My guest

I have a guest. He’s been an occasional house guest over the years, but since my husband died he has taken up residence with me. Some days he sits quietly in a back room and I am only dimly aware of him. Other days he is constantly at my side whispering.

“You can’t do this alone — be father and mother, homemaker and wage-earner, all at once. It is too much for you. Come away with me.”

His name is death. He is persuasive. I want so much to believe him, but I’m not sure.

“Oh the pain you suffer. If you come with me you will never need to feel it again. Blessed relief from all these conflicting emotions. Let me take you away from it all.”

How could I follow him? what would happen to these beloved children? Could I add to the pain of their father’s death their mother’s? What of family and friends who have tried to stand with me in this desolate land?

“Oh, my dear, they get to go back to their warm and full houses, their families and schedules. Their lives go on as before. You are hurt and lonely. Come with me to the land where there is no pain, sorrow and loneliness are no more.”

So my guest sits in his favourite chair waiting for the fight moment to drop a subtle plea. Not talking much, but making  his presence know.

“Perhaps you can be with your beloved again, and if not, it won’t matter. All anguish and brokenness will be gone away.”

When I gingerly feel around that empty place in me that used to be my Beloved’s I long to follow death to that other land. But, I wonder, is this what I want to teach my children? That when things get too rough you just quit? It feels like walking through deep heavy snow. Each step takes so much effort — put a foot down, way down, drag the other foot up and put it down, way down. It would be nice to stop, not struggle anymore, lie down and sleep.

I trudge on, making my feet take those steps. And my guest follows by my side.