Written by CS Lewis, 1961

This is part 2 of a series where I share some of the best bits from A Grief Observed. I don’t want to take away the joy of you reading it yourself, but rather wish to convince my bereaved friends that this is a book worth reading and discuss it with those who have already read it! Let’s settle into a virtual little book club meeting, sharing a cozy booth in an English pub listening to a widower friend tell you his story as we commiserate a bit and support one another.

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Chapter 2

“I must think more about H. and less about myself. Yes, that sounds very well. But there’s a snag. I am thinking about her nearly always. Thinking of the H. facts—real words, looks, laughs, and actions of hers. But it is my own mind that selects and groups them. Already, less than a month after her death, I can feel the slow, insidious beginning of a process that will make the H. I think of into a more and more imaginary woman. Founded on fact, no doubt. I shall put in nothing fictitious (or I hope I shan’t). But won’t the composition inevitably become more and more my own? The reality is no longer there to check me, to pull me up short, as the real H. so often did, so unexpectedly, by being so thoroughly herself and not me.”

Lewis shares the idea of a false memory in this chapter. It reminds me of a conversation I had with a friend who is a widow as well, much further in her journey than myself. She talked about how “a dead man can do no wrong,” and how early in her second marriage, she struggled with putting her late husband on a pedestal of sorts, comparing his best with her new husband’s worst. The memory of your late spouse is a tricky thing, you’re left sorting through the good and the bad, reconciling the bad without them, and missing the good, fearing you’ll forget or misremember. I am thankful that, unlike Lewis, I have technology that preserves so many memories. However, when you’ve lost someone, you know that even the videos, the voicemails, the photos, they aren’t the same. You still feel the ache of missing their hugs and the fear of forgetting their voice or silly details like their favorite donut flavor.

“You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you. It is easy to say you believe a rope to be strong and sound as long as you are merely using it to cord a box. But suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn’t you then first discover how much you really trusted it?”

In A Grief Observed, Lewis shares openly about wrestling with his faith now that it was truly being tested. The questions of why, how, and is God good? It feels like reading his journal or listening to his personal prayers and raw conversation with God as he goes back and forth, almost scolding himself for the thoughts, yet really he’s inviting us into this sacred space where the Lord hears us and allows us speak freely. Jesus himself, being fully man and fully God, was so grieved in the garden that He sweat blood, that he asked if there was another way, that He wept. We have a God who suffered on this earth too, and in the depths of our dispair, the flames of our anger, we can sit in His lap like a toddler who knows no better. Whether we are kicking and screaming or limp and exhausted, He holds us, under His protection, His patience, His never-ending, unconditional live.

“Why do I make room in my mind for such filth and nonsense? Do I hope that if feeling disguises itself as thought I shall feel less? Aren’t all these notes the senseless writhings of a man who won’t accept the fact that there is nothing we can do with suffering except to suffer it? Who still thinks there is some device (if only he could find it) which will make pain not to be pain. It doesn’t really matter whether you grip the arms of the dentist’s chair or let your hands lie in your lap. The drill drills on. And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps, more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much.”

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Have you read this book yet? Join our virtual book club! Leave a comment telling me what you thought of Chapter 2. Or, if you plan on reading it, let me know below then come back!