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When I read C.S. Lewis’s A Grief Observed, I felt dark sadness for how deeply the loss of his wife undermined his foundations. It’s written much like a journal and I could walk that early path of grief alongside him.
It struck me how my faith journey was strengthened by the loss of my wife. How my unique path towards salvation seemed specifically meant for this moment in time.
Grief is strange. Over and over I return to that. Lewis was one of the great thinkers and witnesses to the Christian faith in the 20th century, producing influential works throughout a long life. I’m a thoughtful person who took a winding road to accepting Christ into my heart in my thirties. I wasn’t a head-on-fire convert when I lost Mary, but I was brand new in the church.
With a long standing drinking problem and an eruption of traumas ancient and new, why didn’t I descend into Hell? Or at least put Heaven on trial?
I suppose it’s the parts of me for which I can’t take credit. The parts of my being that seem immutable to my overthinking mind and ego-driven emotions. These are the gifts that God made for me: an indomitable optimism and a body filled with raw energy.
This is our third Christmas without Mary. These Decembers have called me to dip deep into those wells of optimism and energy. This is the hardest and loneliest one so far.
Damn. I’m usually able to write myself into an upturn. Seems silly to brag on my energy and optimism, then end on a down note. That’s where faith comes to help. I believe that I’m on the right path and understand it’s not always going to be sunny. I forgive myself for these low moments and I’m going to stop trying to write myself out of this one.