It seems broken heart syndrome is a real thing. Mayo Clinic has an article on it. I have my own take on this phenomenon though.
Loss is a great breaker of hearts. What happens to an actual heart and the inner workings of a person, and what happens to the living soul and emotional being we are, is a massive undertaking to sort out… should you want to.
Physically speaking just about anything that could happen, has and will. But mostly, I feel it in my heart, It jumps and skips and aches. As if it is breaking from the piece that is missing. There is sleeplessness and weird thoughts and bad dreams and excruciating loneliness. At times the whole body hurts, the head aches and there is no energy left.
The soul, as it pertains to the heart, is another story. It goes beyond the physical pain, to the pain of the core of who I am. A broken heart, from this perspective is an amazing thing.
The way I see it is that my heart is where the most valuable pieces of me, all my life scars and stories and secrets are held there. It’s been broken open, like the alabaster box, broken because that is the only way to open it. As my broken heart, spills out at Jesus feet and the shards are laying all around… I wonder at what I see before me. All that has ever had value and been significant in my life is a mess before Him. Running like a tiny stream from the place my heart once resided.
Jesus lifts my chin, wipes the tears and pulls me to my feet. And then he does an amazing thing. He bends down to his knees and gathers every piece of that broken heart, and He presses them together, forming a new heart. He’s been mindful of the part that is in heaven with Chris. He’s left a special memorial place in this new formation of what I once was. A hole that holds the beautiful oil of healing that has and will be poured into it.
Then the painful part, the pressing in of that heart to the place where it once was. It feels foreign and hurts at times as it settles in. His hand stays over my heart. And I am reminded of my Chris. One day just before he was diagnosed, he took my hand and layed it on his heart, and reminded me it was mine. It’s with tears I recall this magical God-designed moment. And as Jesus paints this in my mind, I remember His great hand on my heart, and hear, “Wendy, I am here.”
I look down, and around my feet, is the residue of spilled dreams, hopes and secrets. It has saturated Jesus feet, mixing with the ashes of so much grief and the aroma of all that was wafts all around me, sweet and sad. I cannot help it, I must fall to my knees and wipe those perfect nail scarred feet. My ashes and spilled heart seem to have made a mess of them. As I am bowed there the tears will not stop. Rivulets run down like miniature waterfalls and splash His feet. I see that they are removing the stains and the grief and the hurt hope, but not from just His feet, but from my soul.
At this point He scoops me up in his arms. I am spent, I am done and I’ve quit. A limp doll, so to speak, void of the ability to do anything normal. He sits in the green grass, and I awaken in His great arms, just like a child. He is singing, singing over me. I feel His chest vibrating and the clear deep tones of a song He’s written just for me. He whispers again, as my eyes begin to open and I realize where I am, “Wendy, I am here.” I find myself holding my breath, wondering if I will awaken from this dream. No words, just thousands of unshed tears, and He speaks again, “I know.”
I am not cured of broken heart syndrome. I still have days of great pain. I miss my soul mate, and the hole in my heart seems like it will be my end. This is when I must crawl into Jesus arms and weep. This is when God sends His embraces with skin on. Broken heart and all, He’s made me His heir. He loves me and holds me and blesses me. Tears and all He causes me to see that there is hope.