Grief, Guilt and Blame

 Letting God take the Fall

By Kathy Deters

In the first six months after my husband’s death my children and I were flooded with cards, e-mails, letters, texts, phone calls, Facebook messages, books on grief and even one surprise visit at our doorstep by a church we had never heard of, wanting to pray with us (yes, I’ll be honest, that last one made me a bit uncomfortable).

While the words of support came from a diverse range of ages, religious backgrounds and geographic locations, certain common themes began to emerge. Most cards bore an image of a fluttering butterfly, a serene beach, an autumn leaf twisting in the wind or a secluded lake at sunset. Books covered the basics of “what to expect when you’re grieving;” I flipped through a few in hopes of coming across a random photo of Adam Levine, but seeing none, never actually got around to reading them. And text messages frequently included a link to a blog article that inevitably explained why no matter how bleak or hopeless things felt I must never, ever blame God for what had happened. In fact, seldom did a week pass in those first six months that someone didn’t advise me, “People will tell you this is God’s will, but it’s not.” The funny thing is, not one person actually told me that my husband’s death at the age of 41 was God’s will or part of God’s plan. No one. Not once. But plenty of people told me that it wasn’t.

So instead, I was left with two possibilities: A) His heart attack was random, which meant there was no plan, and my broken little family was now in a complete and total free fall, or B) His heart attack was someone’s fault, and therefore could have been prevented.

Maybe it was my husband’s fault for loving his IPA a bit too much, and for refusing to take up golf, which I was certain was a much safer hobby than running. Or maybe it was my fault for contributing to his high blood pressure by letting him eat cheeseburgers and arguing with him over what were ultimately petty issues (did it really matter whose turn it was to unload the dishwasher?), and for not having his running route memorized so I’d know where to look if he didn’t come home on time. Blaming myself was much easier than blaming my husband, because I always loved him too much to stay angry with him for long. So I spent months lying in bed at night listing all the reasons it was my fault; I counted reasons to blame myself the way others count sheep.

But whatever you do, don’t blame God.

In the midst of one of those long, sleepless nights, I heard a voice in the back of my head—Harry Anderson’s voice, because that’s how I picture God—telling me, “It’s okay to blame me, Kathy. I can take it.” To finally be able to put our loss in God’s hands gave me a tremendous sense of peace. 

God had, in his divine wisdom, seen fit to make sure we met at a young age. He filled my husband’s short life with three beautiful children, a rewarding career and a “smokin’ hot wife,” as my husband, a “Talladega Nights” fan, used to call me. We had shared not one, but many fairytale endings. Others point to their happy endings as evidence that God exists. They say that he has blessed them by providing large houses, fat bank accounts, good health and long, happy marriages—in short, answering their prayers. But sometimes, when those answered prayers turn out to be temporary and those fairytale endings fleeting, God makes his presence felt simply by taking on our anger, taking up our burden of guilt and loving us regardless.

St. Mark Presbyterian has a Grief Share program that meets on Wednesdays from 6:30-8:30.  For more information, click here.