For the first time in over thirty-two years, tears refused to stop.
In a daze, I got up from the table, left my pastor, the hospice nurse, and my three children at home. I couldn’t bear to watch them carry out the body of the man who had been my husband for over half of my life. I shut the door behind me and walked the path between our houses, as I’d done so many times before, to my son’s home. The manufactured home he’d bought and placed on the 4 acres we had given him and his wife as a wedding gift, six years prior.
One foot in front of the other, I walked, feeling so alone.
My broken heart questioned God as I screamed, “Why did you take him away from me?”
He spoke to me through my spirit. “I didn’t take him away from you, he wasn’t yours. He belongs to me.”
I had watched my husband take one last breath and heard my son say, “He’s home now.”
Several months earlier, I sat beside my husband in the oncology office. The doctor looked unsettled as he glanced at the stack of papers in his hand. He spoke softly to the man I loved, and shattered our world. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you have pancreatic cancer. I can’t tell you how long you have. Only God knows the number of our days. But people with this type of cancer usually don’t live past a few months.”
BEFORE THAT, I was a happily married woman.
BEFORE THAT, thankfully, over 31 years previous, my husband and I had accepted Jesus as our personal Lord and Savior. Jesus promises to never leave nor forsake us. He promises to be near the brokenhearted. I realized that I did not walk alone. Jesus walked with me and held my hand. The burden of my heart lessened with every step. I knew my husband was in God’s presence, and I was going to be okay.
“The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” – Psalm 34:18