Gifts Inside Grief

Touching Walls

I celebrated my granddaughter's ninth birthday in Virginia last week for six days. It was my first trip as a widower— such a weird label that I would never have chosen for myself. No one would.

Life happens, and when we inhabit a broken world, we inherit brokenness, or we run into it all the time. Sometimes, it runs us over, and those consequences are the toughest to deal with. There are no guarantees in this life on earth.

Those who live in America in the twenty-first century are living in Disneyland compared to the rest of this rock we live on. Not that life is perfect here— it certainly isn't— but we have benefits that many do not enjoy. We also have storage sheds full of distractions, and these can blind us to the truth that reality is harsh.

Connie and I would joke that if I could make it to 98 and she could make 96, we could celebrate 80 years of marriage. We counted on our good genes and thought it possible. Dreams are good. Laughs are just as important.

The walls in our home have heard many stories, watched tears fall and fights develop, and listened in on our prayers and praise. What these walls have echoed most over the last twenty-four years is laughter. We enjoyed one another's company, along with our kids and grand kids. If you came over for a visit, you could put your hand on the wall and feel life reverberating, retelling stories of hope and sunshine.

When I walked in on Wednesday evening, it was cold inside— I set the furnace to 53 before I left, and it was snowing outside. The realization of her absence slammed into my heart like a cold fist and drove me to my knees. It was a good, long cry that ended up changing my perspective.

I am so grateful to God that I married my high school sweetheart, and by His grace, we stayed together for over 43 years. I miss her— that didn't change. But now I am convinced that she is filling the walls of heaven with infectious laughter and joy— the joy of an adopted daughter coming home. While I want her to be here with me, I don't wish for that— she is just fine in her new house, laughing with Jesus— while my hands are touching these walls again.

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