Pray Tell is pleased to reprint, with permission, the Amen Corner from Worship 98 (April 2024). To subscribe to the journal Worship, visit the link here.
Walking Alone: Blessed Are Those Who Mourn?
by Nicholas Denysenko
In the summer of 2021, we were beginning to adjust to living with COVID-19. The emergence of the Delta and Omicron variants kept masks on peoples’ faces, but life began to creep back to some semblance of normalcy. People began to venture out again, going to concerts, movies, and restaurants. We were learning how to travel with testing. A glimmer of hope began to break through the pandemic darkness that had overtaken us in March 2020.
I spent my summers at my family cabin in northern Minnesota, and the experience of 2021 was eerie. Severe drought dried out rivers, reduced lakes, and diminished waterfalls. Billows of smoke from Canadian wildfires created apocalyptic scenes in the upper Midwest (yes, in 2021—two years before the hazy, crazy summer of 2023). I wondered if the underwater springs supplying me with water would dry out.
Those closest to me say that I overinterpret and overthink things. My introduction seems to suggest that the smoke from the fires was a self-imposed sign of doom and gloom.
I do not believe that the wild summer scenes were attempts to send a message from another world. I did find it odd, though, that butterflies hovered around my face daily upon my return to Valparaiso. I recalled my grandmother’s stories of creatures sent as messengers, to warn us that a death was coming. I seemed to remember that this had happened once before, when a big, black bird crashed into my office window multiple times before my grandmother died in 2015. Two family members had been quite sick—perhaps folk religion expressed universal truths.
On August 14, 2021, my wife, Tresja—a government humanitarian aid specialist with experience in urban search and rescue—was urgently called to Haiti to assist survivors of the devastating earthquake. She literally ran through the house that night, packing as fast as possible, and took an Uber to Chicago’s O’Hare airport.
I was asleep at 1:00 a.m. on August 19 when my doorbell rang repeatedly and someone pounded on the door. Terrified of a break-in, I went downstairs and greeted an officer from the county sheriff ’s office, who told me that a family member was trying to reach me urgently. My phone displayed missed calls from my in-laws and an area code that resembled that of my wife’s work mobile phone. I thought that she must have been trying to call me to let me know that something had happened with her family, and I admonished myself for sleeping through the call.
I was wrong. She did not call me. It was her co-worker, desperately trying to reach me.
Over the next two hours, I learned that Tresja had collapsed at dinner. The at- tending embassy physician told me that her condition was “grave.” I asked him, “What does this mean?” He responded, “We’re flying her to Miami for emergency care. She has gone into cardiac arrest multiple times. I have to be honest with you—her chances of surviving the journey are very low.”
I fell to the floor, dizzy, extremely nauseous, and shocked. I had just spoken with her a day earlier. I must have been dreaming.
In the moment, I remembered how overwhelmed I felt when I received the news that my father had had a devastating stroke in 2005. I prayed harder that night than I ever had in my life. He survived for six weeks, but never regained consciousness.
Tresja lived for a few hours. The emergency room doctor at the Miami hospital informed me that she had died at about 7:00 a.m. CDT.
The hours in between the news of her collapse and death were a chaotic personal vigil. Barely able to function physically, I alternated between praying, screaming, pleading, strenuously hoping, and fearing the worst. A well-meaning friend posted on my Facebook page that God can make miracles. That message was posted after I received the news that no spouse can bear to hear.
For what it’s worth, my prayer was completely extemporaneous. I invoked the names of saints I could remember, and once—only once—did I remember to recite the appointed prayer for the healing of the sick. More than two years later, I am forgiving myself for neglecting the appointed prayer. My basement was not only my abode as I paced, made phone calls, and sipped ginger ale— my personal space also became Gethsemane.
The two weeks following Tresja’s sudden death were chaotic in a different way. First, I became a messenger, burdened with the task of notifying family and friends. There were dozens of calls with government agencies, conversations with a police detective, correspondence with two funeral homes, talks with my financial advisor, and messages from clergy. School had just started for my daughter—she was in seventh grade.
The familiar rites and ceremonies surrounding the burial were the stuff of fiction novels. Someone keyed my car during the visitation. I greeted friends, visitors, and people I had never met. I found myself consoling others. My wife wanted to be buried in northern Minnesota, an area she had come to love,
so I arranged it hastily. After it was over, I drove home to Indiana, completely unprepared for what was to come.
There is plenty of literature sharing stories about villages forming around the stricken, stories of widows and orphans finding inspiration after the death of their loved one, on fire with faith, living the liturgy of resurrection in real life.
My own faith journey—if there is such a thing—was one of starts and stops, like an old-fashioned car that just needs some fuel to sustain itself once it actu- ally starts. I had learned to live without my parents—surely that was a school for widowhood. I received one well-meaning assurance after another.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find someone new. You’re still young.”
“She is with you. She is guiding Sophia [our daughter]. Can’t you feel her presence?”
“She prays at the heavenly throne for you.”
I received lots of financial advice. One person corrected my concern about money, assuring me that I “have more than enough,” even though they had no knowledge of my income and expenses. A couple of others mused that I might make a good bishop, since my wife’s death suddenly made me eligible for the episcopate. Several people told me what I shouldn’t do, steadfast in their knowledge of what “I would and wouldn’t do” if they were in my shoes.
Unable to sleep, I read the stories of widows and widowers. A chilling pattern emerged. Family ties and friendships were strained as survivors learn how to return to society. Losing friendships seemed to run counter to the popular notion of a village forming around the bereaved. I found myself falling into the pattern of becoming alienated from my family and friends, as I was unable to communicate the difficulties of recovering from loss and building a new life.
I spent most of my time working, running errands, and attending to my needs and those of my child. I tried to find my place. There were many successes. A hiking and reading group meets periodically for fellowship and discussion. I learned the methods that lead to new friendships with people outside of the established cohort. I enjoyed activities I had never engaged in before.
Trauma does not simply disappear—one learns how to cope with it. The sting of sudden, unexpected widowhood caused permanent damage. I cannot tolerate doorbells and knocks. I feel changed physically. Just over a year after Tresja’s death, I was diagnosed with coronary artery disease. I’m convinced that the trauma of August 19, 2021, damaged my heart physically.
The one obstacle that is a struggle is silence. It is deafening.
Experts say that you will find meaning after suffering devastating loss. I believe it, and am currently on the journey to discover it.
You see, the chaotic vigil of August 19, 2021, evolved into a prayer journey. I felt like I knew humanity’s telos—to return to God. My journey was not one of purpose—I did not want a new job; I didn’t need a new wife; I didn’t seek new possessions. It seemed to me that true healing comes only when one arrives at their destiny—reunification with the living God.
The problem was that I had been on this journey, but never alone. In real life, I walked and wandered with my father and other family members, and then I walked for over twenty years with Tresja. So I found myself walking alone, on this journey for the almighty One. So far, I have made only one discovery— silence, or maybe absence, is the better word.
I understand that some readers might be dismayed by this text. Surely, they hope, the author will arrive at the turning point and make us all feel better with good news. No one wants a bitter ending, like Endo’s Silence. I cannot assure anyone that this piece concludes with a happy ending, but perhaps these last two observations might introduce a tone of hope.
The first observation is about the initiation into a stage of life after a significant loss. Sometimes people are tempted to compare losses and observe that the circumstances of sudden death must be worse than the slower process of dying. Each instance has its own complications—the outcomes are similar, leaving survivors to adjust to life with no contact with their departed parents, spouses, children, and friends. The adjustment period following a loss demands change. It is not possible to carry on with the way things were previously because so many of those activities—ordinary and extraordinary—were done with an- other, together. It may seem that the survivor can continue to engage the same activities alone, but in many instances, it is either impossible or unbearable— sometimes, it is both.
We might think of the survivors’ adjustment period as a liminal space. Life in the liminal space in between the stable anchor of married family life and the next phase—whatever that is—is filled with darkness and uncertainty. In my case, as a surviving spouse and now single parent, I have found that knowing where to go and what to do is a matter of nonstop trial and error. The assurances that my deceased spouse is with me ring empty and are essentially useless because I remember vividly what it was like to embark on a journey with her. Believe me—she is not here, and this is why references to her invisible radiance are painful.
My point, though, is not to complain bitterly about the exhaustion caused by the trial and error. I continue to try to find my way through this darkened path because of God’s greatest gift—desire. Desire for the healing of pain. Desire for a manageable, stable, and peaceful life. Above all, more than everything else—desire for community, to find my “tribe” if you will. Walking alone in the darkness causes the survivor to stumble and fumble, a process that prolongs the pain. Eventually, the survivor has a chance to leave the darkness and occupy a new space filled with light.
When a survivor emerges from the liminal space and settles into a new life, it will not be the same as the previous one. It cannot be the same because of the absence of the loved one. The new life might involve some of the people from the previous one, but it will likely bring some change with it—perhaps a new job, activities, way of life, and new people, too. This is particularly true for those of us who are not anchored in a community. In my case, frequent moves from one region of the country to another prevented that anchoring. I was not surrounded by a solid community when Tresja died. I am not writing this to implicate anyone—it was just a reality of our lives, especially since I had taken on a new job in Valparaiso, Indiana, in 2018. The onset of the coronavirus pandemic and the ensuing periods of social isolation delayed the process of planting roots. This is the main reason that I am sojourning through the liminal space of widowed life alone.
During this process, I have learned that many others are also journeying on their own. Children absorbing the shock of a parent’s death walk alone. Spouses learning to live day-to-day following divorce or widowhood wander by themselves. There are too many people trying to build new lives without a surrounding community present to catch them when they stumble or fall.
When the body of Christ is absent from believers’ journey through the forest of mournful darkness, churches must be ready for the outcome. People may wonder how an ordained deacon, a professor of liturgy, can feel so alone—after all, these are ministries rooted in community. Ironically people can assume that those who exercise these ministries automatically are companioned in their journey. Look at all the people the deacon knows!! Surely the one who proclaims the good news from the ambon knows that all will be well! No deacon intones the good news in an echo chamber, alone—it is always in community, in the company of fellows, friends, brothers, and sisters. Perhaps people assume that someone is looking after the bereaved minister and professor, and this is not always the case.
But people will look for community until they find others who see them and ask if they can join them on their journey. Confessional loyalty is not the strongest component that binds people together. Love brings and keeps people together. If the body of Christ cannot see—or worse, will not see—the bereaved, they will plant themselves elsewhere.
On one of the days that the mournful forest seemed darkest to me, I wrote this poem to express my search for the almighty God. I believe that this poem gives a voice to the millions of others whose desire to love and be loved emboldens them to continue to search for God. I pray that the body of Christ will begin to see mourners anew and journey with them.
The Absentee Almighty
The old man said to rise at dawn,
admonishing me to stifle my yawn,
come, and hear all of creation offer their song,
warm up your voice and praise the Almighty one.
Day after day, week after week, year by year,
I lace up my shoes, preparing to grin and bear,
to withstand whipping wind, tiny icicles, and burning sun,
all for the purpose of meeting the Almighty one.
Stomping on trails, trudging through snow, pounding the concrete,
the miles wore on my tired feet.
Like a gadfly, intrusive thoughts asked, “why go on?”
I responded, all for the Almighty One.
The old man died, grands and Mom, too,
My beloved was the last member of my crew.
Then her life ended, dissipating into thin air,
and I found myself in unfathomable despair.
Family and friends said, hey, take a break,
make sure you don’t make a mistake.
You have done enough; you don’t need to walk,
Peace will come to you now; that’s a lock.
Loneliness rushed in, followed by disease,
putting an end to false promises of ease.
So I rose from my bed and put my socks on
resuming my search for the almighty one.
Friends exhorted me, be of good cheer!
We assure you, the Almighty One is here!
Yet I walk alone, bereft of contentment,
for despite their promises, the Almighty one is absent.
This chapter is ending and must come to a close,
how could it possibly end in morose?
For no reason at all, the wandering will resume, I saith,
final for the absence of reason is filled by the tiny shadow of faith.