Revisiting the Valley of the Shadow

My mom died in April last year—on Good Friday, to be exact—and my father passed away five weeks later.

Twelve months earlier, we never would have predicted any of this. My mom had Alzheimer’s disease and lived in a nursing home not too far from me. My dad lived in the nearby town where I grew up and visited her every day—rain or shine.

My mom had mobility issues but still knew us and seemed quite healthy. My somewhat frail dad was doing OK on his own, but his health deteriorated dramatically last fall. He was hospitalized with congestive heart failure in late November, got worse in rehab and joined his wife of 60 years in long-term care right around Christmas.

While it was touch-and-go with him, nobody expected my mom to start declining. It’s almost as if she snuck past him into heaven when none of us were looking.

The days and weeks following their deaths were a blur of mourning, questioning, processing, sorting and transitioning. While I still miss them both terribly, the grief has “softened” somewhat, as the leader of my GriefShare group suggested it would eventually.

For the last six months or so, though, thoughts of “this time last year” have crossed my mind frequently. Not just the events, as hard as they were to witness at times, but also my responses and feelings.

I’ve cycled through many what-ifs and found great comfort in the truth of Psalm 139:16, that all the days God ordains for us are written His book before one of them ever comes to be.

Still, each month brings the possibility of an unknown slew of emotions. And while it may seem a bit silly to be afraid of future feelings, I find that I often am.

As someone who almost always reads the end of the book first, I want to know what’s coming. I wish I could just go to the library, check out The Logical Girl’s Guide to Grief, make a chart of what to expect and start checking off boxes one by one.

But of course, there is no such book.

I especially dreaded December—the month my dad declined so steeply and in such heartbreaking ways. Now, in the days leading up to Easter—and the first anniversary of my mom’s death—I can’t help but wonder what it’s going to feel like.

I’m inclined to be a bit anxious about it, until a familiar scripture crosses my mind one morning.

“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” (Psalm 23:4)

Some translations use the word “danger” instead of “evil,” and I think that fits here. Feelings aren’t normally dangerous, but they certainly can feel dangerous.

As such, we might want to take steps to squash or bury them—to do anything in our power to keep from experiencing the hurt, grief or anger even more acutely than we already do.

Lately, though, I’m discovering that there is another way.

As we revisit the valley of the shadow—approaching milestone dates after the death of a loved one or when seeking counseling to help us heal from any kind of loss—we’re going to feel what we’re going to feel. Sadness, exhaustion, anxiety, pain, thankfulness, regret, joy, anger, peace—any or all of the above, at any given time.

There’s nothing enjoyable or pleasant about most of it.

We don’t have to fear any of these feelings, though, because God is with us.

The feelings come and go, sometimes like a flood or a hurricane, but He remains.

His rod and staff—representing His divine protection and guidance—are there to comfort us. The Holy Spirit and the truths of scripture point us back on the right path when our intense emotions cloud our perception of reality.

And when it all gets to be too much, the good Shepherd—our good Father—will tighten His loving arms around us and carry us until we are able to set our own feet on firm ground once again.

♥ Lois

Photo by Thanti Nguyen on Unsplash.