As the one-year
anniversary of Matthew's death approaches, I have been shocked by some
subtle and not-so-subtle comments indicating that perhaps I should be
ready to "move on." The soft, compassionate cocoon that has enveloped us
for the last 11 1/2 months had lulled me into believing others would be
patient with us on our grief journey, and while I’m sure many will read
this and quickly say “Take all the time you need,” I’m increasingly
aware that the cocoon may be in the process of collapsing. It’s
understandable when you take a step back. I mean, life goes on. The
thousands who supported us in the aftermath of Matthew’s suicide wept
and mourned with us, prayed passionately for us, and sent an
unbelievable volume of cards, letters, emails, texts, phone calls, and
gifts. The support was utterly amazing. But for most, life never stopped
– their world didn’t grind to a horrific, catastrophic halt on April 5,
2013. In fact, their lives have kept moving steadily forward with
tasks, routines, work, kids, leisure, plans, dreams, goals etc. LIFE
GOES ON. And some of them are ready for us to go on too. They want the
old Rick and Kay back. They secretly wonder when things will get back to
normal for us – when we’ll be ourselves, when the tragedy of April 5,
2013 will cease to be the grid that we pass everything across. And I
have to tell you – the old Rick and Kay are gone. They’re never coming
back. We will never be the same again. There is a new “normal.” April 5,
2013 has permanently marked us. It will remain the grid we pass
everything across for an indeterminate amount of time….maybe forever.
Because
these comments from well-meaning folks wounded me so deeply, I doubted
myself and thought perhaps I really am not grieving “well” (whatever
that means). I wondered if I was being overly sensitive –so I checked
with parents who have lost children to see if my experience was unique.
Far from it, I discovered. “At least you can have another child” one
mother was told shortly after her child’s death. “You’re doing better,
right?” I was asked recently. “When are you coming back to the stage at
Saddleback? We need you” someone cluelessly said to me recently. “People
can be so rude and insensitive; they make the most thoughtless
comments,” one grieving father said. You know, it wasn’t all that long
ago that it was standard in our culture for people to officially be in
mourning for a full year. They wore black. They didn’t go to parties.
They didn’t smile a whole lot. And everybody accepted their period of
mourning; no one ridiculed a mother in black or asked her stupid
questions about why she was STILL so sad. Obviously, this is no longer
accepted practice; mourners are encouraged to quickly move on, turn the
corner, get back to work, think of the positive, be grateful for what is
left, have another baby, and other unkind, unfeeling, obtuse and
downright cruel comments. What does this say about us - other than we’re
terribly uncomfortable with death, with grief, with mourning, with loss
– or we’re so self-absorbed that we easily forget the profound
suffering the loss of a child creates in the shattered parents and
remaining children.
Unless you’ve stood by the grave of
your child or cradled the urn that holds their ashes, you’re better off
keeping your words to some very simple phrases: “I’m so sorry for your
loss.” Or “I’m praying for you and your family.” Do your best to avoid
the meaningless, catch-all phrase “How are you doing?” This question is
almost impossible to answer. If you’re a stranger, it’s none of your
business. If you’re a casual acquaintance, it’s excruciating to try to
answer honestly, and you leave the sufferer unsure whether to lie to you
(I’m ok) to end the conversation or if they should try to haltingly
tell you that their right arm was cut off and they don’t know how to go
on without it. If you’re a close friend, try telling them instead, “You
don’t have to say anything at all; I’m with you in this.”
None
of us wants to be like Job’s friends – the pseudo comforters who drove
him mad with their questions, their wrong conclusions and their
assumptions about his grief. But too often we end up a 21st century
Bildad, Eliphaz or Zophar – we fill the uncomfortable silence with words
that wound rather than heal. I’m sad to realize that even now – in the
middle of my own shattering loss – I can be callous with the grief of
another and rush through the conversation without really listening,
blithely spouting the platitudes I hate when offered to me. We’re not
good grievers, and when I judge you, I judge myself as well.
Here’s
my plea: Please don’t ever tell someone to be grateful for what they
have left until they’ve had a chance to mourn what they’ve lost. It will
take longer than you think is reasonable, rational or even right. But
that’s ok. True friends – unlike Job’s sorry excuse for friends – love
at all times, and brothers and sisters are born to help in time of need
(Prov. 17:17 LB).The truest friends and “helpers” are those who wait for
the griever to emerge from the darkness that swallowed them alive
without growing afraid, anxious or impatient. They don’t pressure their
friend to be the old familiar person they’re used to; they’re willing to
accept that things are different, embrace the now-scarred one they
love, and are confident that their compassionate, non-demanding presence
is the surest expression of God’s mercy to their suffering friend.
They’re ok with messy and slow and few answers….and they never say “Move
on.”
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