Loneliness
Carrol and I spent the weekend with some of my high school friends from the Class of ’55. At our table for Friday’s dinner were two widower’s, one recent and one for more than five years. Also at the table were a Vietnam vet living on borrowed time because of agent orange and his wife. Of the four marriages, ours was the only one that had enjoyed a fiftieth anniversary.
Four months ago, Bob’s wife of 47 years died. The first four months, he said, were easy compared to the present. He told us they had known how she would die years earlier and planned accordingly. But when eventuality became reality, when dreaded expectations turned into dark certainty, when the horizon of the future crept close and became the present, Ruthie was dead and Bob was awash in an uncomfortable, embarrassing state of relief.
Since then, relief has lost its temporary value. In its place, a heavy loneliness has settled in. Aware that there is no realistic alternative, Bob knows his grief is now a meaner enemy. He and his wife had no children, his sister lives in West Virginia, and of course his parents are gone. At one time he had eleven dogs, but all but one have gone to doggie heaven. He says, “I can’t imagine marrying again.” With that possibility ruled out, Bob’s future lacks the marks of an eagerly anticipated vacation or holiday. As Bob rambled from subject to subject, a question formed in my head. Is Bob now saddled with perpetual loneliness or is there some relief possible?
The other widower, Albert, told us he lost his wife, “5 years, 5 months, and 18 days ago.” After a slight pause, Albert continued, “The first seven months were hardest.” More silence. It was clear that Al didn’t want to wade through the swamp of his grief again. All he wanted to say was that loneliness was his worst enemy.
At dinner the next evening, we sat with six different classmates, including Lynn who had buried her husband a year ago. As the rest of us inquired about her health and adjustment, she repeated what we had heard the night before. Apparently, time brings some peace and acceptance, but mostly it brings the demon of loneliness.
For years I have listened to widows and widowers tell me about grief, the lonely nights, the claustrophobia of a big house, the sadness of an empty chair at the breakfast table, the feeling of being a fifth-wheel among married couples. In those days, listening was part of my job description.
This past weekend, it was not my job; it was unavoidable. Today, four days after the weekend I am remembering a long-ago Beatles song, Eleanor Rigby and its message “Ah, look at all the lonely people … where do they all come from?”
One place lonely people come from is marriage or more precisely, the end of a marriage. My wife and I, by a joint effort, have avoided divorce that would have left me lonely. Yet, there is an end of marriage that we cannot avoid – the death of one of us.
When a spouse dies, the wedding vow “’til death do us part” is fulfilled. Completed. Finished. Gone. In my marriage, like Bob’s, Al’s, and Lynn’s, one will be left. That one, the one left, will certainly be lonely.
In such a harsh light, the message comes clear. Two questions must be asked. Two actions are demanded. What kind of defense am I building now, while I have a spouse, to keep the demon of loneliness at bay if I am the one left? If I am the one left, what kind of plan have I made to eliminate the poisonous seeds of loneliness in the soil of my soul?
Regardless of the plan, I always have to return to reality. I know neither my nor I can avoid or escape loneliness that comes with death of the other. Even though death brings one kind of loneliness, death also brings another reality – the assurance of Jesus. “I am with you always, until the end of the age.” That promise protects us from the kind of loneliness that yearns for an understanding and compassionate God.
Four months ago, Bob’s wife of 47 years died. The first four months, he said, were easy compared to the present. He told us they had known how she would die years earlier and planned accordingly. But when eventuality became reality, when dreaded expectations turned into dark certainty, when the horizon of the future crept close and became the present, Ruthie was dead and Bob was awash in an uncomfortable, embarrassing state of relief.
Since then, relief has lost its temporary value. In its place, a heavy loneliness has settled in. Aware that there is no realistic alternative, Bob knows his grief is now a meaner enemy. He and his wife had no children, his sister lives in West Virginia, and of course his parents are gone. At one time he had eleven dogs, but all but one have gone to doggie heaven. He says, “I can’t imagine marrying again.” With that possibility ruled out, Bob’s future lacks the marks of an eagerly anticipated vacation or holiday. As Bob rambled from subject to subject, a question formed in my head. Is Bob now saddled with perpetual loneliness or is there some relief possible?
The other widower, Albert, told us he lost his wife, “5 years, 5 months, and 18 days ago.” After a slight pause, Albert continued, “The first seven months were hardest.” More silence. It was clear that Al didn’t want to wade through the swamp of his grief again. All he wanted to say was that loneliness was his worst enemy.
At dinner the next evening, we sat with six different classmates, including Lynn who had buried her husband a year ago. As the rest of us inquired about her health and adjustment, she repeated what we had heard the night before. Apparently, time brings some peace and acceptance, but mostly it brings the demon of loneliness.
For years I have listened to widows and widowers tell me about grief, the lonely nights, the claustrophobia of a big house, the sadness of an empty chair at the breakfast table, the feeling of being a fifth-wheel among married couples. In those days, listening was part of my job description.
This past weekend, it was not my job; it was unavoidable. Today, four days after the weekend I am remembering a long-ago Beatles song, Eleanor Rigby and its message “Ah, look at all the lonely people … where do they all come from?”
One place lonely people come from is marriage or more precisely, the end of a marriage. My wife and I, by a joint effort, have avoided divorce that would have left me lonely. Yet, there is an end of marriage that we cannot avoid – the death of one of us.
When a spouse dies, the wedding vow “’til death do us part” is fulfilled. Completed. Finished. Gone. In my marriage, like Bob’s, Al’s, and Lynn’s, one will be left. That one, the one left, will certainly be lonely.
In such a harsh light, the message comes clear. Two questions must be asked. Two actions are demanded. What kind of defense am I building now, while I have a spouse, to keep the demon of loneliness at bay if I am the one left? If I am the one left, what kind of plan have I made to eliminate the poisonous seeds of loneliness in the soil of my soul?
Regardless of the plan, I always have to return to reality. I know neither my nor I can avoid or escape loneliness that comes with death of the other. Even though death brings one kind of loneliness, death also brings another reality – the assurance of Jesus. “I am with you always, until the end of the age.” That promise protects us from the kind of loneliness that yearns for an understanding and compassionate God.
Labels: grief, loneliness, marriage
posted by John | 5:07 PM
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