The priest put an arm around her shoulders in a quiet, fatherly way. “Hang on, dear. You have to find the strength somehow, because we can’t change what’s already happened. Sooner or later, every one of us has to say goodbye to people we love. Let the tears come. Don’t fight them. I’ll ask the Lord to give you some peace.”
“Believe me, I remember your loved ones in prayer every day and every night. Time will move forward, and this sharp pain will soften into something gentler. God does not abandon people in their suffering. Sit down for a minute, catch your breath, and I’ll stay right here with you—whether in silence or in prayer.”
The widow couldn’t manage a word and only nodded in thanks. Her throat had tightened too much for speech. Lowering herself onto a wooden bench, she listened to the priest’s quiet prayer asking mercy for the souls of her husband and only son. Just two weeks earlier, both had been killed in a terrible car crash.
It was this same priest who had led the funeral service, and in the days after, he had regularly stopped by her house, trying to keep her from sinking completely into despair. He understood the full weight of what had fallen on the shoulders of a woman who had lost both her husband and her child in a single blow. Eleanor had always been a faithful churchgoer, often attending services and encouraging her husband to come on major holidays. Their grown son joined them from time to time as well.
Father Michael knew the family well and grieved with her sincerely. It was painful to watch a once lively, cheerful woman seem to age overnight, her shoulders bent and her hair turning sharply gray. The life she had built had been shattered by a drunk driver who crossed into oncoming traffic. She was still living in a state of deep shock.
At least she had found the strength to come to church. Crying under the sanctuary roof was far safer for her than sitting alone in the house and unraveling in silence. In the church community, there were always people willing to listen, to sit beside her, to help carry some small part of the burden. At home, every room only deepened the sense of emptiness and finality.
Every object in her apartment seemed to remind her of the two people who would never walk through the door again. The familiar recliner still held the memory of evenings when her husband watched detective shows on TV. On the nearby sofa, her son used to stretch out after a long day at work. He still lived at home, though he had been seriously talking about getting his own place and getting engaged to his girlfriend soon.
He had planned to move out after the wedding and had already started looking at apartments. Then one random, brutal moment ended all of it. Real estate agents kept calling Eleanor with listings they thought might interest her son. Each time, she had to choke back tears and explain to a stranger that the client was dead, then ask them not to call again.
After finally catching her breath, the widow promised herself she would calm down and go home. She had to admit that today the crying spells had not lasted as long as they had earlier in the week. The peaceful rhythm of the evening service worked on her like medicine. Even the soft hiss of melting wax near the old icons soothed her.
She felt the greatest relief when the sanctuary emptied out and she could be alone with God. Oddly enough, solitude inside the church brought her peace and clarity. Solitude at home did the opposite. There, the silence felt punishing.
Her mind kept painting scenes of her husband stepping out from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel, asking what there was to snack on. He had loved homemade preserves—spicy carrots, sauerkraut, pickled tomatoes, marinated eggplant. She herself hardly ate any of it, but she had always put up jars every season because it made him happy…
