Grief's journey
07/02/13 05:30
I have a cousin who seems to be wearing grief like a pall these days. Like a heavy blanket, it has settled around her life giving her a heavy burden to carry with each step, blocking the sunlight and casting its shadow around her so that it goes everywhere that she goes. She lost her mother at an all-too-early age. It was the first of my maternal aunts to die, the victim of cancer that reached beyond the ability of the doctors of that time to treat. Of the four sisters who survived into adulthood, she was the first to have children and the first to die. Then, in all too quick of a succession, my cousin lost her father, her husband and, yesterday, her oldest son. It is enough to test faith and dim hope.
Each grief came with its own set of warnings and burden of care of the dying. Her father fell victim to Asbestosis, the result of a unique combination of ignorance and corporate greed that painted its picture of death on a small Montana town that was so striking that it has been the frequent subject of national news stories. One of those deaths was a man who earned his living as an electrician at the paper mill, who lived for the weekends at the lake and loved his family. He was my uncle, but he did not die before the typical struggle to breath as lung capacity diminished and slowly forced inactivity to populate more and more until just gasping for air became the only thing that was left. And then it, too, was gone.
But she had lived her adult life away from that town, as a young married woman she moved to the city with her husband whose brilliant mind was a problem-solving boon to the automobile industry in the first wave of environmental consciousness. He could tell you more about catalytic converters in five minutes than you ever thought you’d need to know in a lifetime. They worked hard and seemed to have their lives together for a retirement of traveling in their new and comfortable camper. When you’ve just established a retirement home in Montana, Florida isn’t the most convenient location for a disabling stroke. Survivor that her husband was, he hung on for enough recovery to make it to the nursing home in Montana before the clouds darkened and the brilliant mind succumbed to the effects of cardiovascular disease.
She survived a bout with cancer and adding the title “survivor” to her name fit well with the losses she had known. But no mother wishes to survive cancer to watch her son die from a disease bearing the same name. He too experienced successful treatment, but when the cancer came back it was too extensive and to spread out to respond to anything more than palliative care. He was allowed to go home, with hospice, for his final days.
And now there is one son, three brothers, two grandsons and a granddaughter left. And my cousin is the primary support for the granddaughter who lives with her as she walks through the valley of the grief of her father’s death, a journey that is far less familiar to the granddaughter than the grandmother. It is almost too much.
But only almost.
Despite what you might think, we humans are rather well adapted for grief. Our faith does not hide the reality of our mortality from us. Our traditions give us opportunities to practice our grief through an annual journey along the road of Lent and Holy Week. Knowing this, having practiced our faith, however, does not make the journey any easier. The road is no less rocky when it is familiar. Traveling the road is exhausting. And too many trips in too short of a time can leave one feeling battered and weary and covered in road dust. Memories, normally great companions and allies in the journey of grief, can become overwhelming. And the fear of pain is more debilitating than the pain itself. Knowing what is coming is not always a blessing.
We may have been designed for grief. But we were not designed to grieve alone.
It is in the actions of a loving and caring community that I see the first signs of the power of resurrection. Living a long ways from my cousin, the things I noticed early on were the gentle and kind responses of others who not only sent their greetings, but hit the “reply all” button so that we might form community in support of our loved one. I know small town Montana well enough to also know that I can count on the casseroles and cakes and visits from friends who don’t know what to say but who never would let not knowing what to say keep them from paying a visit. I know my cousin can count on the living presence of the body of Christ in that small Methodist church.
Death is a reality. It is not the victor.
Grief is an inevitable journey. It is not the definition of the meaning of our lives.
For my cousin, grief is a season, not the story of her life.
As I go through my days nearly a thousand miles away, with all of the meetings and interviews and services, and letters and chores and planning and other things that clutter a normal life, my thoughts travel to be with my cousin in this season of grief. I can only imagine the pain of the death of a child. I can only barely picture how each word you say to your grandchild must be carefully chosen as you forge a new relationship and a new way of looking at the world. I cannot know what it feels like to be her. I only know that when you have no more words for your prayers, it is important to remember that you aren’t the only one praying.
We journey on. But some days the steps are heavy and slow. Thanks be to God that we do not walk alone. When we open our eyes and senses, we can see the signs of the faithful cloud of witnesses who have gone before. When we pause for a rest, we sometimes can glimpse the reality that ours is not the last generation to travel this journey.
Each grief came with its own set of warnings and burden of care of the dying. Her father fell victim to Asbestosis, the result of a unique combination of ignorance and corporate greed that painted its picture of death on a small Montana town that was so striking that it has been the frequent subject of national news stories. One of those deaths was a man who earned his living as an electrician at the paper mill, who lived for the weekends at the lake and loved his family. He was my uncle, but he did not die before the typical struggle to breath as lung capacity diminished and slowly forced inactivity to populate more and more until just gasping for air became the only thing that was left. And then it, too, was gone.
But she had lived her adult life away from that town, as a young married woman she moved to the city with her husband whose brilliant mind was a problem-solving boon to the automobile industry in the first wave of environmental consciousness. He could tell you more about catalytic converters in five minutes than you ever thought you’d need to know in a lifetime. They worked hard and seemed to have their lives together for a retirement of traveling in their new and comfortable camper. When you’ve just established a retirement home in Montana, Florida isn’t the most convenient location for a disabling stroke. Survivor that her husband was, he hung on for enough recovery to make it to the nursing home in Montana before the clouds darkened and the brilliant mind succumbed to the effects of cardiovascular disease.
She survived a bout with cancer and adding the title “survivor” to her name fit well with the losses she had known. But no mother wishes to survive cancer to watch her son die from a disease bearing the same name. He too experienced successful treatment, but when the cancer came back it was too extensive and to spread out to respond to anything more than palliative care. He was allowed to go home, with hospice, for his final days.
And now there is one son, three brothers, two grandsons and a granddaughter left. And my cousin is the primary support for the granddaughter who lives with her as she walks through the valley of the grief of her father’s death, a journey that is far less familiar to the granddaughter than the grandmother. It is almost too much.
But only almost.
Despite what you might think, we humans are rather well adapted for grief. Our faith does not hide the reality of our mortality from us. Our traditions give us opportunities to practice our grief through an annual journey along the road of Lent and Holy Week. Knowing this, having practiced our faith, however, does not make the journey any easier. The road is no less rocky when it is familiar. Traveling the road is exhausting. And too many trips in too short of a time can leave one feeling battered and weary and covered in road dust. Memories, normally great companions and allies in the journey of grief, can become overwhelming. And the fear of pain is more debilitating than the pain itself. Knowing what is coming is not always a blessing.
We may have been designed for grief. But we were not designed to grieve alone.
It is in the actions of a loving and caring community that I see the first signs of the power of resurrection. Living a long ways from my cousin, the things I noticed early on were the gentle and kind responses of others who not only sent their greetings, but hit the “reply all” button so that we might form community in support of our loved one. I know small town Montana well enough to also know that I can count on the casseroles and cakes and visits from friends who don’t know what to say but who never would let not knowing what to say keep them from paying a visit. I know my cousin can count on the living presence of the body of Christ in that small Methodist church.
Death is a reality. It is not the victor.
Grief is an inevitable journey. It is not the definition of the meaning of our lives.
For my cousin, grief is a season, not the story of her life.
As I go through my days nearly a thousand miles away, with all of the meetings and interviews and services, and letters and chores and planning and other things that clutter a normal life, my thoughts travel to be with my cousin in this season of grief. I can only imagine the pain of the death of a child. I can only barely picture how each word you say to your grandchild must be carefully chosen as you forge a new relationship and a new way of looking at the world. I cannot know what it feels like to be her. I only know that when you have no more words for your prayers, it is important to remember that you aren’t the only one praying.
We journey on. But some days the steps are heavy and slow. Thanks be to God that we do not walk alone. When we open our eyes and senses, we can see the signs of the faithful cloud of witnesses who have gone before. When we pause for a rest, we sometimes can glimpse the reality that ours is not the last generation to travel this journey.