More Like John

If grieving processes are not works to be accomplished for their own sakes, then what is grieving good for?  I can only report my experiences at this point, from the middle of the process.  But, with fear and trembling, here goes.

In fact, grieving is the shadow side of loving.  Pinker had that part right.  However, C. S. says it so much better in one of my favorite passages in The Four Loves.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.  Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken.  If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal.  Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness.  But in that casket—safe, dark, motionless, airless—it will change.  It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable.  The alternative to tragedy, or at least the risk of tragedy, is damnation.  The only place outside Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell.” (The Four Loves, page 121).

So the pain of grief is both demonstration and reminder of a great love.  I give thanks for those reminders in the midst of my days.  

I went to the funeral home and paid the bills for Anne’s service and related items.  On the one hand it was a simple business transaction—read the invoice, write the check, walk out with the receipt.  I didn’t weep or sniffle during this activity.  I did, however, feel a heaviness in my chest as I walked through the business.  Even as I focused on the numbers and thought to myself, “Wow, I better move some money from savings,” 

My body reminded me of the great love and the great loss that made this whole business necessary.  She was magnificent.  She made my life complete.  Now she’s gone, and I have the receipt to prove it.  To love at all is to be vulnerable.  To feel the cracks in one’s heart is to remember that love.  While I felt that pain, I was also grateful for the reminder.

I find that the grieving reminds me not only of how much I loved Anne but also of how proud I was of her and how privileged I felt to have her in my life.  The last Sunday in December 2010 I was worshiping with my brother and his family.  The Scripture texts were for the Feast of the Holy Innocents, the first martyrs for the sake of Jesus.  

The pastor quoted a story from Tony Campolo that I have heard Campolo share a number of times.  John was a recovering alcoholic who used his new life to serve others in a rescue mission.  He was known for his compassion and unselfish service.  During the mandatory altar call before he could get some soup, one of the homeless men came forward to pray.  As he knelt at the rail, he prayed, “Maybe I could be more like John.”  The pastor leaned over and said, “Don’t you mean, ‘More like Jesus’?”  The homeless man was surprised.  “Oh, does this Jesus fellow look a lot like John?”

I love that story.  When I heard it, I began to weep.  I suddenly thought about how my dearest Annie would have fit the story.  Many might have said, “Oh, does this Jesus fellow look at lot like Anne?”    In my view, the answer is a resounding yes.  The tears I offered were tears of gratitude more than tears of grief at that point.  But it was the loss of Anne that opened me to such an experience of joy in her life and ministry.