Reflections for the Grieving Soulनमूना

Christ Himself is our peace. EPHESIANS 2:14 NCV We were sitting in the basement, wrapped up in blankets (because it’s always chilly down there), watching something funny on TV. To Amy’s left was the ubiquitous glass of iced tea that, over the years, had earned a seat of its own on the couch. I sat to her right, where it had been my job for nearly thirty years to scratch her back while our show was playing. While I scratched, she rested her hand on my leg, gently rubbing my aching muscles. I see everything in this memory, the gray Captain America T-shirt of mine that she wore as her pajamas, the green Mickey Mouse pillows scattered nearby, the Red Vines on the counter. It’s almost as if my mind took a photo and stored it in there while I wasn’t looking. And then, in between our binge-watching episodes, she turned to me. “This feels like just a normal night,” she said earnestly, “like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and find out that cancer was all just a bad dream.” She breathed. I waited. And then she leaned forward and rested her head on my knee. “I don’t want to die,” she said quietly. We were both crying now. “I know,” I said. I leaned over and wrapped my arms around her waist. She returned my embrace, and we were silent for a while. Finally, she kissed my face and smiled. “It’s going to be OK,” she said, “no matter what happens.” She leaned back into her seat. “Now turn on the next episode. I like feeling normal, even if it’s just for tonight.” So we spent the rest of the evening being “normal.” It was a strange island of peace within a long, difficult sea-journey from our married life to Amy’s death. It was not just a night blown on mindless TV anymore. It had become a holy thing, a supernatural gift of kindness from the Spirit of Christ, wrapping us in His comfort, keeping us warmed by both His love and ours. And two months later she was gone. Now it is nearly a year since I’ve been forced to sit alone in that chilly little basement. I still can’t watch new episodes of our show; I don’t even record them anymore. It just feels awkward to watch without her. It doesn’t feel normal. I understand now what Amy felt that night, what she shared with me. It was the peace that settles over a life unhindered by worry or fear, blanketed in the strength and unity of a loving relationship. It is that sense of awareness of goodness, of well- being and security— of the Old Testament’s shalom or the New Testament’s eirēnē, or what we call peace. The certainty that in spite of everything , everything is going to be all right. That used to be “normal” for both Amy and me. An ordinary thing . . . but it is difficult to find that kind of peace without her sitting beside me, drinking iced tea, laughing at the imaginary world on our TV. The apostle Paul tells me today that “Christ Himself is our eirēnē .” He is our peace. And I believe it in my mind. I’ve known that peace myself, intimately, though it seems like ages ago since I last saw it here in my life. Christ, You are my peace. In my head I know this without question. But how long, oh Lord, must I wait before my lonely heart remembers it too? PRAYER FOR TODAY Lord Christ, You are my eirēnē . May Your supernatural peace rest in, on, and through me today. And especially tonight when I feel most alone. Amen.