In the Shadows of Grief

As she sat at her desk, the thought of her husband’s death stole the air from her lungs. She wanted to carry her weight, but gravity had multiplied seven times. She might as well have been physically ill, for the bodily fatigue was overwhelming. She barely had the strength to lift her arms to the keyboard. Somehow, the shadow of death had embedded itself within her heart. It eviscerated her, left a void nothing could fill, and it swallowed everything.

Every moment lingered. Grief had delayed the minutes. It wanted to make sure she slowed down to feel every pang. Every sense was heightened except those that experience happiness. A panic of sorrow began to envelop her.

She needed to get out of there. The luxurious furnishings of the corporate office, once symbols of her success, had turned to dust. She walked out as several finely polished coworkers looked on. She avoided their gaze, trying to hide the tears.

She ignored her car and kept walking until she reached a small hidden park and sat on a bench under a sprawling tree. Now that she could cry without drawing attention, she couldn’t. Her broken heart seemed unmendable, and the reminders of loss coiled around her like evil spirits.

At the darkest moment, she ran her fingers across the grain of the wood bench. The beauty of its intricate veining and brown tones began to sing gently. He used to love working with wood and always said it was one of God’s finest creations. That is when she felt the warmth of the sun and the cool summer breeze work together to remind her of old pleasures. It caused her to breathe in deeply. Though her lungs stuttered doing it, it served as a rebellion against death’s celebration.

That breath was a glimmer of hope amid darkness. It defiantly said death had lost its sting—even if only briefly. This was her first victory. Over the following years, there would be many more, but in the first few months, they would be few and far between.

The combined effort of the sun and breeze lifted her to her feet. Her Creator had sent them—the Giver of life and the Conqueror of death. But grief fought back and once again began to surround her with that suffocating weight, but she now knew it was possible for light to break through. In her pain, she walked back to work, turned on her computer, lifted her heavy arms, and began to work.

-D. Eaton