When Firsts Are Lasts

Posted on by

During the 11 months since Nate’s death, we’ve been pacing through scores of first-time-without-him events. Everyone says once we’ve passed the year-mark, grieving will lessen significantly. I hope so, although the thought of a future graduation or wedding without Nate makes me grimace.

These days we’re going through the last of our firsts, with November 7 marking the end. That day will be the one year mark of Nate’s funeral. Last October was torture as we watched him slip away; logic tells us this October should be less painful. Not necessarily.

Back then we lived on continual red-alert, anxious about possible falls, stressing about meds, agonizing over Nate’s increasing pain. We put one foot in front of the other hour after hour, day after day, focusing on the must-be-dones. No one noticed an absence of down time. We were numb.

Now the protection of numbness is gone. We’re feeling everything for real and with full impact. During the days of Nate’s cancer, there wasn’t much chance to cry, but we’ve wept buckets since then. My hope is the weeping will end when the firsts do.

One of my college friends, Junior, is just beginning a grieving period of her own. She’s starting through her ”lasts”. After decades of joyful service as the pastor of a large Washington DC church, she’s retiring next year and has related how sad she’ll be to preach her last sermon, conduct her last communion service, counsel her last parishioner.

The different count-downs, ours of firsts and hers of lasts, are similar in many ways. Both involve grief and pain, and both predict radically changed futures.

The Hospice people, compassionate to the max, have sent us encouraging words every month since Nate died. Their letters have helped our understanding of grief. Here’s a quote:

“We learn a great deal by going through grief. We may become more perceptive, more aware, more determined… We may rearrange our priorities, and our lives may become more focused.”

When we say goodbye to something or someone we love, whether by choice (Junior’s) or not (ours), we’re forced to change. Everything around us shifts, and so must we.

My role went from wife to widow, someone with a partner to a woman alone. Junior’s role will change from pastor to parishioner. If either of us tried to hang onto our former roles after the shift occurred, life would set us aside. Like it or not, we both have to redefine ourselves. It reminds me of a pilot who continually reorients himself in the sky, checking and correcting his course.

Although I loved my role as a wife and Junior hers as a pastor, both of us are in the process of letting go of those images. God is traveling with us though, giving us each a hand. We both expect he’ll reveal new facets to our lives we never knew about. He may equip us for fresh categories of service. We may gain new strength and daring we didn’t have before. Our worlds are changing, and we are, too.

The lasts of a pastor and the firsts of a widow can give birth to priceless new beginnings, because out of grief comes new understanding and new resolve.

“The God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast.” (1 Peter 5:10)

Diamonds among the Pebbles

Posted on by

Nate led a healthy life. He didn’t have a relationship with a general physician and took no prescription drugs. Except for bunion surgery, he was blessed with flawless well-being until his sixties, but then several things popped up simultaneously: colon polyps, skewed prostate numbers and lower back pain. He faithfully followed medical instructions, after which problems #1 and #2 disappeared. He was in the process of tackling problem #3 when cancer arrived, and no one could offer a remedy for that.

Nate knew how fortunate he was to experience six decades of good health and felt sincere sympathy for friends who underwent physical suffering. When his own health received a terminal blow, he knew it would crush him physically but refused to let it crush him emotionally. He understood there was nothing he could have done to prevent it and didn’t spend one minute bemoaning his assignment. Instead he moved into it with a mind-set of determination. As his physical vigor diminished, his emotional vitality remained stable.

Lately I’ve been thinking about my own health. Just like Nate, I recognize the tremendous, unearned blessing of a disease-free life. Except for minor issues here and there, I’ve had nothing to complain about. Watching my husband go through his calamity taught me a great deal about how to weather my own storm, whenever it comes.

At some point good health will end. Short of a sudden accident, I’ll one day be sitting in a doctor’s office receiving bad news. It’s logical and inevitable. When that moment arrives, whether later or sooner, I hope God taps me on the shoulder with two reminders: (1) to accept the news as Nate did, and (2) to refrain from asking, “Why me?”

Learning of a serious health crisis will make both of those reminders difficult to follow. But having watched Nate’s example up close gives me assurance I’ll be able to succeed, too. When my bad news comes, I hope I’ll have a lightning response to turn toward God before anguish gets a grip on me. As the Great Physician, the Lord still makes house calls and comes armed with a doctor’s bag chuck full of remedies for fear and despair.

Although he doesn’t often perform miraculous physical healings these days, he does faithfully rescue from hopelessness. I see God as a loving doctor who eagerly awaits our call so he can minister spectacular help. He delights in racing toward us to sprinkle the treasure of comfort over our misery like diamonds sprinkled among common pebbles. But if we aren’t looking, we can miss them. When we find them, they’ll utterly dazzle us.

Ultimately God will use the power behind his promises to fix every physical problem, but we won’t experience it until the moment when it seems illness has conquered. Just when death readies to roar with victory, exactly then we’ll be gloriously healed!

“By his wounds we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5b)

Hurry up and change.

Posted on by

When I was in 6th grade, Marjie Simmons was my best friend. One school day we were outside during recess when she said, “Something bad’s gonna happen.”

“What?” I said.

“We have to move.”

I was speechless. Marjie told me she wouldn’t be going to 7th grade with me, because she’d be living hundreds of miles away. This was devastating. When I told Mom, she kindly sympathized, but Dad said, “What’s all the fuss about? Before long you’ll forget all about her.”

My eleven-year-old heart was broken, because in my mind Marjie would always be #1. The thought of forgetting her was beyond comprehension. Dad’s comment bothered me for a long time, but of course he hadn’t meant any harm. What he did mean was that the sadness of Marjie’s departure wouldn’t last long, since other girlfriends would take her place. Although he hadn’t spoken with much tact, he was right.

I often wonder about Marjie. Where is she now? What has her life been like? Marjie probably moved away from our friendship as fast as I did, because children go through life changes like water through a funnel. They’re not the only ones changing, though. We adults change, too, which is good. The opposite would be sluggishness and eventually stagnation, and no one wants those.

A child’s goals are reachable: learning to walk, tying a bow, writing a name. Later it’s a little more work: conquering a sport, getting a license, buying a car. Once the childhood goals are met, things get downright complicated: choosing a career, finding a mate, conquering a bad habit. And every bit of it is change requiring growth.

Underneath the constant changing ought to be a quest for growth of intangible but lasting value: a desire to help someone in need, love the unlovable, explore a relationship with God.

My sister Mary and I once had a talk about our prayer lives. Comparing ourselves to Mom, who prayed a great deal, we were pathetic. We rode on her coattails for years. But God convicted both of us, and eventually we responded to his prayer invitation.

Then Mom died. We found ourselves wondering who would fill the prayer-void Mom left behind, especially in reference to requests made for our families.

“Maybe that’s us?” I said.

“And we got there just in time,” Mary added.

Although that change was long in coming, it’s one example of adult growth. We all have change-choice options. I should always be asking, “How can I do better? Where can I grow? What does God want me to do?” To follow his lead is to avoid a stall or stagnation.

Marjie Simmons and I quickly grew apart as kids, exactly as Dad had predicted. If we met again, it’s probable we both would have changed radically since our days together in 6th grade. But all that change might just be good enough to bring us together as brand new friends.

Hmmm. I wonder if I could find Marjie on Facebook…

”We ask God to give you complete knowledge of his will and to give you spiritual wisdom and understanding. Then… you will grow as you learn to know God better and better.” (Colossians 1:9b-10)