Reflections of love and loss
25/06/16 05:25
Through luck or serendipity, I’ve been reading two remarkable memoirs back to back. Both are by women who are poets and whose husbands died prematurely leaving them as widows. Both are memoirs of the process of grief.
I received Maryhelen Snyder’s “No Hole in the Flame” for my birthday. Maryhelen’s husband, Ross, was the son of a very important teacher and mentor in my life. Ross senior was professor of Christian Education at our seminary. I got to know him and many members of his family during the years of studying intensively with him. Ross Senior, his wife Martha, and son Ross co authored a book, “The Young Child as Person” for which I did many of the photo illustrations. My wife, Susan, was assistant director of the Seminary Preschool, founded by Martha, that provided much of the case material for the book. We kept touch with the Snyders for years after our seminary careers, but when Ross senior died, followed three years later by Martha’s death, we fell out of touch with the next generation. It was a delight to receive the book and to catch up on the details of their lives.
The book was, however, very sad for me to read. It is an extremely well-written memoir by someone who knows the value of words and has a poet’s capacity for removing unnecessary words. But it is also the story of people I know and love. Their pain was easy for me to feel. Maryhelen’s husband died of a pulmonary embolism suddenly at the age of 65. The family was in the midst of grief over the death of Ross Sr. The unexpected and sudden death created shock, but also drew together family and community in powerful ways. In the end, I believe that it is a very important book, with deep insights about love, loss, legacy and the journey of grief.
Then, a few days after my birthday, we took a trip in our camper and I discovered a book I bought last year and tucked into the camper to read, but never got around to reading. Elizabeth Alexander’s “the Light of the World” is another memoir of a widowed poet. Alexander’s husband, Ficre, died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 50. The couple had been married only 15 years, but they were very close, had two sons together, and had immeshed themselves with extended family in their years of marriage.
On the surface, the two families don’t have much in common. Maryhelen is a psychologist. Her husband was a child psychiatrist. They lived in New Mexico. Both attended private liberal arts colleges and came from privileged backgrounds.
Alexander is a professor and poet, born in Harlem. Her husband was a painter and artist, born in Eritrea. They were both educated and accomplished in their arts and lived in New Haven, Connecticut. She came from a long-standing American family, with forebears who came to America as slaves. He came from free East-African roots and was a first-generation immigrant to the United States.
There are a lot of differences between the two women and their stories: cultural, age, region. But experiences of love and loss are universal. Their stories are not the same, but each is a deep testament to the power of love, family, community, art and language.
Both women, in their memoirs, respect the mystery of death and the uniqueness of each loss. Neither are trying to say that their stories are the only stories, or that their experiences are somehow more important than those of others. But both writers have touched on universal truths. Both have gotten me to think more seriously about death, loss, and my role in working with those who are swept up in the waters of grief. I spend a lot of time with those who are in the mist of the experience of the death of a loved one. I get asked a lot of questions about the nature of death and grief. I work with a lot of families as they plan funerals and celebrations of the lives of loved ones. Later this morning I will serve as facilitator for a support group for those who have experienced sudden and traumatic loss of a loved one. I think I understand some of the dynamics of grief. I know I have witnessed great miracles of healing and the triumph of love an life over death.
Maryhelen Snyder and Elizabeth Alexander have reminded me, through their memoirs, of the sacred nature of every relationship and the sacred occasion of every funeral. What we do and say is incredibly important. How we provide a community of support to those who are going through the journey of grief is critical. Because these two writers are so articulate and so self aware, they remind me of the power of listening. Each memoir is a complete story. Neither needs my commentary nor my interpretation. They stand on their own. In a similar way, the grieving people with whom I work know their own stories and are the best tellers of their tales. They don’t need me to speak for them, to put words in their mouths or ideas in their heads. They need me to listen, and only speak to ask for clarity or to demonstrate that I am really listening.
Were I teaching a class of young seminarians about the process of conducting funerals and working with grieving people, I think I would recommend both of these books. I would also insist that my students practice deep listening by hearing the stories of their classmates. I would ask them to write a sermon and then reduce that sermon to a poem. I would teach them the discipline of careful language so that the words they speak in the context of worship are words of meaning and depth.
I am still working on learning to say more with fewer words. I am grateful to the poets who, through their works are teaching me.
In the end, both of these books are celebrations of life and love. I pray that the eloquence of the poet-writers will inspire me to reflect their art.
I received Maryhelen Snyder’s “No Hole in the Flame” for my birthday. Maryhelen’s husband, Ross, was the son of a very important teacher and mentor in my life. Ross senior was professor of Christian Education at our seminary. I got to know him and many members of his family during the years of studying intensively with him. Ross Senior, his wife Martha, and son Ross co authored a book, “The Young Child as Person” for which I did many of the photo illustrations. My wife, Susan, was assistant director of the Seminary Preschool, founded by Martha, that provided much of the case material for the book. We kept touch with the Snyders for years after our seminary careers, but when Ross senior died, followed three years later by Martha’s death, we fell out of touch with the next generation. It was a delight to receive the book and to catch up on the details of their lives.
The book was, however, very sad for me to read. It is an extremely well-written memoir by someone who knows the value of words and has a poet’s capacity for removing unnecessary words. But it is also the story of people I know and love. Their pain was easy for me to feel. Maryhelen’s husband died of a pulmonary embolism suddenly at the age of 65. The family was in the midst of grief over the death of Ross Sr. The unexpected and sudden death created shock, but also drew together family and community in powerful ways. In the end, I believe that it is a very important book, with deep insights about love, loss, legacy and the journey of grief.
Then, a few days after my birthday, we took a trip in our camper and I discovered a book I bought last year and tucked into the camper to read, but never got around to reading. Elizabeth Alexander’s “the Light of the World” is another memoir of a widowed poet. Alexander’s husband, Ficre, died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 50. The couple had been married only 15 years, but they were very close, had two sons together, and had immeshed themselves with extended family in their years of marriage.
On the surface, the two families don’t have much in common. Maryhelen is a psychologist. Her husband was a child psychiatrist. They lived in New Mexico. Both attended private liberal arts colleges and came from privileged backgrounds.
Alexander is a professor and poet, born in Harlem. Her husband was a painter and artist, born in Eritrea. They were both educated and accomplished in their arts and lived in New Haven, Connecticut. She came from a long-standing American family, with forebears who came to America as slaves. He came from free East-African roots and was a first-generation immigrant to the United States.
There are a lot of differences between the two women and their stories: cultural, age, region. But experiences of love and loss are universal. Their stories are not the same, but each is a deep testament to the power of love, family, community, art and language.
Both women, in their memoirs, respect the mystery of death and the uniqueness of each loss. Neither are trying to say that their stories are the only stories, or that their experiences are somehow more important than those of others. But both writers have touched on universal truths. Both have gotten me to think more seriously about death, loss, and my role in working with those who are swept up in the waters of grief. I spend a lot of time with those who are in the mist of the experience of the death of a loved one. I get asked a lot of questions about the nature of death and grief. I work with a lot of families as they plan funerals and celebrations of the lives of loved ones. Later this morning I will serve as facilitator for a support group for those who have experienced sudden and traumatic loss of a loved one. I think I understand some of the dynamics of grief. I know I have witnessed great miracles of healing and the triumph of love an life over death.
Maryhelen Snyder and Elizabeth Alexander have reminded me, through their memoirs, of the sacred nature of every relationship and the sacred occasion of every funeral. What we do and say is incredibly important. How we provide a community of support to those who are going through the journey of grief is critical. Because these two writers are so articulate and so self aware, they remind me of the power of listening. Each memoir is a complete story. Neither needs my commentary nor my interpretation. They stand on their own. In a similar way, the grieving people with whom I work know their own stories and are the best tellers of their tales. They don’t need me to speak for them, to put words in their mouths or ideas in their heads. They need me to listen, and only speak to ask for clarity or to demonstrate that I am really listening.
Were I teaching a class of young seminarians about the process of conducting funerals and working with grieving people, I think I would recommend both of these books. I would also insist that my students practice deep listening by hearing the stories of their classmates. I would ask them to write a sermon and then reduce that sermon to a poem. I would teach them the discipline of careful language so that the words they speak in the context of worship are words of meaning and depth.
I am still working on learning to say more with fewer words. I am grateful to the poets who, through their works are teaching me.
In the end, both of these books are celebrations of life and love. I pray that the eloquence of the poet-writers will inspire me to reflect their art.