By Brenda Cannon Henley
I have been thinking quite a bit about Heaven and the afterlife since my husband, Ted J. Henley passed away on August 16. I realize many of our readers will have varying beliefs and ideas about what happens when a human being dies here on earth. I confess to you that I do not know the particulars and I am only imagining what Ted has seen and done in these few weeks since we have been separated. I do know that he died very peacefully and did not seem to hold any fear in his heart. I was standing by his side with his upper body cradled in my arms. Shortly after the nurse from the respiratory team took the big tube out of his mouth and turned off the ventilator, he looked toward me, smiled a small smile, took one breath, and was gone. In fact, it was so easy that my daughter, prompted by the nurse that had been by our side, had to tell me that Papa Ted had left us.

My granddaughter sent Ted a message on his iPhone this last week and asked him what he was doing in Heaven and did he really get to go fishing up there. Callie has a vivid imagination and I think it is just fine if she wants to imagine her Papa Ted fishing on the pretty bank of a river or at the edge of the rolling sea. She also mentioned that she knew he loved seeing his sister Martha and his mom and dad. I do know for certain that Scripture tells us that to be absent from the body for believers is to be present with the Lord. (2 Corinthians 5:8) I also know in my heart that had I not had the assurance that Ted was in a much better place, no longer suffering from the ravages of cancer, and that he was happy, I could not go on in this life.

If you truly love someone and they die, it hurts — plain and simple. I have been blessed with wonderful friends who have encouraged me to express my grief, to cry when overcome with emotion, and to take my time in going through Ted’s things. I honestly do not know if I will ever be ready to clean out his closets, go through the things he used daily stored in the drawers he kept neatly, or venture through his tools. I do know that I see his hand in every room of this house, in my car, on things he built or repaired, books he loved, music and movies, and a plaid shirt. One of my worst experiences came at the grocery store this week. I passed by food I normally would be buying for Ted and I could not bear it one minute longer. I left my half filled basket and fled the store. It feels that everyone I know has someone dear that they love and are busy living blissfully, when my life has come to a dead stop. (Oops, there is that word again — dead).

Christians might be asking, “Where is your faith?” “Don’t you believe?” “Are you not trusting God?” My honest answer would be, “Yes, I have my faith intact and I believe what I have been teaching for many years, and yes, I am trusting God, but I still miss Ted, and don’t know for sure if I ever will get over his death.” His love was a wonderful and blessed gift to me and I treasure all we had together.

A dear writer friend of mine, Michele Brooke, sent me a most helpful little book and I read it every day. In Healing After Loss, Martha Whitmore Hickman, shares her insight and advice, along with excellent quotes, about going on in life after losing someone dear. It seems that every day I have found a gem hidden in these pages that has helped me to survive. Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote, “It isn’t for the moment you are stuck that you need courage, but for the long uphill climb back to sanity and faith, and security.” When Ted first died, I did everything expected of me and I did it right. My dear friend, Cindy Srader, opened her beach home to me and to my family. We all were able to stay together that first night when the pain was so new and the hurt so raw. Other dear friends banded together and provided our delicious breakfast the following morning. I answered phone calls, I made decisions, I planned two visitations and two funerals, and a long trip to Amarillo. I chose clothing to pack. And as long as I was very busy, I survived. I was attentive to the needs of the hours. I found I had enough energy to do what was expected and to follow along with the commands I was given. Everyone bragged about how well I was doing.

But then the rituals were over for Ted and for us. Everyone went home, back to work, to school for a new term, and I was left to figure out how to live. I needed courage and strength to determine what to do with the silence and how to plant my feet firmly on a path that has evermore changed. I found I struggle with even the smallest decisions and most would tell you I am a strong woman. I have faced battles before and won, but never one like the death of a man I loved dearly.

Frank O’Connor also wrote in the same little book Michele bought for me, “All I know from my own experience is that the more loss we feel the more grateful we should be for whatever it was we had to lose. It means we had something worth grieving for. The ones I’m truly sorry for are the ones that go through life not even knowing what grief is.”

I had a lot to lose.

Brenda Cannon Henley can be reached at (409) 781-8788 or at
[email protected].

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