The Joyful Widower

When I first became a widower, I felt like there was a big invisible “W” tattooed on my forehead. I knew it wasn’t really there, but it felt like everyone “knew just by looking at me” that my wife had died.

I read an article about a year or so into being a widower (I can’t find it, don’t know what key words to use to google it, and would appreciate it if anyone out there recognizes the premise and can send me references) about the human tendency, when we’re in a group, to consciously or unconsciously identify things that make us unique in that group. That certainly was my experience. I remember sitting in meetings, discussing software development and gathering requirements, and suddenly when looking at the people gathered around the table the thought would cross my mind “everyone here is married, and I’m the one widower in the bunch.” Quite likely, they were all carrying on their own internal conversations about what made them different from everyone else in the group. Regardless, the foremost marker of distinction that came to mind for me, every time, was that I was a widower. And when bereavement is your marker, depression can’t be too far behind.

Even after remarrying, it felt like the “W” was still there. Still this awareness was always lurking in the background, ready to pop up and remind me at odd times. Over time the sharpness dulled, but it has never gone away.

When contemplating this article, my brain went from the big “Ws” tattooed on my forehead (yes, since Tracy died, it feels like I now have two of them) to the big “W” in the movie “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World.” If you haven’t seen the film, you owe it to yourself. Go watch it, because my next comments pertain to the film. We’ll wait…

…okay, you didn’t really go watch it, did you? For those who didn’t and who haven’t seen it, the movie starts with Jimmy Durante as an ex-con who drives over a cliff. As he’s dying, he tells the motorists who have stopped to help him that there’s a large cache of money buried under a big “W.” Hilarity ensues for the next 3 1/2 hours, as a who’s-who cast of characters go to insane lengths racing each other to find the “W” and the buried treasure.

Where am I going with all this? Simply this. Perhaps there is a treasure to be found under this big “W” after all. Perhaps, in uniting myself and my sorrows to Christ and his cross, there is something of great value to be found and not to be avoided. If there is the possibility of such a treasure, to what lengths could or should I go to find it?

Again, the kingdom of heaven is like unto treasure hid in a field; the which when a man hath found, he hideth, and for joy thereof goeth and selleth all that he hath, and buyeth that field.

St. Matthew 13:44 KJV

Is it possible to find joy (and by joy, I don’t mean mere happiness, but peace and contentment) in being a widower? Is there something salvific, even, in embracing the “W”?

Years ago, the first Orthodox saint who reached out to me and made herself know was St. Xenia of St. Petersburg. The first night I attended evening prayers with the gathering that would go on to become St. Anne’s in Oak Ridge, a fellow showed me her icon and told me her story.

St. Xenia was widowed as a young woman when her husband died suddenly and unexpectedly. She gave away all her possessions and spent the next several decades of her life homeless in St. Petersburg, praying for her husband. She was known for her kindness towards all around her, and she performed many good works in secret. Her desire for Christ, lived out in a life of repentance for herself and for her husband, regardless of the cost to herself, manifested itself in many miracles, particularly clairvoyance. Even had these miracles not occurred, her story is a shining example of one who abandons all for Christ and finds him faithful.

I realized several months after Melinda’s death (yes, I was incredibly slow on the uptake) that this wonderful saint had reached out to me as one who knows what it is to be widowed young, long before I myself was widowed young. I feel her prayers for me. To me, she is “Mother Xenia,” a very kind, grandmotherly presence who points me to Christ, the one for whom she abandoned everything.

So, the big “W” is a place for me to seek for treasure, to seek Christ precisely in this place of loss and pain. Here I can pray for Melinda and for Tracy. Here I can know what it is to be poor, to have no control, and to know my need of Christ, and to know that, like St. Xenia before me, I can find him if I pursue him whole-heartedly. God forgive me, I don’t have her zeal, but God bless my poor efforts and make up the difference!

And, thank heavens, my search doesn’t include Ethel Merman screeching in my ears the whole time (seriously, go watch the movie).