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In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis offers an unguarded journal of the year following his wife Joy Davidman’s death from cancer. Writing under the pseudonym “N.W. Clerk,” he records his raw oscillation between sorrow and anger, doubt and faith, as he confronts the shattering reality of loss and searches for God amid the void she left behind.
The book remains one of the most honest reflections on bereavement ever written. Three sentences in particular capture the paradoxes of sorrow and faith that often leave us feeling more afraid than comforted:
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”
“When you are happy you do not think of God’s presence.”
“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”
Let’s unpack each of these and explore how they illuminate our own journeys through loss.
Grief as Fear’s Twin
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”
We expect grief to be a wave of tears, not a tidal wave of panic. Yet Lewis discovered his body reacting to Joy’s death as if faced with mortal danger: a pounding heart, sweaty palms, a hollow tightness in the gut.
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Fight-or-Flight Grief: The sudden void where a loved one belonged triggers the same neural circuits as a threat. We hyper-vigilantly scan every sound—“Was that her voice?”—just as we might in a dark alley.
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Nervous System Care: Recognizing that grief and fear share chemistry invites gentleness. Practices like paced breathing or grounding exercises aren’t indulgent—they calm an amygdala convinced it’s under siege.
By naming grief’s kinship with fear, we give ourselves permission to rest from the battle and treat our bodies with compassion.
Happiness and the Hidden Hand
“When you are happy you do not think of God’s presence.”
In those rare moments of joy it’s easy to forget the hand that holds the spark. Lewis reminds us that crisis often jolts us into worship, but everyday mercies deserve our eyes too.
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Presence in the Ordinary: If we only remember God in storms, we miss the small wonders—morning light filtering through curtains, a child’s laughter, the aroma of coffee. Cultivating moment-by-moment gratitude weaves sacredness into our brightest hours.
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Simple Rituals: Listing three gifts before bed or pausing for a breath prayer each morning trains us out of the gratitude-only-in-grief trap. Over time, happiness itself becomes an altar.
By praising God in sunshine as well as rain, we anchor faith across every season.
Absence as Infinite Sky
“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.”
Lewis’s metaphor captures how loss is more than a missing person—it’s a vanished atmosphere. Every corner of life carries the echo of emptiness.
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Atmospheric Longing: Birthdays, dinner tables, holidays—no moment escapes that sky-wide absence. It can feel both beautiful in its vastness and unbearably hollow.
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Naming the Void: Acknowledging the expanse of absence grants us space to breathe into the emptiness instead of boxing it away. Writing “I miss you here” on sticky notes around the home can make the intangible ache more tangible.
Small rituals—lighting a candle in an empty chair or visiting a favorite bench—become footholds on that vast horizon.
Weaving It All Together
Lewis’s reflections reveal three intertwined truths:
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Grief and fear share the same body language.
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Happiness can blind us to God unless we practice presence.
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Absence, like the sky, saturates every experience with longing.
To integrate these insights:
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Morning Check-In: Scan your body—notice any fear echoes—and whisper gratitude for a new day.
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Midday Pause: Identify one small joy and offer it back with a silent “Thank you.”
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Evening Ritual: Name one way her absence showed up today, light a candle, and speak a remembrance.
Final Thought
Lewis didn’t emerge from his grief with neat answers but with deeper questions—and a fiercer awareness of God’s nearness amid the panic of loss. May these insights guide you through your own wild skies of absence, help you find sacred sparks in everyday joy, and transform that primal fear into a doorway of grace.
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