Updated: Mar 24, 2022
Bill was an usher at our church. Of course, he was much more than that: husband, father, grandfather, business owner, friend. But what I remember most about Bill is that he was an usher at our church.
If that seems too small of a way to characterize a man’s life, I’ll bring it down even more, to one encounter between Bill and me on a Sunday morning.
I was in the habit of arriving at church at the last possible moment and then leaving as fast as I could—usually during the closing prayer when everyone’s eyes were (supposed to be) closed. My grief was still new and I wasn't yet comfortable sitting alone in church. Plus, I desperately wanted to avoid the “How are you?” and “What can I do for you?” conversations that were sure to come in the lobby or the parking lot—mostly because I didn’t know how to answer.
The service was nearly over. The sermon had been preached, the announcements had been made, and now it was time to collect the offering. If the typical order of things was observed, this would be followed by the benediction, which was the optimal moment for me to make my aforementioned escape.
So, I’m sitting there waiting for Bill to make his way to my row and hand me the offering plate so I could then pass it along to the person sitting next to me. But Bill broke the usher's code. While handing me the plate, he stopped and put his hand on my shoulder. He left it there even after I passed the plate, so I looked up at him. When we locked eyes, he gave me a slight nod, then slipped his hand away and moved on.
That was it. A few seconds of silent comfort passed from friend to friend. A caring look. A gentle hand on the shoulder. One simple act of compassion on one typical Sunday morning . . . and I still feel it twenty-two years later.
Without saying a single word, Bill told me that he saw me, that he knew my heart was hurting, and that he cared.
Comfort doesn’t always need a grand or eloquent delivery. Sometimes a hand on the shoulder is all it takes.
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
To a friend on the first anniversary of his wife’s death . . .
Sadness is with you every day, but on days like this one it feels oppressive. You feel terminally incomplete.
As much as I want your pain to lift, we both know that’s not happening soon. I would even say that you don’t really want it to, because of what it says about the love you had for each other. You’re deeply mourning the death of the one you greatly loved. Your grief is posthumous love.
This is not to say you'll never laugh again, or that you'll never know love. Yet your life will never be the same. You are changing. Grief is shadowing you, but I hope you can think of it as an advisor rather than a tormentor, impressing you to hold on to this life a little less and to the next life a lot more. In this way, grief will make you wiser and stronger.
But you’re asking for help now, in these early months of adjustment when the pain is raw and you’re feeling disoriented. Your question takes me back to the time when I felt much the same as you do now and how God led me through it. Really, it came down to two thoughts: (1) Grief is a pit. (2) Gratitude is a rope.
I’d never felt so beat down as I did in January of 2000. After eleven months of disease and decline, my wife died. Three weeks after her funeral I had to rush my four-year-old son to the ER with severe respiratory distress. He nearly died.
I remember standing in the exam room thinking, Is this my life now? Am I going to live from catastrophe to catastrophe, from sadness to sadness? I wasn’t angry with God, but I was worried that I couldn’t survive the suffering He seemed intent on pouring out on us. The grief was too much, the load too heavy. Widower. Single dad. Worrier. Exhausted. Afraid. Barely hanging on.
I was in a pit.
I prayed. I read the Bible. I was sure God was present, but I didn’t understand what He was doing. This was new territory. Untamed and unsettled.
The Scriptures have long been important to me, so even in the pit I kept reading and listening for God to speak. I needed at least a glimmer of hope … and God began to give it through the words of Psalm 42:11—
Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God.
This message was personal. God was reassuring me that the heaviness would lift, that I wasn’t doomed to a life of tears and turmoil. He was giving me hope.
If God was lowering a rope into the pit, I was going to grab it. So, this is what I did: I started thanking Him for all sorts of things, big and small, everything that came to mind—that my wife died in her sleep, that my son didn’t die, that we had clothes to wear, food to eat, friends who cared, hot water, indoor plumbing, a good church, transportation, income, books, . . . If I thought of it, I thanked God for it. Right down to the pennies in the jar on my dresser.
For weeks, I would lay across the end of the bed at night—I couldn’t bring myself to get in it yet without her—and thank myself to sleep. They weren’t deep prayers of doctrine or high prayers of praise, they were more like sticky notes—simple expressions of gratitude for life’s basics. But they opened my heart to more and more hope. They kept me mindful that God is a giver and I am a receiver, and that His giving had not stopped.
I’d never expect you to be thankful for grief, but I hope you are able to start giving thanks in your grief. There is life outside of the pit. To be sure, it is a different life than you had before, but it is a life you cannot avoid and someday might actually enjoy.
But for now, just grab the rope.
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
Besides missing Niecie and trying to hold myself together, I was learning how to be a single parent. The kids were patient and as helpful as they could be, but they were dealing with their own pain. Loads of it. We were making progress as a changed family, but I was wearing down.
For one thing, I was sleep deprived. For the last several months of Niecie’s life, she required multiple breathing treatments throughout the night. And then, after she passed, sleep still only came to me in two- or three-hour stretches. All in all, I went over ten months without sleeping through the night.
In the fog of fatigue, I tried to adjust to being the lone parent—including the cooking, cleaning, shopping, planning, and errand running that came with it. (Single parents: I feel your pain.) Tiredness crept beyond the physical part of me into the emotional part. I’ve never second-guessed myself as much as I did in that first year. Am I doing enough for the kids? Are they eating okay? Did I put them in the right school? Are they being honest about how sad they are? Are they scared? Would they be better off if I had died and she had lived? My questions weren’t all rational, but losing my partner also meant losing my balance. It took a while to get it back.
And then there were the self-appointed advisors who kept reminding me that my kids really needed me and I should give them all of my attention. This was usually stated something like: “I know you’re sad about losing your wife, but your kids lost their mother. They need to know you’re okay and that they can depend on you.” Those words weren’t affirming at all and they rarely came with any offers of help. I remember thinking, I know my kids need me. My life revolves around them right now. I probably put twice the effort into parenting as you do.
That was petty of me I admit, and thank God I only said it inside my head and never out loud. But, good grief, I just needed a break.
Fortunately, Mike realized that and he made it happen.
Mike called one Friday evening and said, “You’ve got to get some down time. Your kids will be fine for a few hours without you.” He then invited me to his house the next afternoon to “just hang out and talk.”
He was right, of course. Anna, my oldest, was almost fourteen, and she was fully capable of taking care of her sisters and brother. So, I took Mike up on his offer. The following day, after lunch, I backed out of my driveway and headed to Mike’s house—without any passengers.
Mike was a single dad, too. He knew the challenges and the loneliness, so he was able to not only sympathize with me but also to empathize. And empathy compelled him to come alongside me. I actually felt some hope rising up inside me while sitting with Mike on his front porch that day.
Here’s my point in the form of a request: If you have it in you, be somebody’s Mike. Please. Don’t just feel empathy, do empathy. Be the person who is willing to relive some of your pain in order to share some of your strength.
A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.
—Proverbs 17:17
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.