The Bend in the Road

The gift of good fiction, of good literature, is its ability to articulate and illuminate different emotions and experiences in our own lives. Books and stories can show us that we are not alone, that others have experienced similar situations and feelings and have not only survived but have overcome and grown from adversity. A good book can be a friend to us in trials, giving comfort as well as sharing wisdom. 

Earlier this year, my mother passed away after a brief and unexpected bout with cancer. It was not something any of us saw coming and it is a loss that left a hole in the lives of our whole family. In particular, I was very close to my mother, having lived with her for many years after I returned home from college. She was my closest friend, my spiritual director, and my greatest cheerleader in everything that I did. I am grateful that in the end her death was very peaceful and holy, and there is no doubt in my mind that she was ready and eager to go home to our Heavenly Lord. However, that does not always lessen the ache of those of us who have been left behind.

As I’ve spent the rest of this year walking through the grief and adjusting to a new world without her, my greatest refuge, as always, has been in books. In particular, I’ve been immersed in classic Children’s and Young Adult Literature. I was dealing enough with the grown-up world in my daily life; I didn’t need any more of it in my fiction. I could write a whole post on the value of well-written “Children’s” Literature, the truth it reveals and the consolations it provides, but that’s for another day.

For now, I’d like to highlight one particular book that has brought me great comfort and perspective.

I’ve loved Anne of Green Gables for as long as I can remember, identifying easily with the over-imaginative, idealistic, dreamy young girl. Remarkably, as I have gotten older and have experienced more life of my own, I have found even more to relate to with Anne.

(Warning: Spoilers)

In the final chapters of the book, Anne’s world is turned upside down with the unexpected death of her guardian and dearest friend, Matthew, followed by even more ill news when it’s discovered that Marilla, Matthew’s sister and Anne’s other guardian, is slowly losing her eyesight and could potentially go blind in only a few months. Only a few short weeks before, Anne’s future had seemed brightly full of promise and endless opportunities, and now she had lost one of the primary figures in her life, was witnessing the despair of the other, and was faced with the prospect of losing her beloved Green Gables, the first home she had ever truly known. But Anne does not give herself over to self-pity or depression; nor does she simply grit her teeth and soldier on. She gives vent to her grief, allows herself to feel it and acknowledge it, but then she begins to take action and make new plans for the new landscape of her life. 

The loss of my mother is one that I feel in nearly every aspect of my life, because there was no area that I was not used to sharing with her. And yet, life moves on, there is still joy and beauty and goodness in the world. There are still new experiences on the horizon, people who still need my love and support, and work still to be done. My mother is always on my heart and I feel her presence watching me in everything; I still do certain things simply because I know they would have pleased her and I still work with the motivation of trying to make her proud.

Anne’s navigation of grief feels so true to my own experience: that it can be so deep and devastating, and yet there is the realization that the world is still out there, with it’s beauty and joy and glory.

Anne, new to grief, thought it almost sad that it could be so— that they could go on in the old way without Matthew. She felt something like shame and remorse when she discovered that the sunrises behind the firs and the pale pink buds opening in the garden gave her the old inrush of gladness when she saw them… that, in brief, the beautiful world of blossom and love and friendship had lost none of its power to please her fancy and thrill her heart, that life still called to her with so many insistent voices.

When discussing things with Mrs. Allan, the minister’s wife, she is able to reassure Anne that there is nothing wrong or unfeeling in this. Our loved ones might not be with us in the same sense anymore, but they are not truly gone; and God, in His love and mercy, wants us to be comforted and consoled, as would those who truly loved us.

“When Matthew was here he liked to hear you laugh and liked to know that you found pleasure in the pleasant things around you,” said Mrs. Allan gently. “He is just away now; but he likes to know it just the same. I am sure we should not shut our hearts against the healing influences that nature offers us.”

Like Anne, I’ve always been a dreamer. I’ve always been ambitious and had big plans for what I wanted to accomplish with the talents God gave me. But, also like Anne, much of the path I have followed in life has been directed by needs and circumstances beyond my control. I learned quickly in my adult life that we can’t always just force things to suit our own pleasures and plans, not if we truly love and want to serve those who are important to us. God’s ways are not our ways, we don’t always understand His plan for us, but we must trust that it is a plan made in His love and mercy for our ultimate good. He’ll let us have our own way if we insist on it, but in the end it will not be to our benefit. As C.S. Lewis says in The Great Divorce, “There are only two kinds of people in the end: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, in the end, ‘Thy will be done.’ All that are in Hell, choose it.” God knows us and loves us, but He also suffered Himself in this world and knows that sometimes it’s the only way to achieve salvation. However, there can still be joy and comfort, if only we surrender to His will and choose to follow where He leads us. His love is always one of abundance, if we are able to accept it.

When all of Anne’s dreams and good fortune seem be snatched away from her, she doesn’t lose heart, she simply shifts her priorities in service to others while taking a new tack to her own dreams.

“I’m just as ambitious as ever. Only, I’ve changed the object of my ambitions. I’m going to be a good teacher— and I’m going to save your eyesight. Besides, I mean to study at home here and take a little college course all by myself. Oh, I’ve dozens of plans, Marilla. I’ve been thinking them out for a week. I shall give my life here my best, and I believe it will give its best to me in return. When I left Queen’s my future seemed to stretch out before me like a straight road. I thought I could see along it for many a milestone. Now there is a bend in it. I don’t know what lies around the bend, but I’m going to believe the best does. It has a fascination of its own, that bend, Marilla. I wonder how the road beyond it goes— what there is of green glory and soft, checkered light and shadows— what new landscapes— what curves and hills and valleys further on.”

There will always be bends in the road, and we usually don’t see them coming. However, I hope to always take those bends like Anne does: with fascination and anticipation, self-sacrifice and love, and, most importantly, hope and trust.