I never thought I’d be one of those readers who wrote to you seeking counsel in grief, yet here I am: my precious wife C has passed after a recurrence of her aggressive cancer. She was thirty years old; we had been married for about five and a half years.

It all happened so quickly and it is still so fresh that my head and heart are swirling in countless directions at once. Because of our faith, I believe that I will see her again and that she currently sits in glory, free of pain and heartbreak. But for now, I mostly just miss her like hell.

I woke today feeling stuck: it is “easier,” I thought, to do nothing today than to do anything that feels like moving forward. Anything resembling “progress” is this two-edged sword: on one hand, it feels like any step forward I take is leaving C behind, and on the other, moving forward with my life is a reminder of just how long it might be before I am with her again.

I know in the abstract/long-term that I will be “okay,” but I am afraid of that “okay,” because no matter what, it will be an “okay” in which C left us so soon. I am grateful for any counsel you have in these fresh, raw, howling, uncertain moments.

God bless,

Dear Tom,

I’m sorry to hear about the death of your wife. She was so young, and these things can seem impossibly unfair. I am glad you believe in a life beyond this one and that it offers hope and comfort. It’s a powerful way to view one’s existence — a talent, of sorts, beyond the reach of many of us. I wish I’d had that depth of belief to help ease the pain of losing my sons, but at the time, amidst the devastation, I had nothing to fall back on but my own sense of outrage at what I saw as a cruel cosmic betrayal. In a way, I was slow to recognise or fully accept the many signs, subtle and softly spoken, that presented themselves within the “fresh, raw, howling, uncertain moments” of grief.

I understand your reluctance to move beyond the defining traumatic event, as if you are somehow abandoning the one you loved and lost. In a strange way, raw grief can bring a familiarity that feels like comfort. Yet, you still have a life to lead, a life among the living, as do we all. I believe it is our spiritual duty not only to find a way to detach ourselves from the point of trauma, but also to free those we mourn — their spirits, their memories — and bring them with us into the light. C would become your fellow traveller, invisible and beautiful, on this strange new road that lies before you.

Tom, there will come a time when you discover a strength beyond imagining — I believe you already know this — a resilience powered entirely by the spiritual presence of the ones who have passed away. We are made of ghosts, we grievers, and those spirits are forever beside us, as a protective force, part of the web of consciousness that interconnects all things. We can find strength in our collective losses, as long as we can free ourselves from the gravitational pull of the trauma and move forward, all our ghosts in tow, into this beautiful waiting world. We learn to cherish the present moment in joy — a joy that C and all the stars can applaud.

I have thought of you often and rewritten my reply many times over the past few days — it felt inadequate, but perhaps I’ve finally got it right. I love the sense of order in your letter and its feeling of hopefulness. I share that feeling. There is more to this world than we can easily see. No matter how we interpret these things, you will be with C again, in glory, perhaps, or at least in the cessation of your mutual longings. Tom, I sincerely wish you well on your journey.

Love, Nick