Was reading "A Grief Observed" lately. C.S. Lewis .. immediately after the death of his wife Helen Joy from cancer.
Lord, are these your real terms?
Can I meet H. again only if I learn to love you so much that I don’t care
whether I meet her again or not? When I lay these questions before God I get no
answer. But a rather special sort of ”No answer.” It is not the
locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As
though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like, “Peace,
child; you don’t understand.”
Can a mortal ask questions which
God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions
are unanswerable. How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or
round? Probably half the questions we ask–half our great theological and
metaphysical problems–are like that.
How far have I got? Just as far,
I think, as a widower of another sort who would stop, leaning on his spade, and
say in answer to the inquiry, 'Thank'ee. Mustn't grumble. I do miss her
something dreadful. But they say these things are sent to try us.' We have come
to the same point; he with his spade, and I, who am not now much good at
digging, with my own instrument. But of course, one must take 'sent to try us'
in the right way.
