"Do you still believe in God?"

My response to a widow who asked the question:

I have spent a long time thinking about how to respond to this thread. Any of you who know me or who have read my previous posts know that as an Eastern Catholic I absolutely reject the idea of God having caused/allowed Nick to die of a brain tumor, that I reject the idea of God needing Nick more or of God wanting Nick to be in a better place, that I firmly believe that God weeps with me, that God did not create us for pain and death but for love and glory. I’ve written words to that effect in a number of other threads.

But I think I want to say more here.

Thirty years ago, I utterly rejected God. Any God who would allow me to have such a life of pain was no God that I wanted anything to do with. But God did not reject me, and I eventually realized that I owed my very life to God, and not just my existence as part of creation. And so I gave myself into God’s hands and started a journey that over 15 years led from atheism to the Eastern Catholic Church.

Nick and I gave ourselves to each other and our love to God. He dedicated himself to serving God and loving his family. I don’t need to tell any of you that when he died, I died as well. My world was torn asunder, my heart ripped into shreds. I lay down and wailed and gnashed my teeth like a wounded animal. But I didn’t die. I could not believe that I didn’t die. So I stood up and did the only thing I could: I took a deep breath and stepped gently into the next moment. And the next one. And the next one. And I know that I did not breathe or step under my own power, that I was held secure by the protective presence of God, supported by the compassionate prayers of my friends and family.

Do I still believe in God? I believe in God more completely now than I ever have in my life. As Nick lay dying in the ICU, I finally understood one of the core teachings of my church: That Death is an insult to God, the only power in the universe not created by God. I looked at my beloved and knew that the tumor in his brain was a monster straight from the bowels of hell, a manifestation of Evil in the world. I even tried to exorcize the demon, calling on all the powers of heaven to cast the monster back to hell whence it came. And when my beloved died, I wept and wept and wept — and I knew that God wept with me, that my tears and God’s tears were indistinguishable.

And now, nearly 9 months later... I still step gently into the next moment. I still know that my tears are one with God’s tears. I still place myself in God’s hands. I still lean on the prayers of my faith community. And I feel myself standing taller, my roots growing deeper.

I did not mean to write so much... but once I got started I couldn't stop.

Musings on Grief and Conversion, Part Two

Now that Lent is over, and we are in the Easter season, I thought I'd post a followup to my original post.

As I originally said, I wasn't in "repentance" mode for Lent, at least not in the way we usually think of it. I began thinking of repentance more as change, as opening myself to new ways of understanding the road before me. So I stretched myself naked before God and said, "Here I am."

And, lo! I was changed.

The one question I have never asked since Nicholas' death is "Why". I firmly believe that there is no Great Purpose behind any of our terrible losses, that death is an insult to God. I firmly believe that God created us for love and glory, not for death and sorrow.

In my prostrations before God this Lent, I began to understand that all the love and beauty and peace of my beloved Nicholas remains with me, that the essence of his truest self is at this moment celebrating the glory of God.

And in that moment of seeing this truth, I was changed.

One homily during Holy Week said that the purpose of creation itself is to reveal the presence of God. I realized that is surely what Nick had done for me in our marriage, what the essence of Catholic marriage is: two people revealing the presence of God to each other. As I reflected on this mystery, I began to understand that Nick CONTINUES to reveal God to me. In my "conversations" with Nick, I am drawn closer to God; in my prayers, I find more of Nick's presence than his absence.

And as my prayers to God get intertwined with my conversations to Nick, I am changed.

My journey of grief has become utterly enmeshed with my journey of conversion, my ever seeking the road that brings me closer to the Divine Presence. I know that my journey is far from over, that there is more grief and more conversion before me... yet each step, each turn, each stumble, brings me closer to becoming more truly myself.