Irish Magic

I try to be open about my struggles, both in my life and my faith, so that others will understand that loving Jesus isn’t a force field that protects me from all of life’s hurts and sorrows. Having Jesus as my Savior is a deep abiding knowledge that He loves me deeply in return, and wants to comfort me in my brokenness.

Jesus instructed believers to comfort others through his apostle Paul, saying – “Rejoice with them that do rejoice, and weep with them that weep.” Jesus provides believers this instruction as an important reminder for both the good times, and the heartbreaking times. (Romans 12:15-16.)

Most people like rejoicing with others – easily sharing in the mutual endorphin boosts at weddings, graduations, baby showers, family reunions, etc. There are far fewer people who stand on the shoreline with those who mourn as they get pummeled by fresh waves of grief.

I wish I knew before I became a widow what grief does physically. There is a twenty times increased risk of heart attack for the bereaved in the first 24 hours after a loss, followed by a lesser but still increased risk at every subsequent wave of grief. Systemic inflammation leads to profound fatigue, a sort of ‘grief flu,’ making it very difficult to cook, clean or socialize. An elevation in cortisol makes it difficult to eat and sleep. The brain interprets grief as a threat to survival and must take time to process the loss, which leads to cognitive difficulties, also known as ‘grief brain.’

Emotionally, I am grieving the past I shared with my husband, the loss of my children’s father, the invisible losses of his conversations and guidance and protection, the loss of our future dreams. I am navigating a massive identity shift, often feeling like the ground I stand on is located on a fault line.

Socially, I am among the one third of widows who became a widow before they turned sixty. I wish I could deny the statistic that says widows lose 75% of their social circle within the first year of widowhood. My husband’s death has begun to illuminate this. People who say they are ‘busy’ simply reveal their priorities. Or, they don’t want to risk upsetting me by saying the ‘wrong’ thing. Saying ‘nothing’ is the ‘wrong’ thing. I want to speak about my husband, as he was a vital and beautiful presence for 62 years and his ‘deployment to heaven’ as I like to think of it doesn’t stop my love for him, or my longing for the day we are reunited.

A multitude of ‘grief lifeguards’ rushed in for my initial devastating tsunami, and each and every one of them were deeply appreciated. The grief lifeguards that are still vigilantly guarding my emotional shoreline months after my husband’s death are profoundly treasured.

I write none of this in accusation, knowing I have failed others in the past, and wishing I knew then what I know now.

Recently I was shown this, “Weep with those who weep” compassion in the form of magical Irish hospitality, but first let me tell you what brought me there.

After spending four months putting my husband’s affairs in order, the day arrived when the final urgent document was signed. There will be other paperwork to come, but not as urgent. I left my appointment feeling stable but later in the day I found myself trembling and weeping uncontrollably in a grocery store parking lot. I called one of my sons and he said firmly, “I’m coming. Stay there.” True to his word, he was there in a minute and I was engulfed in his strong arms in a second. I drenched his shirt with my tears, and he patiently allowed the storm to pass. Long before my husband died, he had said on a number of occasions, “If I die, you’ll be ok. You have six sons that love you and will never let you suffer.” I cannot count the times I hear the wisdom of my husband in my head and I laugh through my tears and tell him, “You were right sweetheart.”

I went home that afternoon weighed down by checking off months of ‘have to do’ items and having an uncontrollable desire to finally enjoy a ‘get to do’ item. It took me less than an hour to plan a spontaneous four day trip to Ireland for the following week. My children all chipped in to make this happen, acting in such a harmonious fashion that I didn’t worry about anything as I stepped on the plane.

I arrived in Ireland ready for adventure. I spent my first day trekking around Dublin before taking a taxi to my bed and breakfast, located in a small coastal village where the salty scent of the nearby estuary seeped into my lungs, refreshing me from the inside out.

I needed to search out dinner and was confronted with a very busy Friday night downtown crowd. As I sat alone at a table for two time dragged by with no food in sight. Staring at the empty chair across from me became too much for my heart to bear. Tears began to slip down my face, unbidden and unwanted. The situation worsened when the waiter came by and casually swept the chair away to place it at another table. A table where people were laughing too loud and too long. Sensory overload drove me out of my chair. I walked to the front door, intending to tell a waitress to box my dinner. I had every intention of fleeing this emotional landmine, but God had other plans.

As I tried to explain my situation, I began to shake and weep. Two young waitresses rushed to my aid. ‘Mourning with those who mourn.’ The first waitress offered me a healthy dose of compassion with a side order of tough love. She refused to let me flee in tears, seating me at an outside table. Plying me with tea she paid for herself, she patted my arm while telling me, “You’ll heal. You’ll heal.” She basically forced me to face this inevitable ‘famous first’ of eating alone. The other waitress had celestial blue eyes and she patiently listened to me talk about my husband, our stelliscript romance and the life we built over thirty six years. She kept telling me, “You came here all by yourself? You’re so brave, you’re so brave.”

I think God and my husband tenderly conspired to send those two young women to me in my hour of need. Why? Their names. The blue eyed one was named Ella. I am named after my great aunt whose name was Ella. The tea pouring waitress was named Saoirse ( pronounced Seer-shuh.) That is my middle name.

These compassionate young women crafted a simple spell over my dinner. Plying me with tea and food was tender and kind. But patting my arm and reminding me, “You’ll heal, you’re so brave,” was more magical than they knew.

The following evening, I had to face a solo dinner again – but this time, I wasn’t as overwhelmed by it. I had some sparkly Irish magic tucked deep inside me. Repeating to myself, “You’ll heal, you’re so brave,” I sat down at my table, and began to people watch.

A local woman approached and asked if she could sit with me. I said yes and she was fabulously friendly and adorably sarcastic. I asked her if all Irish people were so comfortable with grief, and she laughed and said, “Darling, we’re Irish, we wail with the banshees. If you want, I’ll cry for your husband.” She encouraged me to try Guinness beer, ( which I did) nudged me to eat, ( which I didn’t because the meat was dry) and comfortably told the waiter to “Give kind regards to the cobbler in the kitchen as the meat was tough as shoe leather.” She has messaged me every day since I’ve come home. Her friendship encourages me to smile.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice and weep with those who weep,” requires something the Irish seemed to have mastered. The word WITH. ‘With’ in the Latin language is ‘com.’ You will find it in this word – ‘companion.’ Com = with, panis = bread. Companion literally means ‘one who breaks bread with another.’

To ‘weep with those who weep’ means you have to be with them, willing to break bread, while sharing in their broken heart.

I have come home a little stronger. I carry inside me the magical Irish advice, “You’ll heal, you’re so brave.” I also carry the deep appreciation for the people who weep WITH those who weep.

Go mbeannai Dia duit ~ “May God bless you.”

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