listened again to those lyrics that drenched my face with tears just weeks after Linda died: “I Can Wait Forever.” For a time, I imagined that I could actually “live my life alone with [her],” paradoxical as that was. Like the “defective detective” Adrian Monk, I kept wearing my wedding ring. But I came to see that as unrealistic, even unhealthy, for a man like me. Linda and I had vowed “till death do us part,” and to my great sorry, that parting had happened. And God had chosen for me to remain and go on without her.

Going on alone was the most painful thought I had at that point. Loneliness drained the life out of me. I never got a full night’s sleep and I wandered aimlessly during the day. True to the statistics for widowers, I had major surgery within a few months after my loss. Aggravating my loneliness, no family member took the time to take me to the hospital. A good friend did.

Since my dad (who didn’t take care of his health) lived to be 90, I was faced with the distressing thought that I could live 17 more years with that crushing loneliness. I began to pray God would bring someone into my life who could lift me up and give me new purpose. He did that. From across the ocean, He brought a mature Christian widow into my life, a woman with shared beliefs and religious background, and most importantly, a commitment to serving the Lord.

So the new life has begun. What, then, is left of widowhood? Some things that were lost can never be recovered this side of heaven. A line in that Air Supply song—nearly buried in that ethereal bridge—stirred emotions again:

“Where are you now?
Alone, with the thoughts we share.
Keep them strong somehow
And you know, I'll always be there…”

"The thoughts we share." Yes. But we can no longer share them. She has them there in heaven, and I have them here on earth, and no one else can understand. It has been said that one of the major losses in widowhood is the loss of one’s history. Only two people in this universe—other than God—know the in-jokes, the favorite song lines,  the funny things, the touching moments in our lives, as well as the trials we endured.

That aspect of widowhood doesn’t change. But new memories and new shared thoughts can be built. That takes time, though, and at my age I can’t expect to accumulate as many memories as I did with Linda. But each new shared memory is precious. And I’m grateful for a wife who loves me and expresses it freely. And as that same song also says, “You took my love and gave it somewhere to belong.” That was my aching need.  

LYRICS THAT HURT

I'm not so far out of my widowhood that I don't remember those triggers of grief that struck without warning. A lyric from a song could be a dagger to the heart, whether the song was about bereavement or not.

I learned during my widowhood that James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" was about the death of his girlfriend. Every lyric in that song took on new meaning for me during my widowhood, especially that line: "I always thought that I'd see you again." But Taylor's song "It Used to be Her Town," dealing with the tragedy of divorce, also squeezed my bereaved heart when I heard, "Well, people had gotten used to seeing them both together. But now he's gone and life goes on; nothing lasts forever." It became in my heart, "Now she's gone," and I cried. I remember how isolated I felt taking walks or eating alone in a restaurant or attending church. I felt like I was walking through a thick fog of pity, an odd character with whom people didn't know how to relate.

Singer/songwriter Jewel probably didn't imagine that her song, "You Were Meant for Me," also describes the pain a widowed person feels going through the ordinary tasks of the day--alone:

I hear the clock, it's six a.m.
I feel so far from where I've been
I got my eggs, I got my pancakes too
I got my maple syrup, everything but you . . . .

I brush my teeth, I put the cap back on
I know you hate it when I leave the light on
I pick a book up, and then I turn the sheets down
And then I take a deep breath and a good look around

Put on my pj's and hop into bed
I'm half alive, but I feel mostly dead
I-I try and tell myself it'll all be alright
I just shouldn't think anymore tonight 'cause

The most painful song of my widowhood was Air Supply's "I Can Wait Forever." The mournful lyrics and melody expressed my pain during the first couple weeks after Linda's death. What do I do now? How can I go on with out her? I wept and sobbed and the sentiment of that song gripped me for a couple of weeks:

"I can wait forever,

If I know you'll be there, too.

I can wait forever if you will.

I know it's worth it all

To live my life alone with you.

In the depths of my grief, that sentiment made strange sense to me. I'll live my life alone, I decided, and--paradoxically--with her. Living a memory. Living a mystical presence.

But I soon realized, as I lay in my empty bed each night and sat alone for meals, that I was alone without her. I saw my decision as unhealthy, as unhealthy as "the defective detective" Adrian Monk, who continued to wear his wedding ring and insist, years after his wife's death, that he was married. That's when I began to pray for another mate.

That Air Supply song does not hurt like it did then. I have someone else with whom to share my life, someone whom God had prepared for this stage of my life, someone who could help me finish my course with joy.

All those songs, and many more, have lost their sharp edge for me, but I listen to them now with empathy for those who have lost a spouse. I hope I never lose that. My wounds have healed. My widowed friends have helped heal them, and I pray I can continue to offer a healing balm to those still suffering.

TILL DEATH

 This morning I was musing over how strange it feels to be starting a new married life after so many years and so many experiences with my first wife. I can relate to what missionary Adoniram Judson wrote after marrying for the third time: “I seem to have lived in several worlds, but you are the earthly sun that illuminates my present.”

 Judson was the kind of man who needed a wife. He was unabashedly romantic, exalting “conjugal love” as our first “duty” of earthly love. “Happy those,” he wrote Emily, “who find that duty and pleasure coincide.”

 Judson was 24 when he married the lovely Ann Hasseltine, affectionately known as Nancy. They sailed off to Burma that same year where they served under great hardship for 14 years until Nancy’s death at age 36. Adoniram suffered as a widower for eight years. I know he suffered because I know what it is like to feel the need for the companionship of a wife and to be deprived of it.

 Love came again when he married Sarah Boardman, the widow of his co-worker George Boardman. His expressions of love for Sarah reflect a love like no other. It diminished in no way his love for Nancy. But Nancy was gone, her remains buried under a hopia tree in Burma. Adoniram and Sarah would serve and love for the next eleven years until her death in 1845.

 The death of Sarah hit Judson as hard as the death of Nancy had, yet the very next year, at age 58 (a “senior citizen” back then) he married Emily Chubbuck, “scarcely more than half his age,” the critics scorned. Yet she served with him in Burma until his death four years later. Her literary skills were of great value at that stage of the ministry. What's more, she gave birth to four children by Judson!

 Adoniram Judson’s marital history stands in stark contrast to that of many Americans today, especially those in show business! In Wikipedia we read:

 Spouse(s)

Ann Hasseltine, 1812-26 (her death)

 Sarah Boardman, 1834-45 (her death)

 Emily Chubbuck. 1846-50 (his death)

Death is an agonizing end to a marriage, but it is an end. The relationship will be, must be, forever different. The brilliant and godly Adoniram Judson understood that. He understood that as long as God ordained that we remain on this earth, life and service and love must go on—till death us do part.