When Love Dies

During the hors d'oeuvre hour at the recent wedding of my grandson, I noticed a picture of my late husband—ex-husband—in a photo display. A wave of mixed emotions swept over me. This grandson never really knew his grandfather. He met him just once, I think, when he was ten, at my youngest son’s wedding. That wedding was the only wedding of any of our children that their father attended. Sitting next to him at the ceremony, I saw the tears on his face. In his mind, he was a forgotten father and grandfather. In our minds, he was a man filled with false pride and rage, who had severed ties and abandoned the family he claimed to love, refusing to see the effects or take responsibility for his actions.

The photograph reminded me of the good times, the love we shared that had given birth to seven beautiful people, which in turn had begotten nearly two dozen grandchildren. He had died without knowing any of them, not even having meaningful relationships with any of his children. My heart always hurts when I think about it—and here, at this joyous occasion, I suddenly felt a twinge of sadness that he had missed out on all of this. It had been slightly over a decade since his death. In the 15 years between our separation and his death, four of the children had passed from childhood to adulthood.  

To say the least, my husband (Humphrey), who died my ex-husband, was a complicated human being, a difficult person, impossible to understand, often difficult to appreciate. So many poignantly good memories interspersed with opposite ones, finally spiraling down till all that was left of him was a shell of what he once had been. A delusional, angry, scheming, lonely, lost soul. That there had once been a vibrant love story in his life seemed oddly out of place now. 

During those years of separation, we sometimes had conversations about his death. At one point, he applied to be part of a clinical trial for some heart issues, and he wanted me to come with him to the out-of-town location where the hospital conducting the trial was. He specified to me in an email his wishes upon his death, for he felt I was the only person he knew who would honor them. I asked him how I could do that if I was never informed of his death. It seemed to me that all my dreams of spending a lifetime—till death we parted—had long since disintegrated into a nightmare. Our former marriage showed no signs of any redemption. The only good to come from it were the children, and the dim memories of happier times with a man who once had seemed like my knight in shining armor.

***

Hurricane Sandy slammed into our area on October 27, 2012. The Metropolitan area of New York where Humphrey lived was hit hard, and damage had been done as far away as the Poconos in Pennsylvania where I lived. There were folks still without electricity, extensive coastal damage in New York City and New Jersey, and outreach to the many families left homeless by the storm still continued on November 16—when one of our sons was notified by the woman my husband lived with that he was in the hospital. She didn’t expect him to live through the weekend. It was Friday. 

The hospital where he had been taken had also absorbed patients from a nearby hospital that had to close because of the storm. Even though he had been admitted the day before, he was still lying in the ER untreated, undiagnosed, and without a room because none were available. He was delirious and being restrained because he kept trying to leave. Everyone assumed that his battle with lung cancer was probably coming to an end, yet no one expected the end to come this soon. But the surprising thing to me, was that we had been contacted and invited to come to the hospital.

Although Humphrey should have been in intensive care, ICU was overcrowded and so he was put in a room on a general medicine floor with a roommate. On Saturday, five of our children, Humphrey’s sister, and I all arrived at the hospital. He was still disoriented and delusional, still restrained because he was trying to leave. He was yelling, cursing at all the medical personnel trying to help him, and when he saw his two sons, he began asking them to help him get out of there and getting nasty when they refused. When he saw I had come, our eyes locked for a few short seconds. “Hi, Susan,” as though he didn’t know quite what to do, then he looked away and wouldn’t look again. Later my daughter and I agreed that his intense gaze was full of shame.

There was “the other woman.” I was meeting her for the first time. The wounds that had begun with Humphrey’s betrayal 15 years before, resurfaced, and then just as quickly receded. The words of Genesis 50:20 came to mind: “You meant evil against me; but God meant it for good.” That had been the passage about Joseph and his brothers which my small group had been studying when Humphrey and I had split up after I discovered his affair. How God had used that passage to show me from that time onward that what was happening would be used for my good and for God’s glory! 

Indeed, I had found my own way back to God because of it. I had been freed from all the shame and guilt in my own life that had held me hostage for so many years. One by one, my idols had been revealed, things that had taken priority over my relationship with Christ. Things like my reputation, my marriage, even my husband. God had restored to me my salvation and renewed a right spirit in me. Now, I watched as five of our children gathered around their father’s hospital bed, to comfort him and to pray with him. Forgiving him for all the years of neglect, missing their birthdays, Christmases, graduations, and sporting events. 

Humphrey had quieted down by Sunday and the restraints were removed. On Sunday morning he ate his last real meal and drifted in and out of sleep. By Monday, he no longer opened his eyes. But he was listening, responding by hand squeezes and occasionally nodding his head. This day, another group of our children and I travelled into New York. I was praying for an opportunity to be alone with Humphrey and my children made sure it happened. 

“Hi Humphrey,” I started. “This is Susan.” He struggled to open his eyes, verifying that it really was me. Satisfied, he closed them again. “I just want you to know that I love you, I never stopped loving you, and that everything from the last 15 years is forgiven.” His hand squeezed mine. Unmistakably, his hand squeezed mine. A warmth ran though me. Suddenly, it was like nothing had ever come between us. We were facing each other taking our vows. Promising our love to one another. I thought of our wedding ceremony and I spoke about it to him. Here was an ending I had never imagined. 

I spoke some words about conversations he and I had over the years about heaven. Remarked about the day before when one of our daughters had read some Scripture to him and he had responded positively. I knew he knew the gospel and I wanted him to repent to God and unload all his guilt and shame on Jesus. We hooked up a device to play his favorite hymns. For the rest of the day he was remarkably peaceful. He laughed at a remark my daughter made. He asked her a question. I couldn’t help but think he might have made his peace with God that afternoon.

Later that night when visiting hours were over, he must have realized he was alone and he tore out the tubes that were keeping him alive. We received a call from the hospital that for a few short seconds he had flatlined. Once revived, he was unresponsive and on life support. In the days that followed, many tests were conducted to see if there was any brain activity. My son became his power of attorney and spoke with the hospital officials about Humphrey’s one request that he not be kept on life support. Those last days hold many dear memories and also conversations with family, the other woman and her family, and the medical staff which seemed very interested in the odd mix of the many people who always surrounded Humphrey. 

The pastor from when we lived in Queens, New York, nearly 30 years earlier, still pastored the same church. I had kept in touch. We asked him to come. He was the one pastor that I knew Humphrey still respected, and I prayed that God would use the words he spoke. They say those in a comatose state never lose their ability to hear. Amid all this pastor’s activities helping families who had been devastated by Hurricane Sandy, he found time to visit Humphrey and to minister to our family. He inquired about his last wishes and I was able to share what Humphrey had requested months before. He offered to officiate the memorial service, offered the church building for it, and his congregation provided a dinner for us afterwards. To me, still another miracle. God was being gracious to my husband and the father of my children.

***

Humphrey was a complicated man. His whole life was a mixture of blessings and curses. He never lived with both of his parents. He grew up in a Brooklyn ghetto, and street life became his identity—violence, cunning, and sexual immorality. His mother practiced white witchcraft, and altars to spirits were part of the home décor. I believe his ever-present and disturbing night terror was a result of that, combined with frontline duty from a double tour in Viet Nam. He made up stories about himself to make others believe he came from a more acceptable background. He never introduced me to his family who lived in the projects until months after we were married. He never invited them to our wedding, manufacturing a story about his mother living in Puerto Rico. Lying was second nature to him. 

Fits of rage, which grew more frequent over the years, could overtake him, causing behavior that could send a whole counter of dishes crashing to the ground, as well as anything nearby that he could destroy. Other times he could be extremely kind and thoughtful. Despite his lies, he could be transparently honest, letting me know up front that he had been married previously, introducing me to his ex-wife and son, and detailing correctly what had torn their marriage apart. Also he told me up front that he had been in prison and showed me all the newspaper clippings and court transcripts on the case. 

He could be hard working, ambitious, and clearly he was intelligent, for he read profusely and had self-educated himself on a number of subjects. But he could also be depressed, which appeared lazy to my way of thinking. My world was vastly different from his. Mental illness was not something I knew anything about when we married, and I never really became informed about it until the last few years of our marriage and later. When I was pregnant with our last and seventh baby, his behavior landed him on the mental health floor of our hospital where he was diagnosed as bi-polar and probably something more that they couldn’t quite put their finger on. Later after we were separated, it became clear to me that it was post-traumatic stress disorder. 

Underlying all of this throughout our whole marriage was a sexual addiction—something I would not believe was a thing until years later when my training for the work I was doing informed me how one could go from one sexual relationship to another, one high to another, while staying with their wife and family. After we were separated, he once told me there had been many other women.

Despite all this, most of which worsened over time, Humphrey was caring and kind. We always had many friends, and especially for the first years we lived very comfortably. I connected with him on a level that I have never found with anyone before or since. We had the best conversations and appreciated each other’s humor. He probably began our marriage by being more accountable to me than he had ever been to anyone. But as his actions led him to deepened shame and chronic guilt, he lost accountability to anyone. Even though he professed Jesus Christ, I watched as he could no longer bring himself to attend church or face Christians like my father, who he greatly respected. He lacked the will and strength to repent.

***

God continued for over one more week to extend gracious mercy to Humphrey and me. If he could hear or even look into the room from above us, like some coming out of comas have reported, he would have seen an interesting assortment of loved ones gathered around him amicably. By November 28, all medical tests had been completed. That afternoon, all the life support systems were withdrawn and medicine was given to keep Humphrey comfortable. 

I chose not to be there, but five of our children were. One of my daughters later said the last minutes were very moving. Hospital staff had gathered silently outside the room, armed with boxes of tissues—some even moved to tears themselves. Our pastor arrived long after Humphrey’s pulse and heartbeat had slowed considerably. He prayed the Lord’s prayer and as he pronounced “Amen,” there were no more heartbeats. He later told me that he had never experienced that in all his years at deathbeds. It was as though Humphrey had been ushered into eternity with that prayer.

All of Humphrey’s wishes were kept. He wanted only a memorial service with just his family and anyone they wished to invite. We invited the people he had spent the last 15 years with; but we, his family, were his family on that day, filling the first rows of pews and providing a review of his life with us in photos.  I was once again the wife he had committed to in marriage, even though we had divorce papers. He requested no accolades be made on his behalf, because in his own words, he didn’t deserve them. Rather, he had stipulated that a sermon proclaiming the gospel be preached. 

Our pastor preached on the words of Joseph to his brothers, pointing out all the good that had come from the situation in which Joseph’s brothers had placed him. He compared this to how God had cared, kept, and provided for our family in the years after Humphrey’s departure from us, especially calling each of our children to Himself. Then, using Joseph as one who foreshadowed the future role of Jesus Christ, he preached the gospel.

Years before, I had concocted my own plan of vengeance against my enemies, wanting to vindicate myself and my children. I was restrained by this verse, “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.’ …Do not be overcome with evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12:19, 21).  Through all that happened those last days of Humphrey’s life, and especially at the memorial service, God’s vindication had come.

***

This was a difficult story to share. I have read other stories of Christian women who endured difficult marriages and marriages of abuse. Their stories encouraged me to speak out, to testify that redemption can occur at any time.  It is my prayer that someone in what may seem like hopeless circumstances will be encouraged by me telling my story. It is often difficult for such women (or men, or children) to find needed help within the visible church. Too often the church hides, minimizes, or even ignores the abuse going on with its families to save its own reputation. Sadly, sometimes it protects the abuser from facing consequences. 

On the other hand, I once went to a Christian conference on domestic abuse. I was disappointed to find that while concentrating on helping the abused, the abuser was more or less thrown under the bus. The abused were not counseled to pray for their persecutors or to pray for their salvation. 

What about the Christians whose loved ones die, and we can’t clearly ascertain whether they were saved? Our culture likes to imagine that any person who lived a good life by worldly standards goes to heaven. Scripture says that isn’t so. Acts 2:20 says, “Everyone who calls upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.” No matter what we may think about someone, only God knows the heart; and belief in Jesus Christ is the only thing that guarantees everlasting life. There is no way for us to know for sure the authenticity of someone else’s faith.

So how do I deal with the possibility that I might not ever see Humphrey again?  I know God’s will is the last word. In faith, I can trust that His will is best. It always is. The love of God for His people goes much deeper than the love of marriage partners. It is divine. It is eternal. For me and my family, we all still bear the scars from what was. But we also have powerfully experienced God’s love. I do not have space to list all the ways Jesus has worked in my life. Dietrich Bonhoeffer writes in Life Together, “Our salvation is ‘from outside ourselves.’ I find salvation not in my life story, but only in the story of Jesus Christ.” To Him belongs the glory of my story.