Wait

 And grief still feels ... like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling.

--C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

Even five months out, my subconscious does not catch up. In my practical life, I know what I must do. I am in a pretty consistent problem-solving mode. And I am not bad at it. There are times when I am overwhelmed, but I have worked out a system with the kids on how to signify that to them, and what to do about it (another example of, well, problem-solving). I also have many helping me, many who care for me.

In the midst of the active days, I sometimes catch myself and realize that what inspires me in this problem-solving mode is the awareness that has got me through similar seasons in life: the awareness of finitude. Intense times are temporary. There are sabbath rests at the end. So far so good.

But I have also realized that I still expect this season to end with Heidi coming back and telling me I did a good job without her. My subconscious has a sort of yearning for her return, her affirmation to the tone of "Well done, my good and faithful husband." In my humanity— my life bound to imagination and sense— the virtual intention that keeps me going is ultimately a mistaken one: some kind of earthly reunion with Heidi, to finish life together.

Then the night comes. Sabbath rest is here. And I can be more deliberate, less led by imagination. And it is not better. If my subconscious keeps me going through daily activity by means of a sort of error, my conscious thought knows well that I shall not have my wife back in this life. There is no term to this time. When I get right down to it, I act goal-lessly, end-lessly. By day, I am waiting. By night, I ask: What am I waiting for?

I know what the believer is supposed to say. I know I am supposed to wait for heaven, or resurrection. But that was true before, too, when I was striving to do it with Heidi. It is true for all the good believers, even the ones still in happy marriages who did NOT lose their spouse in horrible death. My life has changed; Faith's proffered goal hasn't. It is hard for the reiteration of a goal common to all to make sense of a new, very individual situation.

In whining about this, I am being very modern. I know that. When you read the Acts of the Apostles and the epistles, it is clear that the basic message of Christianity was resurrection, and that was enough for them. Today, in the New Evangelization, Christians often add to this basic message by emphasizing God's unique plan for the individual in this life, too. "God loves you and has a wonderful plan for your life." You hear a lot about "story" and "part to play" in the "drama" and such.

Now, I am not about to say that I don't think this is true. As I said before, if God is God, there is providence, and providence extends even to individuals and their lives.

But for me, it is hard to see any story now. What's the plan now? Just maintenance, I guess. There's no alternative earthly goal to get excited about, no mediate end to be proactive about. I guess I'll just go back to daily problem-solving.

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In the earlier stages of this, my new life, when the skill-building and the problem-solving was even more intense, my memory often went back to the movie The Martian. There's a great line in that film about problem-solving that actually has inspired me as I move forward. The main character, Mark Watney (played by Matt Damon) says:

At some point, everything’s gonna go south and you’re going to say, this is it... Now, you can either accept that, or you can get to work. That’s all it is. You just begin. You do the math. You solve one problem and you solve the next one and then the next. And if you solve enough problems, you get to come home.

When I have been overwhelmed and tempted to think that "going on" is impossible, this quote sustained me. Just solve one problem at a time. And I'll tell you: It does work.

But unlike Mark Watney, no matter how many problems I solve, they have no bearing on my coming home. No matter how well I do, the problem of Heidi's absence is not getting solved, not getting fixed.

"I do not ask to see the distant scene: one step enough for me" (St. John Henry Newman, Lead Kindly Light). I suppose this should be my sentiment, and it is when I am acting on subconscious and imagination. But in my lucid moments, I can't even rise to wonder where I'm going. The question is, am I going? Is there motion? Or is there just waiting?

Waiting under weight. I have noticed that when we go for walks, I walk more slowly, more slowly now than my kids. My feet are heavier. Grief is gravity (quite literally, etymologically speaking).

I'm in no hurry. I thank God that they are. I am so glad that they still have a strong sense of journey, story, plan.