April 6, 2018 at 1:53 p.m.
REFLECTION
Faces of grief
The funeral home loomed as I entered to attend my grandmother's wake. Only 10, I had no idea what to expect, except that my cousins would also be there. So there was an air of expectation mixed in with sadness that this would be the last time I'd see my Gram.
When familiar faces began to gather, my attention turned from the surroundings to relief at being able to "hang out" with my peers. An old-fashioned Irish wake meant lots of laughing, hugging, crying, gathering in groups and talking about family.
Isn't that still true today? We enter a funeral home focused on the deceased and the family, but encounter acquaintances, greet each other and begin reminiscing. We laugh at some memories and shed tears at others, but the important thing is that we are sharing our loss.
The depth of our grief changes with circumstance. Loss of a mother or father, even of siblings, wrenching as it can be, seems to follow the natural order of things, whereas the death of a child upsets that norm. The devastation of grief is compounded unimaginably. Then there is the loss of a spouse, which takes our emotions to a completely different level. A life partner is gone and, perhaps, with that comes an economic change which has its own level of uncertainty.
Loss results in beginning: beginning recovery, committing to ongoing life. We are the ones who will go on, will succeed, will have confronted the face of grief and seen the face of God leading us to healing, acceptance and God's love.
¤ "I know just how you feel." "She's coping so well." "He came back to work so quickly; he must be handling Mary's death well." These are words we've all heard or said. I want to express comfort, even to put myself at ease in the presence of a grieving friend or relative, but these are vain attempts at best.
What should I say? When I find myself on the receiving end of loving and generous attempts to appease my sorrow, what do I want to hear? Maybe my immediate grief is deaf to words of comfort. It is impossible for anyone to reach the depths of my loss, to pull me up, to soften the edges of my wounded heart.
Yet, I want the effort! I'm foundering and I need my friends. I crave support. But I am pushing it away, putting up walls, being stoic. Perhaps what I need is a tacit understanding from those around me: a silent embrace, a squeeze of my hand or a smile.
As time moves me forward, am I beginning to define myself by my grief? Am I remaining on the threshold of my new life, reluctant to step out, unsure of what comes next? That's a typical response. Where are the guidelines to moving on? If I do begin letting go of the extremes of my sorrow, will I be viewed as uncaring?
There are no rules for resuming daily activities, no usual way of behaving. I am the only one who can reach out to those close to me and to God, who enfolds me in all-knowing love and acceptance. God easily has absorbed my anger, my self-pity and my feelings of abandonment.
I have seen the face of God leading me. Now I must reach out for His love. It surrounds me in friends, in moments of reflection, in laughter, in the hugs of a child. I raise myself from the dark of night to see the dawn of a new day.
¤ Why is it so difficult to let go of my despair, my anger? I want to blame someone for all of this happening to me. How could God make me suffer like this? Why?
It's been a while now, and at times I feel like I'm really getting better, functioning well. Then there are the days when I don't know how I'll put one foot in front of the other. On those days, I find it hard to even be sociable. Just being part of my family seems too tall an order.
"They say as time wears on/The shock wears off./But who knows how long it will take./In the meantime, the ordinary routines/Of your life can feel as odd as/Somebody else's shoes," wrote Barbara Loots in a 1998 Hallmark card. How true!
But if I make a conscious effort to make each day a new beginning, I can realize silent victories. I might notice a sunset or laugh and enjoy the moment. And maybe I don't have to struggle with this alone.
It's been so hard to let others see my vulnerability. Daring to be me has almost seemed like betrayal. But life is creeping in. There is a need to let go, to turn to my God whom I have shut out, but who now gently draws me back.
I have been challenged by circumstance, not by God taking away. Life does go on. It is my challenge to live it.
(Ms. Sherwood is pastoral care coordinator for St. Clare's parish in Colonie.)[[In-content Ad]]
250 X 250 AD
250 X 250 AD
Events
250 X 250 AD
Comments:
You must login to comment.