Worship… in Spite of Pain

The sunlight of day came through the window, but I felt dark. It was pleasingly warm, but I was cold inside. In my bedroom, I dressed beside the empty bed. Then I brushed my teeth in the bathroom which haunted me. My wife was gone. Her death the previous day left me with a vast emptiness inside.

Finally, I emerged ready to leave for church. How could anyone go to church after this kind of loss, I wondered? Worshipping God should be a joyous event, but grief was consuming me. How could I do this? Why was I doing this? The drive was a blur of emotions, but our son was at the wheel, so my mind was free to deal with the memories and thoughts as they hit.

Walking from the car to the church, a swirl of questions began. “Where is Pam?” Reality suddenly resurfaced and the pain of her loss swept over me again. “Where will I sit? How can I do this today?”

Because Pam was in a power-chair I would normally have sat in a chair beside a mat placed on the floor so wheelchairs and power-chairs had a reserved spot to park. This made them part of a row. Pam and I usually sat in the farthest section of rows to the right of the worship center. I walked in the same door as always. Looking straight at our usual spot, I began to ache and my knees began to buckle. Our daughter stepped back to allow me to choose a place to sit and I caught a glimpse of her tears. I turned left to get away from the spot. My eyes scanned for a different place to sit with my family. I moved only forty feet to a section of seats located in the back right corner of the auditorium. There I sat, exhausted from the seating decision.

The service started with music, and the worshippers around me began to sing. I sat and felt the tears begin to roll down my face. I had no idea I could shed that many tears, but they flowed from the beginning of the service to the end. I thought that I was distracting others, but only my family seemed to notice. Still, through the pain, I heard the words of the songs and the message from the teaching pastor. It was the Love of God. Yet, all I could feel was the love I had lost.

As weeks passed, I moved from one place in the auditorium to another, but it was hard to escape the mats for wheelchairs and the reserved seats beside them. It seemed every seat had one near it. I tried to control where I looked so they did not bother me or distract me from worship. After a few weeks, I found a spot. It was on the opposite side of the church in the left back corner and two rows up the risers. From there I could see one mat, but if I was looking toward the front, I didn’t notice it.

I did not want to, nor could I, stop going to church for worship. When the time came for the funeral, I became numb. Later I learned that it was a normal part of the grief process. After a month of the numbness, intense pain returned. It built, even as my physical health deteriorated. As each change of grief occurred, there were new and different feelings in worship. Some were hard, and some were healing. Sometimes I just prayed, “What am I supposed to do now God?” or “Please take care of me. I have no strength and cannot even take care of myself.”

In a few months, the grief began to lessen, and I could then feel healing taking place. First it was a little, then more and more. Every week there were fewer tears and more smiles. I sang softly for a long time, but that was not normal for me. I love to sing and worship. So, after nine months of changes, I found that I was singing normally and smiling during worship. Now I shed tears of joy for the journey God had led me on over that time.

Still, we who grieve have come to understand that waves of grief will return when we least expect them.

Pam was raised in Pennsylvania in a Unitarian Church. One of the things that she had to do for her confirmation was to memorize the Apostles’ Creed. She was so proud to be able to recite it at any moment – at any time in her life. She didn’t just recite it, she believed it with all of her being.

One Sunday our music team introduced a new song called “This I Believe”. It basically set the creed to music. Pam beamed as she sang louder than I had ever heard her sing before. Every time the worship team used it, Pam smiled and sang strongly. I watched and marveled at her worshipping. It joined her love for God, the creed, and music all together.

Time had passed. Tears of pain and loss had gone. Tears of joy in worship had returned. Now on this Sunday morning the worship team pulled out the song, “This I Believe.” And as grief does, it returned for a brief visit.

I heard Pam singing in my mind. Tears welled up. My throat tightened. My words were choked out, and then the tears rolled down my cheeks. As verse two started, I regained my voice and sang strongly again while my smile returned.

I Believe.

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”

Romans 8:18 ESV