Spiritual Wrestling

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https://youtu.be/rqBdrM8Trwg

In the months following my husband’s death, I struggled, especially in the spiritual realm of my life. I am a lifelong Jesus follower, and I felt so unanchored as I struggled to understand my faith in the context of loss. As with every other area of my life, the pieces of my mosaic that were my faith in Jesus also shattered and fell. They were still there, in the pile of brokenness, but I didn’t know how they fit anymore. I cannot tell you how many times I picked up those broken pieces, examined them, considered throwing them away, then put them back in the pile to continue examination another day. I was broken, and the pieces I was putting back together, the grout was not fully cured and I felt so fragile. And I was.

People in a grievers life after loss generally fall into three categories: helpful, neutral, or hurtful. I eventually found the helpful people in my life (some I knew from the start), but discovering the hurtful took a toll. The most hurtful were well-meaning individuals who took a peculiar interest in my spiritual life and felt “called” to keep me accountable. This actually began when my husband entered hospice care. Every time I was stopped by someone, and the conversation began with, “God has laid it upon my heart to share this with you…” I felt my body stiffen as if I was forming a wall around my heart to protect myself from the bombs being launched at my already fragile soul. Their well-intentioned assaults almost always included what I was doing wrong, what I should be doing, what faith should look like in my life right now. With each charge, I felt the fragile pieces of my faith crumble even more.

I spoke with some trusted friends in my helpful group, a retired pastor and his wife, about my struggling faith. These dear people are acquainted with grief, and they became a lifeline for me. I could speak the truth of what felt like faltering faith, and be embraced with love, compassion, and empathy. As I wrestled with God and felt as if that meant I was breaking into unusable pieces, I reached out in all my vulnerable honesty. They replied, “I think "God wrestling" is essential to our journey through pain and suffering.  Strongly questioning God isn't evidence of a lack of faith or even of the lack of a relationship with God.  Rather, when we question God, wrestle with God, especially when we do so strongly, are by this very act showing that we trust God deeply enough to risk questioning God.”  

I can’t begin to express how much comfort this brought me. They didn’t tell me I should stop struggling, they didn’t tell me what I should be doing or should not be doing. They entered the struggle with me, in its complexity, and in essence gave me the permission I was needing to struggle with God, with my faith, and not feel shame.

Eight plus years later, as I reflect on this penetratingly dark period of my life, I realize that no one, especially those who were well-meaning and yet hurtful, no one was comfortable with the death of a 44-year-old father, husband, teacher, Jesus following amazing man. And they didn’t know what to do with it. And they didn’t know what to do with their grief and discomfort. And they didn’t know what to do with a struggling 39-year-old widow and mother of three. (I can give more grace now than I could then… I had so little capacity for anything other than survival). So, what did they do?  As so often happens in our grief avoidant culture, they tried to fix it with shoulds, and things they would be comfortable with. Because fixing it is what we Americans do. But the problem was that Aaron was dead. There was no fixing that. He would be dead for the rest of my life. That is the truth. I will carry that truth with me until my own dying day. And I needed space to reconcile that truth into my continuing life, into my continuing faith. I needed space to wrestle in a very real and authentic way. And yes, I knew with all certainty that Aaron was in heaven. I really did not need to be reminded of that. I also knew with all certainty that Aaron was no longer by my side. What I needed to figure out was how my life worked without him, what my faith meant to my grieving soul.

I am so thankful for those helpful people who helped me integrate the truth of Aaron’s absence into my new life. Those who would listen without judgement to my faith wrestling and let me say all the things I needed to say. The one who showed up on my back deck with snacks and a few beers in hand on multiple occasions to talk about our griefs, to mutually vent about life, and just support and love each other. The woman in the grocery store I did not know, but she had known Aaron as he was her son’s teacher, who stopped me and shared a beautiful story about how Aaron was her son’s favorite teacher. Aaron made an impact on her son’s life. They had been at the memorial service, and she recognized me. Her shared story made me feel that Aaron was not forgotten, that his impact lived on outside his family.

My spiritual life looks distinctly different now. I have deconstructed and reconstructed some beliefs, and I am still a Jesus follower. I continue to wrestle with God, and I don’t feel shame in it. I think I will wrestle until my dying day. I am eternally thankful for those loving people who let me explore the complexity of my spirituality in the wake of death, who still let me authentically wrestle, to be so vulnerable about something that is at the core of my being.

Grieving people need to be able to explore spirituality with love and support. It is most likely one of their broken pieces. This broken piece will be different for everyone, and for every grief. Some may find its place in their new mosaic quickly. Others may struggle to know how it fits in with their new reality. Both are OK.