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How does a widow show her emotions?

Every woman is unique. My first year as a widow certainly had its share of ugly crying.

I begged God to let my husband’s death be just a bad dream, but it was real.

Alternating emotional extremes described my life — zombie-like calm (in public places) or uncontrollable sobbing (mostly in my shower). Most days I floated through activities, but could not remember them by nightfall.

People commented on how well I handled things; in reality, I functioned almost exclusively in what I affectionately call my “God bubble”. He carried me through each day and gave sweet sleep each night.

My Bible was my reminder of His provision, renewing my mind when it wanted to wander to a darker place.

As the calendar crept toward February, my tenth month of widowhood, I could no longer put off ordering the gravestone, military foot marker, and memorial bench for our cemetery plot. My children helped me choose what best represented my husband, then we waited for them to be installed.

The late April anniversary of my husband’s death brought notification that the markers were in place. The children declined my invitation, so I went by myself. After all, it was a beautiful spring day, I had made this trip many times, and I was confident this time would be no different.

I could not have been more wrong.

The sight of the gravestone sent me spiraling to a place I had never been before. Our name on the memorial bench sucked the breath out of me.

I began to sob, wailing and running around like I was being chased. In hindsight, I probably looked like I was doing a rain dance.

When all my energy was spent, I fell on top of his grave and began to move my arms up and down by my side, whimpering like a lost child.

I was making a snow angel, but there was no snow; just the cold emptiness I felt without my husband there beside me.

Finally, I picked myself up and sat down on the bench, staring at nothing.

Fog enveloped my brain again. I don’t know how long I sat there before I came back to reality. I was sitting in a cemetery, looking at the gravestone of my husband of twenty-eight years. My own name was etched into the other side of the marker.

Who was that woman who danced on top of the grave minutes before? It certainly was not the day-to-day me.

Grief, maybe a few stages put together, had almost won that round of the battle for my mind that day. But it didn’t win.

My hope was in the Lord, not in my circumstances. I knew it was important to remind myself of truth in that moment.

My purpose in living had not changed with my husband’s death. I was created to worship the Lord.

Through my cemetery experience I am reminded of Job’s response to tragedy that marred his life.

Then Job arose and tore his robe and shaved his head and fell on the ground and worshiped. And he said, “Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” In all this Job did not sin or charge God with wrong.
Job 1:20-22 (ESV)

I cannot compare my life or circumstances to Job’s, but I want to emulate his response.

Worship.

Father, grief can make us unrecognizable, even to ourselves. We don’t know what to do with the anguish, fear, and loneliness that threaten to overtake us sometimes. You understand those better than we will ever know. Your only Son died and experienced momentary separation from You, to give us the hope of eternal life. Please remind us that You still have a purpose for our lives while we remain here. Help us to experience Your comfort as we strive to worship You daily. Amen.