It’s Friday, But Easter Is Coming Reflections on Suffering and Hope by a Woman Left Behind April 2006

by Annie Bennett
Photos by Russell Byrne

The story of Christ’s Passion is familiar to everyone these days. Mel Gibson’s blockbuster seems to have been viewed by more people in our society than have ever read the actual account in the gospels. The powerful pattern of suffering, death, and resurrection speaks to the heart of people who are experiencing some personal Gethsemane or Golgotha and longing for a rebirth of hope in their life.

Easter is coming again with its deathless message of hope together with the deep and rich themes that belong to the season. “Why do you look for the living among the dead?” the angel asked. “He is not here! He has risen!” And then my great response, “Because He lives, I too shall live!”

I think that many people regard such words as metaphors at best, and as poetic fancies at worst. However, recent events in my life have forced me to come to grips with Easter promises as being rock solid realities. The truth of the resurrection has become more substantial than the hard and stony path that I’ve been forced to walk during the past year.

My Garden of Grief
The Bible tells us that Jesus suffered and cried out to God in a place called the Garden of Gethsemane. I had my own Brentwood version of Gethsemane this year. This month, April 26, marks the 20th anniversary of my marriage to Michael Bennett. May 14 will mark the first anniversary of his death.

A sword pierced my soul when my husband died. There is no minimizing the pain of my loss. Losing your life partner is like having an arm or leg cut off. I feel that never this side of death will I become absolutely whole again, because my mind will never become perfectly accustomed to Michael’s absence.

Almost daily — and often without warning — I experience an aching need for my beloved husband to somehow return and once again fill the yawning emptiness at my side. In the darkness of the night I can still roll over and reach for the beloved person who will never be there again. I seem at times to carry my emotions in my throat and behind my eyes rather than within my breast. I often find myself trying to swallow some bitter lump that will not go down while once again winking hot tears out of sore eyes.

Many things stop making sense when one is in the midst of grief. Heartache is often like a hand held before the eyes of clear reasoning. Social relationships are no longer perfectly smooth. Grief is a period of time during which the society of people, even of beloved friends and relatives, often seems awkward. During many social gatherings my loss would fill the room like the proverbial elephant that everyone knows is there but that nobody wants to talk about.

On the other hand, I didn’t like people asking me if I was okay. I wasn’t okay, and resented at some level the implication that I should be all right in spite of having been left behind by the death of my husband. I was in a strange kind of I’m Not Okay, But That’s Okay ego state. I was never depressed, but it wouldn’t have helped my faith to pretend that the sun was shining on me in the midst of those dark passages, no matter how much friends and relatives might hope that it was.

Holidays are particularly stressful for grieving people, I think. The truth is that I enjoy my life and especially relish the presence of my children and friends. However, I still found myself unexpectedly blinking through tears during times of laughter because I know Michael would have been right in the middle of it. He would have been the one carving the meat at the Christmas dinner. He would be dueling with light sabers in a back yard full of our children and neighbor kids. He would have been by my side wrapping Christmas presents for our little cousins into the wee hours of the night, and laughing with me at shared memories.

New Year’s Day was filled with minor annoyances. I spent the day battling with ants and struggling with a balky refrigerator. My three boys ended up at parties, but I did not feel like partying so my daughter and I pigged out on hot wings and pizza. Those delicious pieces of finger-food made my heart hurt because I remembered that Michael had introduced me to the culinary delight Buffalo wings provide.

That night my son arrived home, walked into the room, and said, “It is 2006! We made it!” I smiled, but later I wept, as well. Because it had been a long journey to the new year, and my spiritual feet were sore with the stones strewing the weary pathway that I had been walking down during those long sorrow-filled months.

I think the death of a spouse is a tough thing even in the worst of marriages. It is especially difficult in a blessed union like ours. Michael was a gift that God gave to me. Throughout the years of our marriage my heart was continually overflowing with the richness of the devotion that he offered to me. During every day of our lives together he loved me beyond all conditions and qualifications.

So now I’m on a long-term mission of coping with the fact that my best friend no longer walks at my side down the pathway of my life. Michael always made me feel like I was a movie star. I was the sun in his skies; he completed me; I was whole with him. I often feel overwhelmed by his continued absence.

At one point I came to picture my progress through grief as a bridge that was in the shape of a cross. I would be required to pass through an intersection in which final acceptance of the promises of God lay on one side and final resignation to His will on the other. No matter what happened, I couldn’t go around that junction. Any detour would simply delay my progress, because it would eventually bring me back to the same point where I still would be facing that crossing. However, Jesus himself was waiting for me and He held my hand as I made that transition. He became my Bridge over Troubled Water during that passage. 

Most importantly, Jesus built a bridge for us to come to Him, and He built that bridge out of His own sufferings. Someone recently showed me a paraphrase of an old poem that speaks to my pain:

The other gods were strong but you were weak
They rode but you stumbled to your throne
To a wounded world only a wounded god can speak
And no other god has wounds but you alone.

Like Jesus, Michael was a bridge-builder. When he and I would find ourselves at two different points, he would build a bridge to bring us together. He built bridges for others, as well. He connected our children to unconditional love and to their Creator. He connected adults to the One who could help them through tough times and could bring peace to their out-of-control lives. He was the Children’s Pastor at our church and connected countless children to The Source of all joyful and healthy relationships. He built a special bridge to the heart of a cancer patient when he had her shave his head.

A Brentwood Golgotha
While his grieving relatives and friends watched in helpless sorrow Jesus was put to death on a mountain called Golgotha, or “Calvary” in Latin. I confronted the awful specter of death myself last spring. Before Michael’s passing I had to face mortality on a number of occasions, and did not do particularly well with the experiences. While growing up I found the topic of death to be confusing, scary, and overwhelmingly sad. The thought of people dying would often make me cry.

When I was in high school the death of my best friend’s mom gave me my first opportunity to confront the loss of somebody I knew well. The subsequent death of my brother especially forced me to face the whole issue of grieving. The loss of my brother forced me to try to get my mind around the fact that without exception or remedy our journey of life must end with our deaths. I began to wrestle with questions like, What is death? What is the grief cycle all about? How can I possibly make my way through this?

Michael’s death came as a totally unanticipated blow. The day began as a typical Saturday. He had just returned from a 22-mile bike ride. We were having gorgeous weather and when his riding companion commented at one point on how beautiful the morning was, Michael said, “Can you imagine what heaven is going to be like?” A few hours later he no longer had to imagine.

When Michael got back from his ride we prepared to make breakfast. He complained that he had a pain in his right side. He laughed and said, “If the pain had been on my left side I would have gone to the emergency room, and you would have punched me.” I had gone into the bedroom to change when my son suddenly screamed and I heard the horrible sound of someone struggling unsuccessfully to breathe. I knew instantly that Michael was having a heart attack.

As I entered the room I felt like someone had suddenly covered me with a warm blanket. In an instant I had a sure conviction that the sovereignty of God was filling the little room. I knew in my heart that Michael was gone and never for a moment did I entertain the slightest hope that anyone in the world could fix his heart and bring him back to us. However, I felt completely enveloped by an amazing grace that was effectively shielding me from feelings of panic or despair.

There was a brief break in my composure when we couldn’t find the phone, but that passed immediately. We called 911 and I sent my son to get the neighbor. The neighbor came rushing over and performed CPR. But there was never any response. I remember that the medics seemed to take forever to arrive. The sirens sounded so far away and seemed to come so slowly.

Amusing things happened throughout that day. Death exerts such power that I think I was ready for some comic release in order to somehow manage an experience that I obviously could not cope with at all. At a number of points that day we would be laughing and I would have a powerful conviction that Michael would have been enjoying the humor. Perhaps in some unguessable fashion he really was there laughing with us.

Golden Hills Community Church is large and our wonderful staff simply engulfed me in a spiritual tidal wave of love. I felt I behaved in a rude manner towards the hospital chaplain when she attempted to give me solace. She asked about Michael and I replied, “I don’t want to talk to you about my husband. I don’t need to talk to you. I have 18 pastors I can talk to and nine of them are here with me.” She seemed to feel that I had rebuffed her, so I asked our senior minister, Pastor Larry, to explain the situation to her and he was able to calm the anxious woman.

As I look back on the final six months of my time with Michael, I can see ways in which it seems that he had a premonition of what lay ahead. For example, I am in charge of the woman’s ministry in our church and Michael validated me and my ministry in ways that he had never done before. Because we believe in mom staying with young children, Michael’s ministry was the more important in our family. I tend to get over-involved and when our family life would get knocked out of kilter, he would say, “We need to get back in balance,” which meant I needed to slow down. But during his final year Michael became unexpectedly encouraging to me. I felt a new sense of being healthy and whole in my own service to the church.

Two weeks before he died Michael made an unforgettable comment about our second son. “Austin has a good head on his shoulders,” he said. “And he’s going to be okay.” The comment fit into the conversation we were having, but nevertheless it stuck with me and I remember thinking “Why did he say it like that?” It was the first comment I remembered after Michael’s passing, since I really needed the kids to successfully make their way past the terrible thing that had happened. And, in fact, the kids are doing fine working through the process.

Unlike the rest of us, Austin never cried openly for his loss. When we were driving back after Thanksgiving from San Diego I asked him. “Do you have any good memories about your dad?“ It was like he stabbed me in the heart when he answered “No.” We had eaten dinner as a family almost every night, and we would laugh together all the time. How could my son say that he didn’t have good memories? Then Austin explained to me, “It’s beyond good memories. Dad’s life is completely wrapped up in mine. He is part of everything.” And then he added “I always wanted to grow up to be like my dad.”

My other two sons have been able to verbalize better and to show more open emotions. Through my family’s various responses I learned that each person finds his/her own way to manage the Golgotha encounters that come into our lives. Our various responses to death point to the uniqueness each of us has in our relationship to God. Everyone finally has to deal with his/her Creator as a one-on-one experience.

A Hope Beyond the Tomb
The gospel records show that death couldn’t hold the Lord. After three days His grieving followers discovered the miracle of the empty tomb. That incident resonates throughout all the parts of my life these days. It’s been a difficult journey since Michael’s death, but at the very worse times I always knew that I would eventually be okay.

Death is being overtaken by life day-by-day. My personal world is in a process of renewing itself. God really has been with me as a Good Shepherd through the nighttime valley I have had to walk and my face is turned towards the sunrise.

Michael is where he wanted to be; he is where God wanted him to be. I finally have to say that he is where I want him to be, as well.

The sense of God’s sovereignty that I experienced in our living room that morning has lasted with me throughout the long months of the transition that I’ve passed through. The promise of Easter is my sure hope. Because Jesus Christ lives, Michael is surely alive and well. The verse of an old hymn, “Jerusalem the Golden,” is true for me beyond all doubt or question:

There is the throne of David, and there, from care released,
The shout of them that triumph, the song of them that feast;
And they, who with their Leader, have conquered in the fight,
Forever and forever are clad in robes of white.

The Bible says, that the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead will also give life to my body. Because Jesus lives, I too shall live.

I know that this world is a passing show. “We don’t grieve as those without hope,” the Bible says. And says it truly. I will probably miss Michael until the moment I lie down in death, but I don’t doubt that in the next moment the world will fade away as though I were waking from a dream. At that moment my renewed eyesight and hearing will be filled with the sights and sounds of the changeless reality that lies beneath the passing foam and froth of this world.

The pains and sorrows of this Good Friday-like life that I’m living will be completely swallowed up by the eternal Easter Celebration awaiting me when I go finally home. How happy that homecoming will be!

And in that next world Michael and I will surely be together again. O how I will dash into my husband’s arms on that happy day!

NOTE: Michael’s final entry in his daily journal had a quote that could have served as the basis for his epitaph:

“An inheritance is what you leave for someone;
a legacy is what you leave in someone.”
(Don Patterson)

Michael Shawn Bennett
Sept 15, 1961 – May 14, 2005