Letter to God - I'm Here

Dear God –

Nearly two weeks after my wife passed away this isn’t what I expected.

I expected to have times of intense grief.  I prepared to be overwhelmed every time I thought of Shannon.  I was a bit concerned that I wouldn’t be able to function very well.  Even though I’ve intentionally spent time remembering Shannon (spending most evenings opening sympathy cards), that hasn’t been the case.  There have only been a few moments of tears.

I thought I would have many thoughts connecting Shannon with the readings from Revelation I heard at the funeral, moments of contemplating her with that heavenly choir conquering death.   I’ve done this with my mom Edee for most of my life.  Somehow my brain can’t wrap itself around the fact that Shannon is there.  It doesn’t seem real.

I thought I would constantly forget that she wasn’t in the house with me, that I’d always think I had her to talk to, that I’d feel her presence.  I haven’t.  It’s been pretty obvious that it’s just Ben and me. 

I part of me expected that I’d energetically move on.  After weeks (and years) of taking time to care for Shannon with her many health needs I’m free to go out on new ventures.  I was a bit concerned that I’d just move on and forget to grieve.  There have been moments when it’s felt like a weight has lifted, but overall I’ve lacked much energy.  Right now the future seems a bit overwhelming.  There are exciting aspects of it, but it’ll be a lot of work to get there.

I want to enthusiastically embrace the love that people have shown for me through cards and conversations.  In some ways it’s been great to know that we’re not alone.  In other times, as Ben mentioned last night, “I just want to live life and not have people always remind me that I should be grieving.  I want to remember mom, not her death.”  People seem to expect an intense response when checking in with me.  I guess I haven’t had the intensity to give.

It’s hard to explain.  My emotions have been numb.  They don’t get high or low.  When people ask, “How are you?” my reply is quite truthful: “I’m here.”  That’s about all I can say.  God, I want to feel swaddled in your love.  Frankly, I don’t.  I feared that I would feel distant and angry with You.  I don’t.  I’m not filled with great hope or overwhelmed with deep despair.

Today, I’m here.  That’s about all I can say.  I pray that You are here too.

Letter to God - A Glimpse of the Sunshine

Dear God,

Slowly but surely a light is shining in my soul. 

It’s been a soul crushing week.  I will never forget the suffering that Shannon endured in those last days, her chapped lips a testament to the desperate thirst she felt.  Her stomach couldn’t handle the fluids she craved.  I will never forget her frail body struggling with those last breaths or how tiny she looked as the mortician carried her out the front door.  I will never forget the utter pain and loneliness that I experienced in those hours and days. 

God, you found ways to break into my darkness.  At the visitation, after the initial surge of emotion at seeing her body, you brought me wave after wave of people showing your love over me and my family.  I walked away exhausted but surrounded in care.  The funeral brought your words of hope, expressed through song, liturgy, and proclamation.  I received the reminder of your victory over death, of your love which can never be taken from us, of the community of the saints that Shannon now lives with.  “They will thirst no more.”  I will never hear those words the same again.  The entire service proclaimed your love and power.  Thank you.

The commendation nearly did me in.  It felt like a final good-bye, entrusting Shannon to your loving arms.  Ben and I stood embracing each other giving that last farewell.  Tears flooded over me then and still fill my eyes just thinking about it.  Shannon is gone from this earth.  She rests in your care.  Nothing will change that.

As a pastor I’ve always told families about the blessing of the funeral lunch.  On Wednesday I experienced it myself.  After the agony of the funeral it became a step in healing.  We told stories of Shannon’s life.  As Ben said afterwards, “I’ve never hugged so many people in my life.”  Again, your love flowed through the support of so many people who came to be with us.  Thank you.

Yesterday I woke up to the first day of the rest of my life.  For the first time in weeks Ben and I had the house to ourselves.  I puttered on projects.  I cleaned my desk.  I went for a 5 mile run.  God, yesterday hope started to shine once again.  For years every time Shannon would go on a new chemo regimen we would have to figure out what the ‘new normal’ would be.  It’s time to find that new normal for myself. 

Yesterday felt like a weight had been taken from my shoulders.  It began to dawn on me how much work it’s been to be the primary caregiver for someone with cancer.  On the spur of the moment I called a friend to get together for a beer.  I invited someone to come over to watch a football game on Saturday.  These are things I haven’t been able to do in a very long time.  I’m growing excited for the future.

Yet as I explained this new hope to my friend over that delicious beer I found the tears were right below the surface.  It’s going to be a long journey to find that new normal.  I’ll miss Shannon terribly.

But for now, Lord, I give thanks for moments of peace.  My faith has always focused on your power to conquer death.  You have done it once again!  I pray that in the emotional roller coaster ahead you would continue to bring a glimpse of your sunshine.

Letter to God - In the Pain

Dear God,

I would have thought I would be ready for this.

For 11 ½ years I have known that the cancer would eventually take her life.  For the past five weeks as she enjoyed the care of hospice I have known that her time had come near.  Together we wrote her obituary, planned the funeral, and even went on a road trip so she could see the church and funeral chapel where the funeral and visitation would be held.  You would have thought I’d be ready.

I’m not.  

Someone came to the door the other day and I nearly said, “Hang on, let me get Shannon.”  A woodpecker decided to come perch on our deck door and I almost yelled down the hall for her to come and see.  God, I can’t believe she is gone.  My brain somehow knows it but by whole being wants to wake from this bad dream and have her sitting by my side once again.

I thought I’d prepared things, but nothing prepared me for the utter pain in my soul.  Thoughts keep flooding my mind, thoughts of things I will never do with Shannon again: walking in the woods (hand in hand), planning the next venture for her business, watching our son run a race, enjoy her karaoke set-up, the list could go on and on.   God, I loved her so much.  How can she be gone?  How can it be that I will live the rest of my days without my best friend? 

I’m trying to cling to words of hope.  I know that she rests in your arms now, but I want her in mine.   I don’t want any of this to be happening. 

I know that tonight at the visitation and tomorrow at the funeral you will surround me with your love through the arms of many, many people.  As a pastor I’ve walked with many families through this dark journey.  This path is different.  It’s my own.  Words can’t describe how hard this is. 

On Sunday I lost my wife.  Ben lost his mother.  Life will not be the same.  God, I reach into the darkness, hoping and praying that you are there, clinging to your promises.  

Pete

Today's Prayer - At a Loss for Words

Dear God-

Some days I come to you and know exactly what I’m asking for.  Today is not one of those days.

For 11 ½ years I have prayed that you would heal my wife from cancer.  I rejoiced with you when the treatments worked well and she felt good.  I lamented when the cancer grew and she felt lousy.   Her health always hit the top of my prayer list.

Now, over a month into hospice, I don’t have any idea what to pray for anymore.  

A part of me wants as much time with her as I can get.  We’ve had the blessing of some wonderful time together in these past weeks.  We’ve been able to plan the funeral, write the obituary, and think together about what life will be like for me after she is gone.  It’s been a blessing and I thank you for that.  A part of me prays for more days…more conversations…more love.

But another part of me struggles to see her body wasting away.  Eating is nearly impossible.  She can barely even drink without throwing up even though she’s incredibly thirsty.  She has lost so much weight that she is down to skin and bones.  The pain is growing again so we’re increasing the medications to take care of it.  She sleeps most of the time.  God, it’s hard to watch someone you love struggle so much.  Last Sunday in worship there was a focus on lamenting and we had the opportunity to write prayers on the wall.  I found myself writing, “Come sweet death.”  

See what I mean?  These requests don’t fit together.  I want Shannon to be at peace.  I want all this suffering to end.   I want to have as many days with her as I can.  

So this morning I come in prayer, not knowing what to say.  I guess it’s not a day to ask for anything.    For today, these verses from Romans 8 will have to suffice:

Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.

Holy Spirit, intercede for me today.  I’m at a loss.

Pete

Letter to God - A Morning of Hope

Dear God -

This morning I woke up with a strong sense of peace.  I can't explain it.  My wife has a short time
(days...weeks) to live.  The cancer ravages her body and she has barely eaten in days.  I watch her grow weak before my eyes.  Yet, strangely, this morning I have words of praise on my lips.

A week ago Shannon was in the hospital and I thought the end had come near.  She was in extreme pain and couldn't keep anything down.  They drugged her up to get it all under control which made her pretty loopy.  I wondered if I would ever have a normal conversation with her again.  I had to tell the doctors to give her a 'Do Not Resuscitate' arm band.  My soul ached.

But then things improved.  They got the medications under control.  She started thinking clearly.  We've able to talk and make plans.  We're getting details for the funeral pinned down and her obituary written.  She has chosen the clothes she wants to have on in the casket.  This morning she excitedly peeled the garlic for some salsa I'm making.

Yesterday we went to Rochester so she could see Good Shepherd Lutheran, the church where the funeral will be held (we are members at People of Hope which is nowhere near large enough to hold her funeral).  Shannon had never seen the church before and she was pleased with what she saw.  We then went to the funeral home so she could see the chapel where the visitation will be held and she marveled at the stained glass windows.  I assumed these would be highly emotionally charged things.  They were not.

I'm trying to figure this out.  I've had many times where the tears flowed, but for now life seems good.  Shannon is still feisty but knows that her days are short.  We're taking each of them as a gift.

I suppose the initial shock of hearing 'Your wife has a short time to live' has worn off.  We're living in the daily reality of her mortality.  What had seemed overwhelming now seems normal.

Yesterday someone dropped off some cleaning supplies with a note that included this verse from Romans 8:
If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.

 God, I know that much grief lies ahead, but for now I'll just revel in that promise.  Whether Shannon lives or dies, she is the Yours.  I am Yours.  Ben is Yours.  Thank you for the peace and hope.

Another Letter to God - A Little Hope

Good morning, God,

It’s me again.  Remember me?

This morning I did something that seemed quite normal.  I woke up, opened my book of daily Bible readings, and reflected on a few verses.  As I’ve done most of this year, I looked for some words that stood out (today it was ‘set you free’ from Romans 8:1-5).  My aim has been to have these words percolate throughout the day.  In some ways, just another morning devotion.  I muttered a few words of prayer.  A little time spent with you.  Not that amazing, really.

The bookmark in the book opened to September 11^th, a day that for me will always be ‘ the day my wife Shannon was told she didn’t have long to live.’  Since that day I’ve had little interest in sitting with you for a morning devotion.  I have known that you remained by my side but I haven’t felt like engaging in a conversation.  I’ve attended worship but have felt like I was just going through the motions. 

God, I admit that the last two weeks have very self-focused.  I’m wrapped up in caring for Shannon, a task which I do with relish.  She’s a wonderful woman and I have nothing else I’d rather do, but being in charge of someone whose health is failing takes a toll!   I'm sleeping in a cot in her hospital room.  I’m coordinating a visiting schedule so Shannon doesn’t get overwhelmed with people.  I’m planning a funeral, I’m making sure that her business continues smoothly, I’m trying to get exercise (to keep sane), I’m wondering what life will be like as a single man, especially once Ben goes off to college.  It’s about me.  Things have turned inward.

This morning, as I woke up and lay there thinking (something that happens around 4 or 5 am every day…it’d be nice to get a full night of sleep for a change), my thoughts shifted to Shannon.  What must life be like to be standing at the brink of death?  Here I am thinking and making plans for the future.  She will never see that future.  Her future is with you, not me.

As you know, my faith has always centered around this hope.  From the moment of my mom’s funeral when I was a mere seven years old I have clung to the resurrection with my whole being.  Now that hope is for Shannon.  It’s the only hope we have.  She’s eating and drinking little.  She’s losing weight and energy.  No matter how hard we try to keep her strong our options are limited.  God, your options are not.  I’m not going to beg and plead for a miracle.  I know all too well that death is a part of life.  Shannon will die, but in you she will rise.  She will life with the glorious saints.  I won’t pretend to understand what that looks like, but I do trust that you have it all under control.

So, for this one morning, I’m reaching out to you.  I’m trusting in your faithfulness.   I know that Shannon will be ‘set free.’   Tomorrow the cares of this world may again overwhelm me, but right now your resurrection floods my soul.  Thank you for that.