Queen Bed

My nights are now spent in a queen bed without my queen. Sleeping pills don’t help much. I read until I’m drowsy but once I turn out the light my mind whirls into gear.

I look to my right where for 37 years Susan used to sleep. There is no head on the pillow, no smooth form under the covers to snuggle up to. I know she’s in a better place—but she’s not here. That’s what hurts.

Live long enough and you’ll find empty spaces where beautiful faces used to be. You’ll lose a parent, spouse, child, friend. More than one. Those with more experience tell me the pain eventually eases but the ache never goes away.

Where is God in the night? The same place he’s always been, sustaining everything but not often tangible to the senses (at least mine). My faith reaches for him in the dark, much the same as my heart reaches for Susie.

Daylight eventually comes. Life goes on. Other relationships require attention, return love, fill the emotional tank, make it worth continuing the journey.


4 thoughts on “Queen Bed

  1. That was beautiful, Mike. I understand those feelings completely and you express them perfectly.

    I am so thankful that our God is so faithful, even when we may not feel His presence. He has often reminded me to ‘Just trust Me’, during my 19 month journey since Bob went home to Heaven.

    Hugs & Blessings, Linda (friend of the Briggs!!)

  2. Mike, I’m so sorry to hear that Susan passed away.
    We will pray for you.
    25 years later, I still think of calling my brother, Brian. Then that empty-gut feeling hits. Thankfully, followed by the reassurance of things hoped for, things not seen.

  3. Mike… From the moment I heard, my heart has ached for you. I have prayed for you… sort of…
    If I were to see you face-to-face, I would have absolutely nothing to say. And several states away, I really have little idea of how to pray for you… But I think of you often, and each time I do, I turn toward the Father and groan…
    Losing my Dad six years ago was not as terrible as it would be to lose my RJ (who is called ‘Shelly,’ by everyone else). But it has been the biggest bereavement of my life, and it has changed my life in many ways. It is not that I have any doubt that my Dad and I will be reunited one day. It’s that, for the rest of my life on earth, I have to carry on in a world that doesn’t have him in it, a world that suddenly seemed to become a lot more gray and colorless when he died (Lewis puts it very well when he mentions the rowan berries, etc.).
    Sometimes I think, with all the powers of my imagination–which have been greatly enhanced since my Dad’s passing–of what it would be like to lose Shelly (who has slept on my right in our queen bed for twenty-two years). And… Oh, Mike… I pray that, somehow, the Father hears my little groaning voice as I think of you and adds it to your great cry and that, somehow, it is to your benefit.
    This probably makes no sense at all… I am sorry, if I have written presumptuously and wasted your time or caused you any more hurt.

  4. Mike,

    I feel like I crawled through Christmas on my belly. Emotionally drained and raw. I am starting to look forward to the ‘ache’ because I can’t stand the pain any more. The emotional pain of having him wrenched from my life is as great as, or worse, than the physical pain of giving birth to him. On the other side of labor was a beautiful baby boy. What, I wonder, is on the other side of this? I ask God, please let something wonderful be born from this. Don’t waste it.


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