Good grief

Kevin calls it Good Grief. “Grieving is normal. Loss is painful. Grieve and grieve well.” Standing before a large assembly of family, friends and coworkers gathered for the funeral of 16 year old Andrew, he expects tears and mourning. He understands grief.

His grief is different. It is the grief of lost dreams and expectations. A brilliant young couple who took three children to Ukraine, learned the language well, were flourishing in teaching and music and relationships, cut off by sudden cancer. Kevin understands grief because he’s still in the middle of it.

Good grief is founded in hope. Kevin reads the words of Paul in 1 Thessalonians, “We do not want you to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope.” As Paul comforts the Thessalonians, Kevin comforted those gathered for Andrew’s family.

“Think of the Russian word for good-bye. It’s not final. Do svidanja– I will see you again.” That’s what we are saying to Andrew. Sixteen years is not long enough to live. His brother has captured his twinkle and spark in the pictures he lovingly matched to Andrew’s favorite music. He continues to live in our hearts, but we know he is also alive in God’s presence.

Then Kevin gives an illustration to pound home his point. He reminds Andrew’s father and brother of the day they moved Don’s old sofa. It was a disaster sofa, left in a flat on the fifth floor that Kevin and family were subletting from Don. But because furniture was dear, Don hesitated tossing it. Finally he says Kevin can get rid of it. Kevin calls Andrew’s father to help. The two men wrestle the huge monster down five flights of narrow cement stairs. Andrew’s brother comes behind picking up all the pieces that fall off on the way down. By now the assembled mourners are laughing with Kevin at his visual picture – many have climbed those dank cement stairs in cement apartment blocks of the former Soviet Union.

At the bottom of the stairs they are met by the “watch woman” – which, says Kevin, is Russian for “old Babushka who naps while people walk in and out of the building taking whatever they want.” She accosts them with a simple question. “You aren’t going to throw that away, are you?”

In a quick change of tone, Kevin says to all of us, “Don’t throw away this grief. It’s horrible, it’s ugly, it hurts, but don’t waste it.” As the old woman recycled the sofa to her own flat, we too can take the grief and turn it into something useful – character in ourselves and compassion for those who also mourn.

Good grief is the process that refines us. Lori hands me a Kleenex and passes one over to my husband. The whole row is dissolved in tears. We’re not going to throw away our grief.

Random thoughts on a February day

Weariness washes over me like the seeping gray of February thaw. Fingers of dampness seem to find their way into corners of my mind. It’s a day to detox.

I sit in meetings and watch the discussion, trying to get my mind to focus on the task at hand. Finding it too much effort, I doodle. Spurts of hard concentration produce reasonable work results but leave me unreasonably drained.

Too many weeks of life out of order.
A beach turns into a funeral.
A funeral becomes a celebration.
A celebration washed with tears.
Flowers cover the surfaces of my house, brightening the winter, and then wilt and fade.
The tyranny of schedule crashes into the midst of it all.
Travel is long and arduous. Too many planes, too many beds, too many days.
Presentations sparkle in the moment, but the effort drains every ounce of energy.
Relationships are rich and deep.
People, too many people.
Too many stories.

Lethargy.

And yet.
Twinkling delight in the clear blue eyes of a little boy in my kitchen.
Warmth in the comfort of two large cats settled on my knees.
Pleasure in the sweet smells of dinner cooked and ready on my arrival.
Cards and notes from around the world.
Huge hugs.
Companionship.
Comfort.
Camraderie.

Even in the winter of the soul there is deep understanding that the daffodils and tulips will come up in all their brilliance, splashing yellow and orange and red across my mind.

February is a short month.

Resting

Today we officially lay you to rest, but this is simply perfunctory. You have been at rest for a week now. It is we who now need to be at rest.

Your littlest sister looked at you -- so still -- at your memorial service and said simply, “Sissie, resting, sleeping. Jesus.” Profound words from someone not yet two.

Your middle sister had many more words. She was fascinated with your “zebrows” – those great bushy ones you had in life. Seeing not you, but your empty body, it was as if she saw them for the first time. She and I had a little talk about tents. How when we set up the tent and live in it it’s full of noise and laughter, but when we take it down it’s just a piece of cloth. She recognized that you were gone from your tent. She didn’t know how how many times I’ve read those 2 Corinthian verses in recent months. Perhaps in preparation.

The number of children at your service amazed me, but also warmed my heart. Families took time to bring their little ones of all ages who knew you and carefully explained that you were now at rest. Some of your classmates were particularly distressed, perhaps realizing that they too live in bodies that are somewhat broken. Your dad knelt by your best buddy in his wheelchair and stroked his head, hugged him for you, and helped him say goodbye.

My mind is seared with an image of your dear parents and your little sisters tucking a pink blanket around you, fluffing your wayward bangs, lightly kissing your forehead, and stepping back to let the box be closed. Young parents shouldn’t have to do this. Children bury parents, not the other way around. Yet, this is today’s reality.

Pastor J spoke of a broken world. You’ve left it behind.

Outside my window I can see your oak tree moving in the cold wind, brown against the white snow of today. This is your special tree, the one that always comes alive late, is a bit awkward in shape, and has a mind of it’s own. Definitely your tree.

Most of the trees will push their leaves in April, but I’ll be watching your oak tree. I suspect it will do the normal thing and not push leaves till almost Memorial Day. It will come alive, though, and of that I have no doubt.

As will you. As will I. As will all those who understand from whence they came and where they are going when they stop breathing.. This morning is perfunctory, just part of the journey. A little urn laid on top of your great grandfather. You definitely are not there.

Rest well, little girl. But take time to run and dance and laugh and sing. We’ll come as soon as we can.