Pillow Talk....

[domoore]

When Donald was alive- we would engage in “pillow talk.” We would go to bed- and lay in the dark visiting- no subject was taboo. We would snuggle up close- one of his arms under my neck and the other across the top of me. I felt loved and secure. It was both comfortable and comforting. It was closure to our day—and we were brought together in that place of quiet darkness- our hearts open to one another. We would lie there in the darkness—talking. We would talk about the day’s events- we would talk about the next day’s plans. We would discuss things happening at church- and the things God was doing. We would share ourselves in that place- we would laugh, cry, expectantly hope, dream, and pray together. It was here that we were united as one.

One of the most difficult areas of widowhood for me to adjust to has been going to bed alone. My mind is often times still active. I find myself restless- wanting to empty my thoughts from my mind-- to sort through one last time before I tuck them away and go to sleep. I wanted to share my heart and share in my husband’s heart. But as I would turn in each night- I would find the empty bed just one more bitter memorial to the man and marriage I would never have again. No more pillow talk. No more of anything where the bed was concerned. And the bed mocked me—with all its cold, vast emptiness.

For months, I found my sleep patterns disrupted. Even now- I still occasionally have trouble sleeping. I would stay up until the wee hours of the morning (or should that be mourning?)- Putting off that one last reminder as long as possible. I would sit out in the living room in the recliner- reading, watching a movie or looking at house plans. I would purposefully look to do anything that I would enjoy. But it was all emptiness. Any distraction would do- so long as I didn’t have to face the fact that I am alone-alone-alone. The minutes seemed to stretch on. As I would sit there in the recliner I would take to fits of dozing off and snapping back awake. Like a cranky two-year old- I fought off the last visages of slumber until I could deny it no longer. Finally, I would resign myself to get up and go to bed.

My nightly bedtime ritual then would commence. I would begin by checking the doors- making sure they were locked and secure. I would then make my march around the house- up stairs to check on the kids. Down to the basement—to check the laundry and basement entryway—back to the first floor- and past both doors- again double-checking to make certain they were locked and secured. I would then make my way through the house shutting off lights. Never before had I felt a need to keep all the lights on in the house- but since Donald’s death- they are all found burning brightly. When I am finished with these nightly bedtime ch ores- I crawl into bed—turn the alarm clock on—and lay there fully awake.

It is dark. It is quiet. I turn the fan on- for some white noise to help me sleep. And I just lay there awake. Oh what torture! To be tired- to need good, sound sleep- and to not be able to have it. My mind wanders off- and I think of the things I must do tomorrow. Then I replay the events of today.

I have found that sometimes- I just need pillow talk. I just need to empty my heart and mind- and visit. But Donald is not here to share with- to be that listening ear on the pillow next to me. To make me laugh, to make me cry, to be with me. He is not here.

I become frustrated by this entire life that I now own. I am a single parent- doing the best I can for my children. But to have plans- to know where to go from here- to know what to do next… well suffice it to say- I have no clue. No one to bounce ideas off of—no one to help me shoulder the responsibility- and bear the burdens. No one who can ease my troubled mind and my frightful heart.

No one except God. And I have mixed feelings about this. Yes- God says He is a “defender” of the widow- and a father to the fatherless. (Psalm 68:5) I have even read in Isaiah where God is a “husband to the widow.” But I find myself asking—“In what ways?” The whole idea of God being a husband to the widow can be irritating to me. I suppose it shouldn’t be—God is always with me. Then I find myself thinking these kinds of snotty thoughts, “Since God is a husband to the widow—I suppose nothing here has really changed…. My toilet tank leaked for the longest time before I finally got someone else to come repair it…”

I am not speaking glibly – but rather- this is how I “felt” about the whole affair of God being a husband to the widow. “Some comfort to me,” I would think to myself. The very one (my husband) who I had found comfort in—who would hold me through out the night—talk and listen to me—who held my heart—was gone. My physical, earthly husband was gone. Dead. His body lifeless and cold in the ground. How on earth was God going to be my husband? How could God hold me in warmth and security in the middle of the night? Would I feel God’s warm, moist breath on my cheek? Could I make God laugh at something funny the kids said or did earlier in the day? Of course this is how I “FELT.” The Bible does not calls us to “Walk by FEELINGS” not by sight.” No, that would be a redundant statement. Feelings and sight—are nearly the same thing. Instead- 2 Corinthians 5:7 says “We walk by faith and not by sight.” And so it is faith I must rally…often times against how I “feel.”

Of course a whole new problem emerges in light of this discussion with myself—Why oh why should I trust the One who made me a widow—or in the least allowed this tragic thing to happen? If not in His active will—then in His permissive will? And I have heard so many widows share this as their own troubling revelation. “Why or how can I trust God in light of my husband’s death?”

Oh- this is the heart of the matter now isn’t it? This is where my own corrupt heart is fully revealed. This is where my faith falls short. I had faith enough to walk through the cancer. I had faith to “walk the tight rope of God’s sovereignty” and to believe “all things were possible.” Including a miraculous physical healing. I even had the audacity to boldly proclaim “WHATEVER the outcome- God can be trusted!” But I had Donald here- and our faith together was founded a cord of three- bound tightly with the Holy Spirit. And now look at me. Cowering- whimpering- my faith as limp as an old wet dish rag- and full of holes to boot.

I love what C.S. Lewis says, “Talk to me about the truth of religion and I’ll listen gladly. Talk to me about the duty of religion and I’ll listen submissively. But don’t come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don’t understand.”

It is one thing to make such faith-based statements in the face of adversity—and an entirely different thing to LIVE those statements in the wake of adversity.

Have I been guilty of elevating my late husband over my Lord and God? Have I been guilty of elevating my marriage relationship over my relationship with the Lord God Almighty? I can confess yes- to both questions. And what a shame it is for me.

Perhaps this is why I am not finding comfort from that particular verse of God “being a husband to the widow” in the Bible. Perhaps that reference is just closed to me- for this particular hour so that I might properly align myself with the Lord.

God is not merely my husband. He is my Lord. He is my Sovereign. He is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. He is Almighty God- and He loves me- more than any human could ever love me.

Perhaps the better thing in light of my own insecurities- is that God is a “defender of the widow” rather than a “husband to the widow.” It has been this way for me- I feel exposed and vulnerable. My husband- who provided and defended me- is gone. My husband who was the head of this house—and was the one I looked to for leadership is gone. God can and does provide for my immediate needs- in miraculous ways. AND God does lead, guide and direct me.

I know of other widows who will still talk to their husbands—either by going to the graveside or talking to a still, lifeless photo. I admit that I did do that early on- but often times I would just sit on the edge of our bed—and hold his picture and cry. Words failed me. And it seemed so vain to me—to sit and talk to a picture. To me, it made me feel worse- not better—and was a source of bitter grief. At times I even had the urge to forcibly throw the picture across the room and let the frame and glass shatter around the cold paper image. I resisted the urge- deciding each time instead to gently replace the picture on the dresser.

The transition has been a difficult one for me. I have gone from the raw- tender and fragile first weeks of widowhood where I would just fall into bed- exhaustion from the years of cancer and the week of the funeral having its way with me. Then came the months of restlessness. I would fight against sleep. I would fight against this present reality- the living nightmare of the truth. I would sit up- in defiance of that cold, empty bed. I would deny the bed the opportunity to hurt me further- by it’s bitter reminders of what once was—and what I might never have again. I have struggled for many months—adjusting to this “new normal.” It has not been easy for me.

But now I find things changing once again. At night time- I find myself once again engaging in “pillow talking” though not to Donald- but to the Lord. My comfort is now different. My Comforter is the Holy Spirit. I talk to the Lord- pouring out my heart- and casting my cares upon Him. Sometimes it turns into a “pillow fight” where I beat the pillows- and cry into them. It is not as if I were fighting God—but rather- venting frustrations and hurts—taking those most disturbing feelings out on the pillows. I feel like Jacob- wrestling with God in the middle of the night- praying that He will bless even me.

I am learning to trust God in even this…And I am finding rest and relief in the Lord.

(C) copyright 2008 domoore