The Pounce of Grief

I love to watch my neighbor's cat guard the activity along a stone wall in my garden. He lounges in the sunshine, but don't think for a minute he isn't watching and waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting chipmunk or swat at a loitering butterfly. He creeps through the shrubs, making no noise, then in the blink of an eye he vanishes as quietly and quickly as he came.

In grief language, we call this being "ambushed." Grief, the internal experience of great loss, often lounges in our souls, quietly waits to make a move.  We will be going through our day - or moving through the years - thinking we are making progress. Grief pounces on our heart and we are overcome with a profound sense of loss.

Sometimes it happens when we cross an anniversary of our loved one. Sometimes it happens when we hear a certain song or see someone with similar features. Sometimes it happens when we participate in events for others like marriages and new babies and remember that we won't be having that experience. And many times, it just happens. Period.

The good news for grievers is like the prowling cat, profound grief doesn't hang around forever, but weaves itself in and out of our lives, never fully going away. Sometimes it's tangled and messy. Sometimes it lingers around looking for a vulnerable heart. That's okay. A vulnerable heart means it is beating to the tune of love and life. A vulnerable heart has loved greatly. A vulnerable heart can be compassionate to others. And then healing comes. Healing comes when the broken heart can take new steps to live without the one who was loved. Taking those new steps means we are moving.

Moving with hope. Moving with trust that we will find our way. Oh, God, show us the way.

An Offering of Grace

 "The tears...streamed down, 

and I let them flow as freely as they would, 

making of them a pillow for my heart...on them it rested."

Augustine

Confessions 1X,12

 The funeral is over. The relatives are gone.The flowers have been given away in small bunches. The remnants of cakes and casseroles are all that remain. There are piles of cards and letters...some are opened, some are waiting. You open your eyes and everything looks different. The world is a new color of gray and nothing feels right. And then you remember - it all comes flooding over you.

You try to remember what day it is. Everything seems too quiet. There is a hush in your home and in your heart.  You look outside and even the birds are silent on this day. But there is something inside of you that wants to hear the birds sing. There is something inside of you that strains to hear the faintest chirp. Anything that would bring you back to the way it was...before. When life was normal.

A few days after my daughter's service, I stood at the coffeepot next to my husband and waited for the coffee to brew. We stood there, watching the drip of the morning elixer and he whispered, "Would you like to go to the recycling center with me today?" I knew then we would survive. And I laughed that the mere thought of some task so utilitarian could be such an offering of grace.

It is the offering of grace we mourners so desire. It is the offering of grace that reaches down into our soul, soothes us, calms us with the simple tasks of daily life. I suppose they are different for each grief-stricken heart. But when hearts are linked together, the offering and the acceptance are always compatible. You know what I need. You offer. I accept:

                                      a visit on the front steps,
                                                        watching a child learn to ride a bicycle.
   
                                a hand-picked bouquet from your garden,
                                                      delivered hand-to-hand, eye-to-eye

                                             a linen handkerchief

                                                                    a note in the mailbox

Maybe your heart is linked to someone today who needs a simple offering of grace. Look around you. What will your offering be for the one whose heart is resting on a pillow of tears?

                                 



                     

How To Plan A Funeral

 Three days after the death of my daughter, we met at church for a memorial service for the one we loved. Many people came, friends and loved ones spoke and sang at the service. The choir sang and we tried to sing. Afterward, we gathered for a reception and greeted those who wished to stand in a long line. There was a beautiful display of food and flowers and pictures. It was a hard day, but a special day. A day of remembrance and worship and love.

Three days is not a very long time in which to put together a service for someone you love. You might have gotten sudden news and had to plan a service in total shock. You might not even remember it. That is normal but not at all fair. Death is never fair. I had to wait for the funeral to come to me. You see, I knew my daughter was dying. In fact, I planned her service at Christmas. Then it lingered toward Easter. And as summer blended into fall, it really happened.

I was still in shock. Death brings shock whenever it comes. We are never fully prepared. And we cannot think clearly. To this day, I cannot remember calling my family and best friends. But I can vividly remember stacks of paper plates and plastic cups appearing in my kitchen.I remember the bird feeder always being full. I remember everyone talking softly when all I wanted to do was scream.

My church was instrumental in leading us through those days. The church is a place where the needs of the heart are met. When my family could barely breathe, the church stepped in to plan, finalize, prepare, and serve us with love and compassion.

My friend in Colorado found herself planning a funeral unexpectedly. Afterward, she published a little book that everyone should have on the shelf, ready for that unexpected moment.

How to Plan a Funeral &Other Things You Need to Know When a Loved One Dies by Liz Cowen Furman

Beacon Hill Press
Buy the Book

 

Today is a New Day

"When I consider your heavens,

the work of your fingers,

the moon and the stars,

which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,

the son of man that you care for him?"

Psalm 8

 

 Today, September 12th, is the anniversary of my daughter's death. That was four years ago. This morning as we looked up at a beautiful sky, I asked my husband if it seemed short or long. He said it seemed short and long for him. I said it seemed very long to me. And that's grief for you. Just as different for each person as the changing patterns of the morning sky. Heavy and gray one minute, light and hope-filled the next.

You might be fresh in your grief today. Or maybe you are futher along this road.You might be sitting, stunned and immobile with the reality of death. That is where you are and that is where you must be. Let it be. Give yourself permission to just be. Silence is a good thing. Look at the sky who silently takes you to a place of majesty and  mystery beyond yourself. Creation consoles your heart and quietly speaks comfort to your spirit.

In this past summer's issue of Bereaved Parents of the USA (www.bereavedparentsusa.org), the editor shared one model describing this journey of grief:

Year 1 - The year of firsts: birthdays, holidays, anniversaries. It's new and awful, but most agree the dreading of those days are worse than the actual day. Hard to fathom, but true.
Year 2 - Universally agreed, probably the hardest year. We discover that now we know just how empty and sad life has become. Most of the support we had is gone - we feel abandoned and alone.
Year 3 - A year of irrational anger. We find ourselves constantly angry over insignificant issues. We must remind ourselves this part of the journey is complicated and are assured by those who have traveled the road that this year will come to an end.
Year 4 - A breakout year with mixed results. We think we are ready to move forward and to others we seem "normal" but we wrestle with giving up grief (after all, it's been our constant companion). As much as we want to fully participate, something deep is holding us back.
Year 5 - A year of engagement. At last, we are able to "re-enter" life in earnest. We have moved through our grief and recognize we will always wear the scar of loss, but we discover we can experience joy and live again.

Know today that the God of creation reaches down in love and cares for every grieving soul. You are never alone. Scripture tells us that Jesus wept over Lazarus, he wept over Jerusalem, and he wept at the foot of his own cross. He has been there and he knows about our sorrow . Look up today and see the majesty of His love.

Who will Go with Me?

It was four years ago tomorrow, September 12, 2008, my oldest daughter died from a rare, neurological disease. I thought I was moving through my grief at a modest pace--knowing that it is different for every person. I had lots of time to be alone, to write, to talk it through with family and friends. I thought maybe...just maybe I was coming through the darkness.

But as spring turned to summer, I sensed a dread in my soul. I had no energy and needed more sleep. I didn't want to be with my dearest friends. Crying came easily and often. As the pattern continued, I wondered if I was relapsing into some depression...or even worse, wondered if I had ever gone through what I was supposed to have gone through four years ago.

 I will tell you I made it through that darkness, but I know I am on a grief journey that will probably last as long as I live. I plan to move along, finding my way, getting lost and then found again - over and over. But I know I must go deeper now, learning more about grief and why we are so different in this process of suffering. I must learn how some people go on a fast journey and others never begin their healing. I want to heal.

So how is it for you? Obviously, you are visiting this grief site because you  are grieving or you know someone who is grieving.  Isn't that all of us? Maybe you just need a grief friend. I can be that for you. We can "talk grief." If you have lost a person you loved, we speak the same language.

I invite you to come on this journey with me. Don't be afraid. I will share my story of loss, hope, and faith, revisiting that first year after my loss. I hope it will help you.Together we will heal. Together we will be stronger.