The book/song for today is “A Grief Observed” by C.S Lewis. It is his “narrative of heart”, so to speak, of processing the loss of his wife of four years to cancer. While I have not lost a wife, I have in a sense “lost” the woman I love, M. Not to cancer, or to any disease other than that of sin. I felt as though this book offered some useful parallels in “observing” my own grief.

 

Our relationship was tumultuous, to say the least, though I’m not sure unpacking the details of it all is particularly useful. Though I provided all the necessary accoutrements, there was no love, or grace. It was as though I was a fireplace on a screen. Crackling, providing, from a distance, the correct attributes of flame, except there was no smoke, and least of all, warmth. There was no depth to it.

 

Let me work through Lewis’ work, with a brief commentary on my own part, and hopefully this will serve to give me some direction and structure, and, as is the case with my other blogs, be of some utility to you.

 

On page 18 he writes “For the first time I have looked back and read these notes. They appall me. From the way I’ve been talking anyone would think that H’s death mattered chiefly for its effect on myself. Her point of view seems to have dropped out of sight. Have I forgotten the moment of bitterness when she cried out “And there was so much to live for”? Happiness had not come early to her in life” I realize how much, through the fracture of my and M’s relationship, and most especially in it’s aftermath, I have remained focused on my own torment. Not paying proper attention the immense pain I have caused her. Like H, early childhood was also a test for M. She always approached that with a humble beauty, and strength, of sorts. I held this in high regard. For admiration of the heart is quite another thing than that of the intellect. However instead of grace, I came upon her as though she was some sort of glorified housemaid, that ought to have her metaphorical “ducks in a row”. I ruled with an iron fist, and was crushed by it. Thinking I was growing closer to God, I was actually becoming an arrogant pharisee.

 

Page 25. Lewis here talks about how we don’t know our level of belief until it is put to the test. I liken this, perhaps in a sub-par metaphor, to my inability to appreciate M until we were apart, or were fractured. We have all heard the old adage “Distance makes the heart grow fonder”. But why is that so? Surely that has to be disordered, as ultimately distance from God would lead to the opposite effect. What was it about our relationship that made me unable to appreciate, or in the least, SHOW appreciation, when things were “stable”. I suppose this is like our health. We don’t think much of it, until it’s status is in jeopardy. Oh God, why could I not love my family radically. You gave me every chance. She gave me every chance. Oh what a guilt to feel. Especially when children are involved. Lord have mercy. Why do I need to feel broken to live righteously? Help me to suffer well.

 

The next page that leapt out to me is page 47. Here Lewis ponders “What sort of lover am I to think so much about my affliction and so much less about hers? Even the insane call “Come back” is all for my own sake. I never even raised the question whether such a return, if it were possible, would be good for her. I want her back as a restoration of MY past. Could I have wished her anything worse?” I have half a mind (or maybe three-quarters) to leave this here and move on, but feel as though it may do me some good to unpack it’s relevance to me. Even now, as I weep to the Father in my grief, am I grieved as weightily by the damage I have caused her? If i am not, is this not yet another piece of evidence in the case against my marital suitability? Am I so cocksure that I have some illusion that I am the best thing for her, in this current state? What an utter fool I am. Lord, restore my soul. Give me your love, and grace, not a shrewd legalism.

 

Page 50. The dentist analogy. Essential summed up with the quote “What do people mean when they say they are “I am not afraid of God because I know he is good” Have they never been to the Dentist?” The meaning here is plain. We cannot expect surgical/medical intervention (And let it be known, sin and the consequences of are very much “medical” in their nature.) to be without any pain. Save the application of anaesthesia, you are bound to feel it. And surely we don’t pray for numbness? To trade joy for never feeling sorrow? Excitement for never feeling dread? No anaesthetic exists that serves to ONLY remove pain, that does not also remove pleasure.

 

Moving onto a curious passage, on page 53. Lewis says “you can’t get what you want if you want it too desperately, or at least not the best of it”. I’ll confess I’m not sure what to make of it. It seems plain to me that desperation is exactly the point that must be reached to FULLY experience all the positive attributes of a good, simultaneously! Is water not BETTER when ravenously thirsty, is conversation not MORE intriguing when it’s desperately needed? Isn’t this very desperation the mode that so often draws us to Christ? But surely God desires love, not desperation. I’m not convinced the two are seperate, though. Like the pain of surgery, perhaps it is unavoidable in the journey to God, in which case I should be rejoicing. I don’t know what Lewis is getting at here, but I think desperation is a necessary phase, and certainly describes where I am at. Perhaps I will see this more clearly once my eyes have dried and heart has resumed normalcy.

 

Happiness. Seems to me like a unicorn. It is as though I have a perfect mental image of it, but I’m no closer to it than someone who has no conception of such a creature in their mind. I think I have felt moments of real joy. Lewis says that happy moments seem to create the most clear image of his departed wife, but It seems for me to be quite the opposite. It is in the moments I most fondly remember M’s laugh, her meals, her love, that I feel the most misery. What an odd duality. It is though I have just set upon an ice cream cone only to discover it is filled with a poison. Sweet, then even more destructive than before. We don’t appreciate a full wallet until it it empty, I suppose.

 

On 67, Lewis says something that resonates so perfectly with me, it almost requires no additional commentary. “how often, will it be for always, how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say “I never realized my loss till this moment”. It is a vicious cycle. No sooner do I feel some sort of contentment about the situation, do I feel cast into the despair of horrifying thoughts such as “Your son has lost memories with his parents, and it is your fault.”, and “What sort of monster tears apart his own family”.

 

At the beginning of chapter 4, I think Lewis makes an astute observation. That making a “map” of sorrow is quite a futile effort, if one wishes to contain the entirety of it. It is like a journey of two stars opposite themselves in the cosmos. Rapidly moving away from one another, but never complete in their journey. Only knowing they must continue to move away from the other star, regardless of any “regret”. How strange it is to speak of regret in the material sense, as though some cosmic rock could consider this. But isn’t this what the philosophers espouse now? Not that the rock could regret, but rather that WE cannot have guilt in the sense we understand it (A strong desire that one ought to, and COULD have, done otherwise.) But it is the very sense we could have done otherwise that drives this. Is it illusory? More on this later.

 

Let us get to the crux of it. “The notes have been about myself, H, and God, in that order.” This was one of many sentences in A Grief Observed that shook me thoroughly. How could I expect my relationship to pan out when I consistently did not make God the primary focus. How foolish was I to feel as though God could be wielded as some sort of “tool” to repair and provide a foundation for my ACTUAL goal, the family, the image.

 

 

Speaking of Image. I think 77 is the only other place where Lewis is dead wrong, speaking on iconography. I will at a later point do an article exploring iconoclasm, but for now, I’m content noting my disagreement with his claims of “reality being iconoclastic”, and “God being the ultimate iconoclast”. I think this idea leads to Gnostic ideology, but again, I will explore this at a later date.

 

On Page 79, I found the MOST relatable portion of this book to me. I think it is worth quoting in it’s entirety. “Am I, for instance, just sidling back to God because I know that if there’s any road to H, it runs through him? But then of course I know perfectly well that He can’t be used as a road. If you’re approaching Him not as the goal but as a road, not as the end but as a means, you’re really not approaching him at all. That’s what was really wrong with all those popular pictures of happy reunions “on further shore” not the simple minded and very earthly images, but the fact that they make an End of what we can get only as a by product of the true End” I think if I could sum up my issue as it relates to grief and relationships, this would be apt. I longed for some sort of ideal “christian marriage”, if for nothing more than my own comfort an appearance. But in reality, I neglected prayer, fellowship, and study, and was constantly engaging with my passions. I failed to create any bedrock for my family to be built on. Lord forgive me. I see the great men and husbands around me, and in my pride I became convinced I was in no need of their attributes and actions. Soften my heart, lead me to prayer, and help my intellect to grasp the idea of God forming the link between man and wife, not our own power. Lewis is so right when he says these beautiful things we desire can ONLY come as a by product of a more total, LIVED paradigm. Oh Lord help me to suffer this realization well.

 

 

As aforementioned, there is really no way to conclude this writing, as it’s clear to me that the sorrow will be an endless journey, spiralling. There was a nourishment in our relationship that made these sorrows all worth it. Being with anyone else feels like eating the candy version of a fruit. Maybe sweeter, more tempting, but no real substance. I’ll leave you with a verse that has given me some comfort struggling with the loss of M and my Son.

 

John 16:22- So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy”