Let God Transform Your Grief into Something Greater

In the first few years after losing my wife to cancer, I learned that grieving was a complicated process. So many friends and family were constantly asking, “How are you doing?” That just further tempted me to go into a shell, or at the very least, embrace solitude as a way to avoid difficult questions.

I knew that everyone meant well, but…

I resorted to simply saying, “I am fine.” Telling them the truth meant I would need to give them details. I wasn’t ready to be that transparent. But over time, for some reason, one I have yet to fully comprehend, I began to be more open about how I was REALLY doing. Some days were good, others not-so-much.  

My faith taught me much during this walk through my valley of tears. To be more specific, the Lord was my guide, my comforter, as well as my teacher. He truly is “close to the broken-hearted.” (Psalm 34:19)

My willingness to be more transparent about my grief had a surprising effect.

Oh, I didn’t wear my widower’s status on my sleeve, but neither did I shy away from discussing it. I soon discovered that grieving was a natural part of being human. And being open about one’s personal struggles opened the door to conversations that often helped others more than one’s self.

I began calling it the “healing gift of transparency.”

Almost two years after I lost my wife, one such scenario played out over lunch at my work’s food court. It was the week after Christmas. Most employees took that week off, but being a widower, my usual post-Christmas plans no longer applied. I decided to be the guy that staffed the office while others continued their family Christmas celebrations.  

The commute that week was, as expected, much easier with traffic almost non-existent. Lines in the food court mirrored the traffic on the interstate. I fully expected my lunch breaks to be a solitary affair, and they were, except for one.

Two-thirds through my veggie taco, I looked up and spotted a familiar face.  

A former colleague, now a vendor representative, saw me and made a beeline for my table. No doubt I was the only one he recognized in the sparsely populated food court. Ken had retired a few years before and moved into vendor sales. He had the personality of a salesman: always smiling, always talking, and seemingly always about to make a sales pitch. His manner occasionally bordered on the obnoxious, but I only hesitated a moment when he asked if he could join me. Hoping he didn’t notice the cautionary tone, I welcomed him with a “Sure, have a seat.”

Our conversation was light as we caught each other up on who was still working, who had retired, and who had died. Unfortunately, we knew more of the latter and less of the former. We briefly shared our Christmas activities before launching into a discussion about retirement plans. 

From the way he talked, I could tell he was unaware I had lost my wife two years previously. 

I decided not to mention it, as I just did not want to spend another 20 minutes talking about it. But something prompted me, and when Ken took another bite of his sandwich, I simply stated, “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I lost my wife two years ago to cancer.” 

Ken’s response was typical, a look of shock followed by a heartfelt, “No, I didn’t know, I am so sorry.” However, what followed next humbled me yet again at how a loving God works in the hearts of men. Ken stared at me as if not knowing what to say next. His blank, silent look only magnified the growing moisture in his eyes. He looked briefly away, and then as if a decision had just been made, he turned back to me and said. “Now I know why I saw you today.”

He was no longer a salesman selling.  

He was a wounded heart thankful for an opportunity to talk with an understanding soul. He related how his wife had just had her annual mammogram, with the result being an order from the doctor for a biopsy. They were stunned and had yet to tell anyone, not even their daughter. This always confident salesman now possessed all the assurance of a baseball batter in a slump. He had no idea what to do, what to say, or how to help his wife. With a look that reflected both desperation and gratitude, he confessed, “I may need your help.”

I encouraged him to take one step at a time, wait for the results, and just be there for his spouse. I commented that as much as he wanted to fix it (doesn’t every man!), he needed to stay close to his wife, be a good listener, and provide a strong shoulder. And, call me when they got the news, so we could talk some more. 

He once again smiled at the providential meeting and asked for my prayers. 

I reached out, touched his arm, and said, “how about right now.” We bowed our heads, and I prayed, “Lord, may Ken and Patty know your loving and healing presence. Be with them now and give them strength and faith to follow You through this storm.”

Shaking hands, we then turned and walked in opposite directions. That lonely lunch had become a battleground of faith. I remembered my morning prayer. “Lord, help me to help others.” That Christmastide, the healing gift of transparency had been unwrapped yet again.