GRIEF + TIME = grief

“Grief is a process that varies from person to person…but there are some general similarities.”

The other day I read a Tweet that stopped me in my tracks. A woman said she had cut her two best friends completely out of her life because in the entire year after her niece died, neither one of them bothered to check in with her. Her comment came after someone checked in…a full two years after her tragic loss. He texted her with a very simple message…

“I’m just checking in to see how you are coping after the death of your niece.”

Simple. To the point. And, so welcomed it brought her to tears.

It prompted me to reflect. When was the last time I checked in with my friends who have lost loved ones? I get so wrapped up in my “work”, my “ministry”, with the bereaved, I forget to reach out and connect myself sometimes.

Last night I spent a good two hours writing quick texts to several of my peeps who had lost someone significant in the last couple of years. I heard back from them and the response was universal…”You have no idea what it means to have someone remember to ask how I’m doing!” “Thank you SO much for checking in…it means so much to me!” “My own kids don’t even want to listen!”

It’s true…once a “reasonable amount of time” passes, people move on with their lives. And, unless they have been bereaved, they may not understand that you haven’t. I remember how I felt abandoned. Like no one cared anymore. That isn’t true, of course. They just don’t have a point of reference for the depth of your pain and…it would scare the crap out of them if they believed that depth of pain could possible last more than a few months.

There is no way to compare your own experience with that of another. Your grief is different than my grief. And it doesn’t matter how your person died…your grief is the worst grief ever because it is your own. But truly, I’m here to tell you, there is some grief that I cannot begin to imagine. Like the mother whose son was murdered by terrorists and left to die on the roadside. Or the mother whose daughter was found dead three days after a heroin overdose. Or the wife who returned from the grocery store to find her husband dead on the back porch from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

There are so many stories in the work that I do. It breaks my heart into little pieces. And, it makes me think, “If he had to die, at least it wasn’t like that!” I find myself feeling grateful it was “only a heart attack.” I didn’t have to watch him slowly fade away from the ravages of cancer.

As I talked to my friend whose son was killed a little over a year ago, I thought back over the years since Mr. Virgo died. And, while there isn’t some neat and tidy delineation from year to year, there is some general sense of first, second, third, etc.

The first year is such a fog. You are numb. You are just trying to get the next thing done, the next paper filed, the next account closed. Closet? Check. Accounts? Check. Cellphone? Check. The first year becomes a blur…a cross between busy and madness.

The second year can be surprisingly rough…like you are standing in high tide during a storm surge. Your footing shifts like the sand beneath you in the ocean. Each wave hitting you blindly, knocking you beneath the surface. And…you can’t swim. Not even close.

At some point along the way…you hear it. A little snippet of music. A little bubble of laughter. A little glimmer of color peeking through a stormy sky. And that’s when the tides begin to shift a little. The waves not quite so hard. Or…maybe we’ve become better swimmers.

For me, the third year gave me a little breathing room. It was a period of exploration and self-discovery. A time of reaching out and stretching beyond my past and stepping a bit more boldly into the future.

The fourth, and beyond, found me building a boat to carry me over the waves till the next storm comes. 

I listened intently to my friend sharing her grief. I asked questions. I resisted the urge to share my experiences except to say the occasional “Yes! I get that…I felt that, too!” It was amazingly comforting to me when I found others shared some of the same things I was experiencing. At some point in our conversation, she asked…

”How is your life?” 

“I feel bad sharing how wonderful my life is when yours sucks so terribly,” I said.

“No…don’t ever feel bad about that! Your story gives me hope!”

And that…in a nutshell…is what keeps me going. It keeps me telling stories…even when you hurt…even when I hurt. Because life keeps going on around us whether our sense of time has stopped or whether death has taken the joy from our hearts. I write about Jesus and faith. I write about grief. I write about pain. I write about love and joy and rocking babies. I write about travel, and camping, and becoming strong. I write about farms and mowing and fried green tomatoes. I write about life and all it’s little bits…both good and bad.

But mostly…I write about hope.

❤️

“You are my refuge and my shield; your word is my source of hope.”

Psalms 119:114 NLT