Struggling to Speak
I spent a lovely August morning working outdoors on a community project alongside a person I’d just met. We exchanged pleasantries and asked typical get to know you questions about each other’s work and families. It’s a scenario I avoided at all costs in the year after my husband died. I dreaded small talk that might lead to questions about my husband and bring me to tears in front of a stranger. Now, 32 months into widowhood, introductions that necessitate talk of death is well trodden territory. I’ve said the terrible words “died” and “widow” aloud often enough that I no longer choke on sorrow as I try to explain who I am.
So I was surprised that I couldn’t bring myself to say those words to the kind man working alongside me. Instead, I gave vague answers and hoped he wouldn’t press me for details. “Did you and your husband attend X event?” was met with an answer that completely avoided the fact that my husband was in a grave. “How long have you lived here?” was met with a response that implied my husband was indeed still living here. My husband seemed to randomly appear and disappear as I answered the man’s questions. I didn’t use the phrase “late husband” to signal that he is deceased. Instead, I let him try to put together a puzzle that sounded confusing even as I was speaking it. My life just doesn’t make much sense when I leave out my husband’s death.
I’m not sure why it felt so hard to speak of loss on that particular day. Maybe it was the fact that my family sounds broken and sad compared to his lovely (and very much alive) wife and 3 wonderful kids. Maybe I didn’t want our easy conversation to become awkward and stilted while we finished our work. Or maybe I just wanted to seem like a regular mom with a regular family - the kind with a living dad. A story that doesn’t shock strangers into an awkward silence or mumbled apologies.
It dawned on me that morning that the discomfort I have with my story might be here to stay. I write about grief openly online but talking about it in everyday life - at my kid’s sports game or with a stranger at the park - is another story. I want to hide behind a veneer of normalcy. I want to avoid pitying looks and being placed in the category of “other”.
Underneath it all, I suspect shame is at the root of my silence. I feel ashamed that suffering led to death and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I feel ashamed that our prayers weren’t answered and God allowed such deep sorrow instead. At times I feel afraid of being seen for who I really am: a person who has suffered much and lost greatly; a person who feels out of place in most spaces without my husband by my side.
I'm tempted to scold myself with “get your act together and just say your husband died! It’s been 32 months! You should handle this better by now!” But condemnation doesn’t remove shame and “from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace” (John 1:16). When I don’t have my act together and my grief isn’t progressing like I think it should I can either beat myself up or trust that God’s word is true and take my shame to the One who has seen every moment of my life and speaks grace over me. Instead of condemning me, He is full of compassion. Instead of chastising me when I’m weak and sorrowful, He gives me His strength (2 Corinthians 12:9).
The God who knows everything from the number of hairs in my head (Matthew 10:30) to the resentful selfish thoughts I sometimes had during my husband’s illness (Psalm 139:4) calls me worthy. The God who allowed suffering and sorrow into my life says I am His beloved (Romans 1:7). The gospel speaks grace over me. I am loved, even when I hide. I am known even when I don't want to be. The God who led me into hard places that left lasting scars is the same one who holds my hand as I clumsily navigate questions that I’m afraid will bring up a fountain of grief (Psalm 139:10). He looks at me with compassion. He remembers my frame - He knows that I am dust (Psalm 103:14).
I may always struggle to speak the truth of my loss with strangers. I might not handle my next conversation with a stranger well. But I can rest in my belovedness. I can let God use these moments that expose my wounded places to help me understand my heart. I can lean into His grace instead of shaming myself for not yet being “healed”.
Dear friend, you can lean into His grace too. God loves you the same on the days when you embrace your story and on the days when you fight with Him over the things He has allowed. His love for you is constant when you rest in who He says you are and when you cower in shame. You do not have to grieve perfectly or “widow perfectly” to earn His love. His love is unconditional; His love for you is secure.
Let’s let the truth of who God says we are drown out the condemnation in our heads. Yes, we might be struggling widows, but far more than that: we are loved.
In Christ Alone,
