Til Death Do Us Part

Marriages end in death. This isn’t news, but rarely is it foremost in the minds of the happy couple exchanging vows. In the group photos, no one is wondering who will die first: the bride or the groom. That is how it should be, as such thoughts are unsuitable for such a beautiful occasion.

Then life happens. My marriage, of some forty years, ended in death last month. The light of my life, my best friend and near-lifelong companion, the mother of my eight children, finally succumbed to cancer at the age of sixty-two after a heroic five-year battle. Requiescat in pace. 

Healing will eventually arrive; of this I am supremely confident. Our faith also speaks of a blessed reunion, one that will know no end, provided that I live my remaining days in such a way that reflects my commitment to and faith in that merciful and just God who I hope will pardon my repentant soul.

Yet the temporal aspect of this awful separation does not lessen the intense pain. My mind accepts the truth of the resurrection—exspecto resurrectionem mortuorum—even while my heart aches over her loss in a way that defies description. The sound of her silence is deafening; her absence is present everywhere.

But I accuse myself: Is this unexpected? On what basis was I anticipating a different result? Didn’t I sign up for this possibility when I said “until death do us part”? 

Beyond that, am I so myopic that I cannot see I’m not alone here? Not only in the sense that there are millions of my older brothers and sisters in the faith who are in this club of grieving widows and widowers—many of whom lost their spouses in a much more tragic fashion than I lost mine—but also in the sense that the good Lord who first gave me Caroline to be my faithful bride has also given me friends and family to stand with me at the foot of this particular cross.

Stabat Mater dolorosa. I’ve heard that phrase hundreds of times, but its impact has never been more powerful. In the midst of the most painful moment in all eternity, with death and evil apparently triumphant, Our Lady stood by her divine Son, confident that the all-loving and all-powerful God knew what he was doing. My God, what faith she had. May she be a mother to me now.

In the Psalms we offer hymns of praise and joy along with cries of pain and sorrow. Our status as creatures and children who were created for eternal life somehow demands this. So too must we remember that the glorified and risen body of Our Lord still bears the wounds of his suffering. What we do on this earth matters; it echoes in eternity. Just as my wife bore the cross of her sickness, so I am called to bear the cross of this separation. We carry the wounds created by such trials into eternity. Through sufferings uniquely our own, the Lord is calling us closer to him, which is both comforting and terrifying. Do I really have what it takes to be so close to him? Do I even want that? But why would I want anything else? Oh my God, have mercy on me, a sinner—and help me in my weakness.

St. Paul told the Colossians to “be grateful.” Excellent advice, especially for those anxious or sad. How could I ever begrudge the Lord for calling her back to him when he is the one who gave her to me in the first place? Not to mention the many years of laughter, life, and love—as well as many struggles—through which we grew stronger and closer to him.

If someone had approached me five years ago and offered to guarantee my wife’s eternal happiness if I but endured a brief period of excruciating suffering, I would have jumped at the chance, like most husbands who love their wives as Christ loves the Church. But I wouldn’t have known what I was getting myself into. The only thing I could be sure of is that the Lord would be there to help me carry that load, for without him I could do nothing. What is even more remarkable is that while I’d like to think I’d do anything for those I love, I’d have a much harder time doing it for complete strangers, much less for those who wish me harm. Yet that is precisely what Our Lord has done for each of us.

I sense an extraordinary proximity to my bride every time I am at Mass or at Adoration. Perhaps this is a consolation that will remain, or perhaps at some point it will be gently withdrawn, encouraging me to an even deeper trust as I hold on in the dark. Either way, I hope and pray that I emulate my wife and friend, who showed me what it looks like to embrace the will of God, no matter the cost.

One way to undermine that would be to absolutize the things of this earth—even the most beautiful—so that I miss the invitation to greater intimacy with the Blessed Trinity. It was for a very good reason that Beatrice, after guiding Dante through Paradiso, gave him one last look of love, and then turned her gaze away from him and toward the Beatific Vision, to which we are all called. Poi si tornò all’eterna fontana. May we all join that heavenly banquet, but in God’s good time.

He knows what he is doing.