Dear God,
The journey of grief continues.
For over twenty years Shannon and I had a wonderful life. We
raised our son together. We built a business together. We played games
together. We laughed and cried together. We shared faith together. For her last
11 years we endured cancer treatments together. I look back and recognize the
blessed life that we lived. I would not have had it any other way. Thank you
God.
How life has changed! Now, Danielle and I have a wonderful
life together. We ‘raise’ two Springer Spaniels together. We enjoy being with
my son Ben together. We go camping and skiing together. We laugh and cry
together. We share faith together. I recognize the blessed life that we live. I
don’t want it any other way. Thank you God.
God, it can seem very linear, as if one thing ended so
another could start, but it’s not that simple. My life with Shannon ended in
October of 2015, yet my time with her continues to impact me. While she may be
my ‘late wife,’ I do not forget her. I frequently tell stories of ‘that time
Shannon and I…” I have photos of Shannon in my home and office. Our wedding
rings rest on a display shelf. For the past two years her ashes lay in a box in
my home, a reminder of our great life together.
Danielle has strongly encouraged all of this. The love that
I had for Shannon does not diminish my love for Danielle. I can fully live in
this present marriage while remembering one that has gone before.
Most of the time my journey of grief feels like it’s winding
down. I tell stories of the past with fondness and appreciation. When people
ask how I’m handling it all, the truthful answer is, “I’m just fine.”
Yet moments come when the pain of loss still grips me. On
Saturday the tears flowed freely. Shannon’s mom Jan, who joined her on the
ovarian cancer journey, took her last breath on December 30th. I can’t
think of Jan’s cancer without thinking of Shannon’s. They shared the same
doctor. They shared many of the same treatments. Once they even took chemo
together, sitting side by side as mother and daughter.
Shannon’s desire was for her ashes to be buried along with
Jan, so last week we took her box from my home and gave them to the funeral
director. When Ben and I arrived for the visitation Shannon’s ashes sat next to
her mother. During the funeral I knew that Shannon’s remains lay in that casket
with Jan, so all the words of hope I hard for Jan I re-heard for Shannon. Hope
of life. Hope of peace. Hope of resurrection.
Before the service I asked the pastor if Shannon’s name
could be mentioned during the committal service, the time when we would entrust
them to You. I could barely hold it together long enough to make the request.
Then, at the cemetery, as the pastor said Shannon and Jan’s names together, “Ashes
to ashes, dust to dust,” tears poured out and froze to my glasses. For me this
wasn’t a rational reaction, as if memories of Shannon came to mind. The tears
came instinctually from a deep well. As a pastor, the ritual of the committal
service holds great power. I’ve said those words over many caskets. Now I heard
them myself. After two years of having ashes on my shelf, we finally committed
them to the ground. Something powerful flooded over me. I said goodbye to
Shannon once again.
Two years ago I said goodbye while holding my son Ben. This
time, Danielle held both Ben and I in her arms. How times have changed.
God, the journey of grief rolls forward. In the midst of a
life that I truly love and enjoy, moments still come when death, even death from
the past, hurts. In the midst of the pain I cling to your words of hope. You
are the resurrection and the life. Shannon rests with you. Now Jan rests with
you. As I live life today, I entrust them into Your loving arms.
Thank you for walking with me on this journey.
