In the weeks following my husband’s death earlier this month, I’ve been blessed by having my house cleaned twice by other people. What a precious gift it was not to have to focus on something as mundane, yet as important, as house cleaning. It seems that even something that simple can take a toll on a grieving widow. However, the time came this past weekend when I had to do it myself. Another first since entering this new phase of life. There never seems to be a shortage of firsts.

I had no motivation to clean but knew I would feel so much better after it was done. I had my list of chores, and my daughter had hers, and we both got to work. I think it took me practically all day on Saturday to get everything done, because I kept getting distracted. I would go to put something away in a drawer and see something that reminded me of Chris, and then I would just park there for a little while.

While hanging up some of my clean laundry, I side-stepped to Chris’ side of the closet for a few moments and literally stuck my head into the area where his clothes were hanging. You see…within hours of learning of his death, I quickly ran to our closet to seek out a whiff of him and found comfort in his clothing. I could smell him when smelling his clothes. I’m sure I’m beginning to sound a bit crazy at the moment, but trust me…having his scent around me brought extreme comfort. So, on Saturday…I did my usual routine of “sniffing out” his clothing only to discover his scent was barely there. Actually, I’m not sure it was there anymore at all, but I think my mind wanted to pretend that it was. I actually panicked a little, and the tears began to well up in my eyes. It was almost as if it was my last link to a small piece of his physical presence – even though I know he’s gone. But, as long as the scent was there…I still I had a small piece of him with me.

Deeply saddened, I took a 30-minute break to go sit outside and read some. I had no desire to clean at the moment. I felt betrayed…again. This time…by a loss of a scent. It reminded me of when Isaac was comforted by the scent of his beloved Esau (actually Jacob in disguise)…

So he went to him and kissed him. When Isaac caught the smell of his clothes, he blessed him and said, “Ah, the smell of my son is like the smell of a field that the LORD has blessed.” Genesis 27:27

That’s similar to how I felt whenever I could still smell my husband among his clothing. It was a pleasing and most blessed aroma. But, now…it…was…gone.

After my break outside, I came back to our closet and just started shuffling things around a bit. I’m not sure I was really accomplishing anything. As I was straightening up some items on the floor, I noticed a small pile of clothing on the floor on Chris’ side of the closet. Oh my goodness. I remember now! Right after he died, I saw his dirty clothes on the floor and asked everyone not to touch any of it. I wasn’t ready to move any of his things. I had literally forgotten all about that little pile until I saw it again on Saturday. I scooped it up into my arms, and YES…his scent was there…boldly there! You would have thought I had just opened the most glamorous gift I’d ever received. And…in a way…I had. Who would have thought that finding dirty laundry would have brought me such joy?

I’ve been in prison. No…not the literal type with the metal bars and barbed wire fencing. But, I’ve been in prison nonetheless. Not only have I been in prison, but I’ve been in shackles too. Barely able to move…

My prison has been my home filled with pictures, smells, reminders of my sweet Chris who left me 23 days ago.

My prison has been my closet filled with reminders of the clothes he used to put on each morning.

My prison has been the memories in my mind that continually interrupt my daily thoughts and take over any available cavity and crevice in my brain to render me useless in accomplishing anything else.

My shackles are my dreams of what could have been but now never will be.

My shackles are the unending task lists that are created following the burial of a loved one.

My shackles are my emotions that tend to control me rather than the other way around.

My prison…is my grief.

I feel like I’ve been sentenced to a prison called Grief. It’s a lonely, painful, sad place to be. I don’t know my release date just yet, but it seems like it’s an eternity away.

During my time with Abba this morning, I almost heard His audible whisper…don’t forget Paul and Silas. What Lord? Don’t forget Paul and Silas.

Yes Lord. I know all about Paul and Silas’s time in prison in Acts 16. It just happens to be one of my very favorite stories in all of scripture. And…I read the story again.

“After they had been severely flogged, they were thrown into prison, and the jailer was commanded to guard them carefully. Upon receiving such orders, he put them in the inner cell and fastened their feet in the stocks. About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners were listening to them. Suddenly there was such a violent earthquake that the foundations of the prison were shaken. At once all the prison doors flew open, and everybody’s chains came loose.” ~Acts 16:23-26 NIV

They praised their way out of prison. The greek word for hymn in this passage implies they celebrated God in song.

After being led back to this passage, I fell on my knees…raised my hands in praise to God and asked Him to meet me where I was (as ugly as I might be right now). And, then I began…

to pray to Him

to thank Him

to speak His Word back to Him

to celebrate Him in song

to PRAISE Him!!

And…the shackles started to come undone, and the prison door slightly opened, and He picked me up and carried me out the door.