Six months ago today, on Sunday, April 12, the Christian community celebrated the Resurrection of Jesus – the One whom the bible refers to as “The first-born from the dead” – it was Easter Sunday. Six months ago yesterday, yes – it has been half of a year already – on Saturday, April 11, my daughter Jessica left this world for the next. My life, as well as the lives of those in my family, and of those close to Jess, have been indelibly changed. Recently Angelika, Jess’ sis in law commented, “I measure things by that date a lot now – there is my life before Jessica died, and there is my life after.”

People grieve in different ways and for different durations of time, depending upon the nature of their relationship to the one who died, whether or not they have *hope* in one day seeing that person again, their own temperament, and whether or not they ignore and/or reject the impulse to bury the pain because it just plain hurts – a lot. In light of these things, I honestly don’t believe there is a right way and a wrong way to grieve – we are, quite simply, different.

I have also noted that grief is a journey. For some, the journey is brief. For others, grieving the loss of one so close, as with one’s child, the journey may well continue until the end of one’s days on this earth. Hopefully it will change with time – it would be potentially unhealthy if it did not, although I will not assign a timeline to mine or anyone else’s. I’ve made some interesting observations during the first six months of this journey. While I hold no expectation that all will agree with me on every point, I will share a few here.

What is Said vs. What is Meant

I am learning to read the heart of another and to go with what is meant, and not necessarily what is being said. If there has been a universal response from others as they attempt to grasp how one feels after the death of their child, it is usually something along the lines of, “I have no words, I cannot imagine…” A couple of months ago I was talking with a woman who said, “I don’t know what it is like to have your child die, but I had this dog…”, I was initially incensed and pretty ticked off at how clueless I thought she had been. Yet as I began to consider what was happening in that moment, I realized that she was trying to relate, trying to come alongside and trying to offer comfort and consolation. In other words, her heart was right, she was doing what many have done; attempting to express the inexpressible.

The truth is, there really are no words, and it’s okay with me that there aren’t because the only way that another could really know would be to experience the same, and I’d not wish that on anyone.

Pushing Away the Pain

This is a fascinating concept and I believe a common response of many. There are actually two manifestations here as well – both from those whose lives touch the one who is grieving, as well as the one experiencing the grief. I’ll try to articulate both here.

Others

First, I became aware of this when a friend was expressing the “No words” thing I mention above. The fascinating thing to me was not in what she was saying, but what she was unconsciously doing. As my friend spoke, she had both of her forearms up in front of her chest, and she was making a repeated small, pushing gesture towards me as the palms of her hands faced outwards in my direction. That was several months ago, and the last time we spoke. Was there malice in her heart? Absolutely none. Why haven’t we spoken since then? Actually in a generic sense there are many reasons – wanting to give the grieving one space, feeling helpless or inept in making a difference, being afraid to talk about one’s own life and family at the risk of causing injury or sorrow. Plus, we all have busy lives.

My guess with her specifically is she was pushing away the pain, perhaps imagining her life with having lost one of her own. Her daughter is about the same age as Jessica. The problem is, our hearts and minds do not distinguish between the person and the pain. In order to not think about what amounts to any parent’s nightmare, she inadvertently pushed me away – as she pushed away those horrifying thoughts which accompanied her “not having any words.” Although I believe I truly understand where she’s at and have no ill-will towards her, I miss her friendship, and there are times where it would mean the world to me to hear from her – as well as others in my life who have been similarly affected by Jessica’s death. I’d also let her know that it’s fine with me if it would be of help to her to leave that particular topic out of our time or correspondence together.

It is worth noting that I am beginning to learn to be proactive in re-initiating contact because often it’s no more complicated than someone simply does not want to be a bother. You know, the “Hey the phone rings on both ends” thing.

Myself

I’ve heard from two different people similar accounts of a sibling who had died, the parents had cleared their belongings from the home – and there was never a mention of their name again. In both stories related to me, over time the parents lost the essence of their own child. One mother, decades later, not knowing the date while trying to remember her own daughter’s birth. Why? Again – push away the pain, and push away the person, perhaps in extreme cases to the point that one risks losing the ability to remember that person in life because one of the outcomes of allowing one’s self to *feel* while going through the grieving process is, as time goes by, remembering their loved one in life tends to ease or replace the pain of remembering them in death. Hard stuff.

Dogma

One of my sensitivities is, and has been for years, our natural tendency of putting things into nice, tidy little boxes, then sticking a label on the front. While that’s a good thing with absolutes such as the core tenets of Christianity, etc., it can lead to becoming dogmatic when attempting to fit a *one size fits all* approach to something such as grief. Making blanket statements about the shape of another’s grief – or grieving process – is both dangerous, and I believe potentially harmful. Here is an example.

“Support groups are a waste of time. All you need is the Word of God.” I agree that’s a nifty little box, yet upon closer examination, it is a potentially dangerous assumption. Well intentioned? Absolutely. Is it true? Probably for some. Was it from someone who could not possibly know the pain and heartache? I believe so. Does that mean I should no longer seek medical care if the doctor is not a Christian? How far does this concept apply? You see, it just doesn’t fit into that box without raising questions. A Christian who seeks help would hopefully be operating with the understanding of, “My help comes from the Lord.” I believe it to be dogmatic and dangerous to limit the sources of God’s help – whether it is a support group or an M.D. or something else.

Don’t get me wrong here – I hold God’s Word in the highest regard, as do I the friend who made that particular comment. As to the Word, I am both comforted by it as well as informed with regard to the subject of grief. Though it is not my purpose here, I also stand quite ready to give solid biblical perspective which refutes that seeking help from organizations and individuals not affiliated with the Church is always a fool’s errand.

As I sat in the front row of the Vineyard church’s sanctuary where we held Jessica’s Arizona memorial, I was staring at an 8×10 of her wedding photo, remembering how beautiful that day had been, how it had fulfilled so many of my girl’s dreams. The photograph I was staring at was one of those where she evidently had been looking right into the lens when it was taken – the result being that when looking at the print, it appears that she’s looking directly at you from anywhere in the room. In that overwhelmingly sad moment, I promised Jessica – and God – that I would take care of myself. I had no illusions even then that this would indeed be a long journey. For one, God’s Word alone may well be enough. For me, I am greatly encouraged and comforted by His Word and have come to cherish certain passages since Jess passed. I also find healing and comfort in the company of other parents who have experienced the death of their child – because they are truly the only people I know that understand the depth of sorrow I possess.

In Closing

I would ask only that as you ponder the above, understand the spirit with which I write. It is one of love and compassion for those enduring the fiery ordeals which are part and parcel to this life. Those in my and my family’s circle of friends and relatives have been wonderfully sensitive and supportive, even when words are not found. For that I am forever grateful. ◊