The Shadow

Who knows what lurks in the heart of grief?

Writing a daily Substack (especially when its origin stems from my life-shattering loss, but has as its goal providing others who grieve deeper understanding from my own ongoing experiences) is challenging in ways I haven’t anticipated. At the beginning, I thought I might eventually lack for material. But that isn’t the case. I wondered if there really would be that much to say about living with grief. It seems that there is. I thought it might become an onerous burden because of its everyday-ness. In fact, it has become part of my daily rhythm, and I’m too far deep into it now to give it up.

My biggest writing surprise is the sense of responsibility I carry to tell my story in ways that are honest, while providing a means to encourage other grievers and those who support grievers. I never want this medium to become a canvass for my own pain alone, but as a mural reflecting an intentional, reflective life that finds healing and renewed purpose, offering that same hope for others.

While my “numbers” are very modest compared to other Substack writers (I have more than three hundred subscribers, with about two-thirds reading on a regular, daily basis), I feel a kinship with you who read what I have to say. You are valued partners with me in this journey, and I find delight when someone texts me or comments or sends an email, when you have read something helpful or want to share your thoughts with me.

In some ways this space feels “pastoral” to me; it’s like another mode of my vocational life, reinforced with more person-ality. With that sense of things, I probably tend to emphasize more the positive than the negative, and while I do believe I am making good progress in my journey, I have my moments.

Today is one of those “moment” kind of days, and in the interest of authenticity, I’d like to write a little bit about that. With the press of Christmas upon us all, I feel the usual pressures — vocationally and personally — to be at my best. This is a season when parishioners should expect the best of their pastor: thoughtful sermons, well-designed worship liturgies, a compassionate presence. It’s the time of year when children and grandchildren expect reliability: consistent presence, steadiness in the midst of chaos, bearer of family tradition, repository of relational history.

This season has always been filled with expectations and intensities, and for years I have been able to navigate these days with some degree of success (whatever “success” looks like in this context). But, as you might expect, this year is heavier for me because I am navigating my canoe in the river of life without my navigator and ballast of three decades. To extend that metaphor, avoiding the rocks and confidently paddling through the rapids without Claudia’s support feels precarious and uncertain. I kind of want to paddle to the safety of the shoreline, pull my canoe out of the waters and hunker down in known safety.

This morning I am back to my a more normal-for-me wake time, about 5 AM, and after my first-of-the-morning routines, I stepped through the darkness of my living room into the sun room, where I snapped on my reading lamp. The lamp illuminates my immediate space, but within just a couple of feet there is shadow. I can see the contours of my living room furniture, and if I look outside I can see the vaguest of images which appear because they are back lit by city lights.

As I open the page to my Daily Office, I notice that today’s antiphon (IYKYK) is in Latin, with English translation.

O Clavis David, et sceptrum domus Israel;
qui aperis, et nemo claudit;
claudis, et nemo aperit:
veni, et educ vinctum de domo carceris,
sedentem in tenebris, et umbra mortis

[O Key of David and sceptre of the House of Israel;
you open and no one can shut;
you shut and no one can open:
Come and lead the prisoners from the prison house,
those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.]

While I am not a Latin speaker, my eyes are drawn immediately to two phrases:

Et nemo claudit

I immediately see “Claudia” (and, eerily enough, as I type those words, the spell-checker replaces claudit with “Claudia”; it takes several delete key strokes to return to the Latin).

“No one can shut.” I think of the irrepressible personality of my wife, whom no one could ever really push aside.

And I see:

sedentem in tenebris, et umbra mortis

“Those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.”

It’s odd how my mind makes connections, because as I read “shadow of death,” I am taken back to an era I know only through what I’ve learned from an older generation, the old-time radio show, “The Shadow.”

And my mind re-interprets the opening words of the radio program. I hear: “Who knows what pain lurks in the heart of” a grieving person? Although the question hits me differently, the answer is the same: “The shadow knows.”

Today — as I have now for nearly nine months — I live with the shadow of death in my life. While it does take my breath away, it does not debilitate me. And while there are moments when I can only see amorphous shapes with no definition, I know eventually the sun will rise and new light will provide more clarity.

And while it would be much easier and even more (temporarily) comforting to close the curtains and turn off the lights and cover myself in the shadows, I simply cannot do that. Of course, I may do that for a few minutes, or even the better part of some days, but I cannot stay there. I am drawn to light, which I can recognize only because of the shadow.

The shadow may “know,” but it is Love who heals.