The Long Page of Grief

Mom and me

In my work as a pastor, I have ministered to many grieving people. Everyone handles grief differently - some work because it provides a helpful distraction, others retreat into their sadness for awhile, some curse, others cry, some show no emotion whatsoever. The one constant is that every single grieving person grieves in his or her own way.

In my personal life, I have experienced many griefs. Now at age 44, I have lost both parents, three grandparents, two cousins, other distant relatives with whom I had relationships, plus a few friends. I know grief well - I know it deeply - it has reached into the crevices of my heart from a very young age because my father died when I was four. I don't remember a time when grief of some kind hasn't been a companion.

Please understand - that doesn't mean I don't live with joy. My life is full of joy and contentment. But because grief is written on a long page, it dwells on the same page as my joy and contentment. And each time I reach the end of a long page, and go to turn that page, the grief carries over to the next page, like a magic marker bleeding through the paper.

I think that some people see grief as being on a shorter page. The grief is there, then you get to the end of the page, turn the page, and - BLAMMO - the grief is gone. Maybe grief lessens over time, but it never completely goes away. The magic marker is permanent.

My mom died in 2005. For about a year after her death, and about six months before, I could hardly breathe because of my grief. The pain of watching her leave us was breathtaking; the pain of letting her go was crushing. I remember on the first anniversary of her death, I felt as though one stone had been lifted off my chest. I could breathe once again.

Over the years that followed, I have turned one long page after another. The loss has soaked through each page of my life since her death. On these pages have been written many tales - birthdays, anniversaries, vacations, a graduation, an ordination, several moves, other deaths, and twelve Christmases - our special holiday - beloved and holy in its own way for us.

All of these tales have been written so very differently without my mom, and that's part of what keeps the grief real, year after year, page after page. There are all kinds of "what-ifs" and "if-onlys" that enter in, to say nothing of the occasional gut-punch of realizing - no, I can't call her. No, she never got to see our first house or our current house, she never got to meet our dogs, she didn't come to my ordination, and when I finish my doctorate, she won't be at my graduation. If only.

Yet, on each page, the grief that has soaked through does become a slightly lighter impression. The impression will never go away, and that's OK because held in that impression is the love that we shared - a love that had endured a lot together, a love that was dear and special. No one hugs like my mom did - no one ever will.

This morning, on the twelfth anniversary of her death, I reflected in my journal that the grief is no longer breathtaking. Her loss is still in my heart - it always will be - but another long page of grief has been turned again today. Thank God for the patient ones in my life who realize that grief is written on every long page of my life.

And thank God for the grief itself, for in grief is love.