A Grace Disguised
Pages 54, 55, and 56—Reflections
Page 54: I have often told myself, not always convincingly, that pain is a gift, a sure sign that we are alive. Only the dead feel no pain, and that includes dead people who, though still alive, have rejected love and goodness and sorrow for so long that they have lost the ability to feel anything.
It is hard to accept pain as a gift, especially the deep pains of love lost and a life taken seemingly earlier than what is just. I have unequivocally stated that were I to know in 2001—when I met Bridget—what I know now, I still would have married Bridget without hesitation. But, the process of living in grief, sadness, depression, and great responsibility grinds on the human spirit…or at least it grinded on me. I found it hard to love fully all those that I would have otherwise loved. I became more enamored with doing, completing, and checking the box than with soaking up the colors, textures, flavors, and scents of a person fully engaged in living. I became mostly head and little heart.
Page 55: What is true of the body is also true of the soul. The pain of loss is severe because the pleasure of life is so great; it demonstrates the supreme value of what is lost.
My soul has been battered and torn by the loss of Bridget. Like all people happily in a Godly, loving marriage, your expectation is for that to be rewarded by God. Surely God will defend our union over those of the heathens and abusers out there. I have questioned and fought with God. The pleasure and contentment of our marriage was good for my soul, it agreed with me. To lose that inexplicable comfort and contentment is painful.
Page 56: A recently divorced friend of mine started new projects, set new goals, and took on new responsibilities until his time and energy were completely absorbed by busyness. He, too, refused at first to face the loss.
This was me. In response to the death, my responsibilities as an only living parent, and as a guard against debilitating grief and protracted depression, I took on responsibilities. I’ve called them my “must dos.” These “must dos” were structured initially to insure against debilitating grief and protracted depression. However, they consumed me. They became my religion, my belief structure, my comfort in a time of weariness. I was productive, thus I am alive—not I am loving, thus I am alive. Some of my “must dos” fell off as time progressed and as I processed my grief day-by-day and week-by-week. However, my “must dos” were held firmly by me as mileposts that they were not removed. They have been blinders, to a degree, in my ability to see and face my grief and depression. And, these “must-dos” have brought upon me shame as I invariably feel like I fail at fulfilling all of them.
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