And Jesus wept

George was an everyman kind of guy. You know the type: quiet, shy perhaps, willing to keep his mouth shut no matter what was said to him or even about him in his presence.

He never complained. Never fought back. Took everything that was ever done to him with the proverbial grain of salt.

You know the type: willing to take it when none of us could.

Till his wife got sick. They had been together, husband and wife, friend and lover, for 37 years. He was definitely his yin to her yang,  his night to her day, his black to her white. They were connected in all ways, though they could be as opposite as any. They fit like a well-worn glove and an old hand.

Till they got that diagnosis. Weeks went by. Chemo set in like a heavy rain season. George took Nancy to the doctor with regularity. His insurance began to wane, money started flowing out of his own pocket and when a year had passed, Nancy had wasted away to the size of a heavy broom, had lost her beautiful blond hair and most of her will. George watched his life savings disappear just as quickly.

He spent so much time caring for, nurturing his wife, he lost track of and the money to pay for the mortgage on the house they had bought eight years earlier when they had sold their home, their magnificent home of 27 years and moved to a smaller one. Now? George was in over his head.

Then Nancy died.
George lost the house, and didn't give a rip.

Even Margie, the dachshund they had owned, or rather been owned by, for 11 years started to grieve so much she was lethargic and seemingly sick. But George had no money for a vet, so whatever was wrong with his graying dear friend would have to wait.

Life, as George viewed it, sucked, a term he learned from his grandson who said it about near everything.

He lost the house, but didn't care. He and Margie moved in with his oldest son. He had a bedroom to himself, but that felt like it was all. His son and daughter-in-law had a young child, the house was filled with noise, and Margie was scared to death of the kid.

Sleep went first. He would lie down around 9:30 p.m. when his body said it couldn't go much further, but by midnight, lying in "their" bed, he would get up and fix a pot of coffee as strong as he could make it and drink it. He would get so tired in the middle of the day, with little he could or wanted to do, his eyelids would droop, but sleep would only come in a quantity of a minute or two before it would all come back to him, particulary when the kid climed up in his lap without warning.

Margie sat by him, or at his feet, through it all, though his son and daughter-in-law really didn't like dogs. God forbid she would have an accident. But George had already decided if they say Margie must go, he would go even if it meant living on the streets. Thirty five years at the local factory meant nothing to this world.

George and Margie felt as if they were on a lifeboat on an ocean of tears. Every day was an exercise in survival, not living.

Then one day, with little to do or think about, George decided out of the blue to go to the church that was near his son's house. He had seen an advertisment on the TV. They said if you're hurting, come to First United Methodist Church in the town. They promised lively music, deep worship and healing for all. He didn't care much about the music and didn't know anything about worship. He had been to church as a kid, but who hadn't.

He put on the suit that he had worn at Nancy's funeral and trudged out the door, shocking his family and even Margie who sat by the door till she was run back into George's room.

He sat at the back of the church, which reminded him of a basketball arena with crosses instead of baskets, a knot on a very, very big log. No one greeted him. No one smiled at him, even when they did this thing they called passing the peace. He felt no peace. He felt no warmth. He felt nothing, just as he had for months.

They sang songs he didn't know, they greeted each other with 100-kilowatt smiles, they said things they called creeds that he didn't know or know how to find. they passed the plate, wanting money he didn't have, and at the end of the service even took up a love offering for a kid who was going to camp, a kid wearing designer shirt, pants and some shoes he reckoned cost more than a hundred
 bucks.  The preacher's sermon was fine, he guessed, but it was about some time 2,000 years ago when Jesus somehow according to that preacher "defeated death." George didn't know what that meant, since as far as he could see, Nancy was still dead.

The service ended. He trudged out the door, wondering why he even came. He walked the half-mile back to his son's house. That afternoon he popped the top on a bottle of Ambien he'd been given to help him sleep after Nancy's death. He looked at Margie one last time, and swallowed one by one the pills that he thought would give him relief. Tears ran out the side of his eyes as he wished he could take Margie with him, and he hoped that what that preacher had said about seeing our loved ones again was true. Margie would love to see Nancy again, he reckoned.

Finally, he slept. Alone except for Margie who lay across his chest and grieved so much she died.

The church had a potluck that evening for all its members. His son and daughter-in-law had George's funeral in the church four days later. It was the first time they had been there. Margie was buried in the back yard.

And Jesus wept.