There is no playbook, no instructional guide, no Cliff's Notes. Neither is there a three point plan, a support group, or an awareness day that I know of. Yet it comes for us all. We never seek it, but it finds us, overwhelms us, batters us and when the fight is over (if it does ends), we find that we know little more than before our struggle.
Grief.
I'm speaking of grief.
We all lose in life: loved ones, possessions, friends, our youth, maybe our health even. And we grieve. We all grieve and try to figure out how to get through it, how to come out happy and whole and well again.
I have now lost friends, cats, grandparents, aunts, dogs, uncles, cousins, and Dad and Mom. I have learned a little, only a little along the way. In an effort to put to paper my hard-cried lessons, I sat before keyboard and began to peck not with an outline in hand but with a heavy heart and tear-blurred eyes. What can I say about this intruder, this mysterious monster, this murderer of joy? I have a few lessons, not the kind that I think are normative, but they are personal. They may or may not have application for you, not that I think truth is in any way relative, but I think grief is, relative and personal. I invite you to consider these, chew on these, let your mind try them. Like a mule eating briers, spit out the bad and keep the good. You don't need my permission to do that, but you have it anyway.
The first lesson I've learned is that grief is not only particular to the person grieving, but also to the person, place or thing being grieved over. I have lost people that I never really grieved for. I am not sure why. Maybe it had something to do with the manner of their life, their death, and our relationship. I think of Charlie Turner, Sr. We were good friends for a long time. It no longer seems odd to say that, but once it did. He was the dad of my best friend, Charlie Turner, Jr. For a long time he was that: my friends's dad. Then he got saved, led me to the Lord, and he became my spiritual mentor. I visited him often and we talked about the Bible and he taught me doctrinal topics.
Slowly, over the years our relationship continued to change. I became a pastor and went to seminary. The student transformed into the teacher as he began to ask me more and more questions. That was really odd for me at first as our relationship shifted to a new phase. And eventually, he was not the dad of my friend, not my mentor, not my student, he became my friend, much older than me but my friend nonetheless. His passing did strike me a hard blow and made me sad for many day. But I never grieved at least not the way I have grieved at other times. I was happy for him because I had extreme confidence in his relationship with Jesus and our relationship with each other was without conflict. I was sad to see him go, but I never seemed to grieve his passing. There were other people who fell into this category, but I will hold those cards close to my chest.
Another lesson I have learned is that grief is normal, biblical. Even though the the Bible doesn't discuss the subject, it does give us plenty of examples to read and think about. For instance, when Jacob died, the Bible tells us of Joseph and his family:
And they came to the threshingfloor of Atad, which is beyond Jordan, and there they mourned with a very great and sore lamentation: and he made a mourning for his father seven days. (Genesis 50:10)
On Moses' death, we read:
And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab thirty days. (Deuteronomy 34:8)
Of Jesus at the tomb of Lazarus, the Bible succinctly says,
Jesus wept. (John 11:35)
There are many other references to grieving in the Bible, but little to no discussion of it. A couple of things, however, are easily deducible. One deduction is grief is natural, normal, un-rebuked by the Bible.
One of the most important lessons I have learned is one that I think should be normative, that is it should be practiced by all: You don't have to be strong. I can't tell you how many times I have heard someone say, "I have to be strong for so and so." That dictum, by the way, is not in the Bible, not in the Works of Shakespeare, it's not even in Little Richard's Almanac. I have written in the past (see "Roses: A Tribute to Mom" in this blog, 12/27/2017) about my mother's crying over a dangerous cat we once had. That is my favorite memory of her. The sight of her being broken over the death of what few people could ever love is precious to me, and I am convinced was/is formative for my character in a positive way. You don't harm your children by showing them your heart, your pain, or your tears. In fact, it is my opinion that you help them, make them more sensitive and give them a more realistic view of what life has in store for them.
Another lesson I learned is: it's the pets and the parents that hurt the most. I am skipping over one category that I am sure is worse: losing a child. I have not, thanks be to God, experienced that so I will not address it. What I will address is what I have experience with. Maybe it's because they love us the most and they love us unconditionally that we find their deaths so devastating. They are there, always there and when they leave us, part of our comfort, our security, our joy is ripped away leaving us alone, raw, and vulnerable. Some even criticize our crying at times like this. I've heard it with my own ears. They can kiss my hinder parts. I will not stuff my humanity for the sake of people who do not understand theirs.
A fifth lesson in my view is, God wants to be involved. Sometimes I feel like I am worrying the Lord. Maybe that sounds silly to you, and I suppose it is somewhat senseless. But for some reason, I still feel that way. Consequently, I find certain passages from the Bible edifying. Things like:
3) Blessed be God, even the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies, and the God of all comfort, 4) Who comforteth us in all our, tribulation, so that we may be able to comfort them which are in trouble, by the comfort wherewith which we ourselves are
comforted.
2 Cor 1:3 -4
God does care about our struggles with sorrow just like we care about our children's hurts. Well, not just like, because we cannot love like Him. Psalm 23, of course, is often used by preachers of funerals. The Word gives us the promise of going "through the valley of the shadow of death" with God. Another verse that helps in a time of sorrow is Psalm 147:3 which reads:
He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.
Grief is episodic. This is one I learned the hard way. I remember people asking me after the death of my dad if I was OK. I told them yes, and I truly believed I was only to learn later that I was not. I'll give you one example. Several months after Dad left us, my truck broke down. Instinctively, I reached for my phone and started dialing up Dad. It's what I always did when I needed a hand. Then it hit me and it hit me hard that the one who was always there when I needed a hand was gone and gone for good. It was a tough day, a tough few days. Still it pops up from time to time. I think the tears are gone that they are a thing of the past. Then they come return rushing in like a flood. A thought, a memory, a place brings it all around again. That's just the way it is.
The same thing has happened several times since Mom's passing. I go in her house almost every day. I cry almost every day. Then I had two trips in a row where I did not break down. I thought, I have rounded the corner, things are getting better. But I knew that might not be the case, and it wasn't. At least this time I wasn't caught off guard.
The last lesson I think I have is, pain is the price we pay for love. This is one more reason I take umbrage with criticisms of crying over someone's death. It hurts to lose those we care deeply about. "But you are crying for yourself," some will and have said. I say, so what? If you cut your finger off, would you not cry? How would you respond if someone even hinted that it is selfish of you to shed tears during your pain. The nonsense there is plain as it should be in grieving. I have said it before in other posts, and I say it again here: It is not our humanity that God has a problem with; it is our sin. God does not despise our weaknesses, our perplexities, or our pain. Instead, the Bible says 'He saves our tears in a bottle' (Psalm 56:8). To me, that is pretty plain. Don't ever let anyone make you ashamed of your humanity. If we truly love, we truly hurt when we lose the loved one. It's part of being human.
Is there an overarching lesson in all of these words? When I try to condense it all to the essence, when I try to put a handle on the truth, so to speak, what I come away with is let the process work itself out. Don't stuff your emotions or your memories and don't expect to be well in a week or two, a month or two, or even a year or two. Some people say you never get over it. Maybe that is true; I haven't lived long enough to know. One thing I do know is that it does get easier with time and if we allow ourselves to grieve, we do grow softer, better, more sensitive to the scars and pains of those around us.
In his memoir, All Over But The Shoutin', Rick Bragg talks about a family tradition in which a newborn child is carried around the house by a family member. He writes:
"It was said that the babies would absorb all the good qualities of the person who walked them that first time around the house in which they were born, that the tiny weak thing would borrow from their strength, their character" (26).
Neither Bragg nor I know the origin of this ceremony, and I am dubious as to its efficacy. I do believe, however, that we can accomplish the same thing in reverse. We can walk with our memories and relive the good times in our minds and thus absorb the best qualities of the lost loved one we cared so deeply for. That is a noble pursuit, and one I think we all can and should make.
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