“Nobody wants to be good at grieving – we are half afraid that having such a skill would only attract more grief. But because you will not be spared from times of loss, it is important to believe that your grief has a purpose.” -Bob Deits, Recovering After Loss
I’m a loser. I’m losing hair, strength, eyesight, patience. With each loss comes a degree of irritable sadness and a little amusement at this season of aging.
At 60, my age places me on the loading platform at biology’s depot. The Still Young bus left a while ago, but the Medicare line hasn’t arrived yet, leaving me remembering the one and awaiting the other. And mildly grieving over the accompanying losses.
Other losses aren’t so amusing. I’ve watched friends lose their children, which to me is unthinkable. Others I’ve loved have died of AIDS, accidents, cancer, even murder. I’ve lost jobs, reputation and relationships, all of which left me bleeding.
Loss happens; grief follows. I may change over the years, but that cycle won’t. We will lose, because although we have eternal life in Christ, we also have a temporal world to deal with in which things and people change, go, and die. How we grieve in response to loss hugely effects our growth and health. So a few points come to mind when thinking about grief.
First, you cannot ‘not grieve.’
What you lose, you’ll respond to with sadness or anger, whether it’s expressed or buried. When a friendship ends, or a loved one rebels, or finances dry up, or life is taken, grief begins. To experience loss without grief is akin to being cut without bleeding, which is to say it won’t happen.
I can try to manage my flow of blood, dress the wound and take it easy for awhile until the bleeding stops, but I can’t prevent it altogether. Likewise, I can and should manage the flow of tears when loss comes, not by trying to prevent them but by allowing them in the right place and time, and hopefully with the right people. I can dress the wound by examining what happened, talking through my feelings about it, and trying to learn from it. And I can take it easy by asking a little less of myself till the bleeding stops. I can’t ‘not grieve’, but I can grieve well.
Second, grief should be shared, but shared responsibly.
That is, if we’re going to make ourselves available to someone who’s suffering loss, let’s remember they need co-grievers, not homilies.
“Weep with those who weep”, Paul said, a practical but often ignored bit of advice. When my mother in law died, our shared pain was palpable over the loss of someone so precious and vital to our lives. Tears flowed at the memorial service, but sadly, so did clichés. To distract myself I counted them as people greeted my wife, and I tallied up 7 “She’s with the Lord now”, 3 “She looks so natural” (?!?) and a couple “Finally she’s at rest.”
Not helpful; often insulting. The person in pain needs loving empathy more than bumper sticker phrases, so this year, when a friend loses something significant and needs me to be there for him, I will try to listen, weep, pray or sit in silent solidarity with him. I’ll drop the counselor hat and be a friend, a partner who’s honored to be allowed into his grief time.
Third, tears are testimonies.
When I lose in the hugest of ways by saying goodbye to loved ones taken by death, I want my flow of angry sadness be a final salute, honoring them and all they’ve meant to me. That’s a salute I won’t disrespect by trying to cut it short because it’s too “messy.” My grief will be a statement of indignation at the havoc sin wreaks on this world, and a godly expression of longing for the time when it all stops.
I still think the best years are ahead. And in them I’ll gain, be blessed, and reap an abundance in the spiritual and the natural. But just as surely as I’ll reap, I know I’ll lose something, or someone.
As with all other areas of life, I’m committed not to doing it perfectly, but to doing it, by God’s grace, better.
