Letter to a Friend in Grief

I just find grieving so unpredictable. Does it get easier? Today I awoke and went over to George’s dresser and opened the top drawer. I began to see items that I remember and the tears just flowed. I know you told me you lost your wife three years ago so I knew you could understand.

I don’t know that it gets easier, but it does slow down. I suppose it gets easier too. I remember wanting it to get easier and even to go away, but at the same time, I was afraid of it getting easier because I was afraid if it did, I would forget her. I was terrified that I would forget.

At first, when I saw something that reminded me of her, I would wonder when she was going to come home. It was like she was visiting her parents in California. But instantly I would remember that she wasn’t going to come home. In fact, she was home—her real home. That helped me to not be too sad. She is with the angels, singing and praising and playing with our baby that died in a miscarriage and our other friends who went before her. And she isn’t in pain anymore. That’s pretty huge in all this. Did I tell you she died of stomach cancer? I’m not sure how much pain she was in, but I know that with all the chemo and neuropathy she wasn’t very comfortable, and the illness and “cure” were very embarrassing and humbling.

Even now, when I see a picture of her I think, “Oh, there she is. I wonder how she is doing.” I ask God to tell her things all the time. I don’t know if he does, or if she even cares. I assume she is pretty busy doing whatever you do in glory.

Overall, I think the most help is that when I remember her, I lift her up to God and thank him for letting me live with her and her with me. I thank him for our glorious and wonderful daughter and for being gracious that she is more like her mother than like me. I thank him that our daughter is godly, smart, beautiful, and likes me.

I also think it is good to just cry when it hits you. There’s nothing you can do anyway. So, just let it rip. On the other hand, for me at least, I noticed that most of my grief was/is very self-centered. It was all about what I missed, didn’t have, wanted, needed, and even did have (she loved mowing the lawn—I don’t). But this isn’t about her, it’s about me and that isn’t good.

I think we grieve over and about anything we lose, and good grief is about the loss. It just happens because we have lost something important to us. But if we let it get self-focused, it gets sinful. For me, to remember this is helpful in the moment.

This all helps me to refocus and remember that Eileen loved Jesus, I love Jesus, and more than either of these two things, Jesus loves us both way more than either of us love him or one another. And Jesus decided he wanted her with him more than he wanted her with me. And that’s good because he’s good. And this is a really good opportunity for joy to shine out.

My definition of joy: Joy is the physical/emotional response you have when you remember that God, the glorious, loving, merciful and rejoicing God has you right where he wants you, in exactly the situation that is best for you and most glorious for him…and it is good.

The Joy of the Lord is our strength (Neh 8:10) and this strength will show itself as you use the memory of George to cause you to climb up into the lap of God and rejoice there. Don’t deny missing him. Don’t deny being angry with God because he took George. Don’t not be sad. Don’t feel bad about being lonely. Don’t feel bad about not doing things you used to do. Don’t feel bad about doing new things. In fact, do new things. In all of this, take everything to Jesus and give it all to him. Tell him about how you feel and what you think. Talk to him, yell at him, cry with him. He knows what you are going through. He knows sorrow and suffering. He is good and he loves you. And despite the pain, rejoice in the Lord. He knows what he’s doing.