It took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift."
--Mary Oliver, The Uses of Sorrow
I just finished a Grief Group last night. We call it The
Healing Place. We met for eight weeks in a circle. Slowly, ever so slowly we
tentatively began to share our feelings. We showed pictures of the people we
had lost. One week we brought something that symbolized the person—that when we
looked at it—memories came flooding back. Someone brought a cross-stitched
piece—showing that even the back was done perfectly. Another brought a picture
high up in the mountains of that windy day when life was rich and fine and
laughter came easy. Someone pulled out a two pictures—one of a young couple on
their wedding day—years and years before. And then they showed us another
picture—taken the last year before the end came. Changes, yes. Many changes.
But an up-and-down-lifetime of love. Someone brought a banner they hung up at
the Tailgating parties before the Football games. It showed pictures and names
of some family members they had lost. Others shared simple things: a worn
tee-shirt...a hammer depicting his love of his shop...a dog-eared baseball
cap...the pictures they found in his billfold after he died.
We told stories—wonderful human stories. About trips. About
the things they did together. We heard someone confess that they never thought
they could go on without this person they loved. We heard stories of
motorcycles, of someone who had worked hard all their lives. Someone told of
how he liked to cook and she never had to go into the kitchen. One person told
of coming home from the hospital without her new baby and looking at the
freshly painted room and all the presents from all the showers never to be
used.
The eighth week we talked about where we were and what we
had learned. I learned, she said that I am not alone in my grief. Everyone in
this group feels the way I do. Someone offered, I think I learned that every
grief is different and that none of us grieve the same way—and that’s all
right. Some told of learning things about their loved one they had discovered
only recently. People who would sidle up and tell stories of something the
person did and the way they told those jokes.
The last group meeting ended. People got up and gathered
their belongings to leave. Someone wrapped up the cake we did not eat and put
away the Styrofoam cups and the empty water bottle away. We picked up the
knotted-up pieces of tissue that had held the tears. No one wanted to leave. We
hugged one another tight and long. We looked into each other’s faces and
smiled. We whispered something to one another--private and loving. We wrote
down telephone numbers and email addresses. Finally the last person was gone
and I began to turn off the lights. I looked around the room at where each one
had sat. For just a few moments, week after week, that space had become holy as
people had taken off their shoes and opened up their hearts and talked about
the hard things.
Years ago Judith Guest wrote a book, Ordinary People. It was a book about loss. She wrote: “How does (anyone) deal
with grief? There is no dealing; he (or she) knows that much. There is the stubborn,
mindless hanging on until it is over. Until you are through it. But something
has happened in the process. The old definitions, the neat, knowing pigeonholes
have disappeared. Or else they no longer apply.” My group knew that well.
I think today of those who scattered last night. Back to
empty houses. Back to jobs. Back to families—where little children still need
what they gave to give. Back to a life where the terrain is strange and the
road ahead is far from certain.
Whether we’ve been in a circle or not—we’ve all lost.
Places, jobs, dogs and cats—money or success or health or status. We’ve all
known failure. Kids that have broken
our hearts. Disappointments when we peer into the mirror. Sometimes muttering:
“If only...”
I hang on to one of my favorite hopeful verses of Scripture
for them: "For his anger is but for a moment; his favor is for a lifetime.
Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” Wherever
they are and whatever they are doing today—I hope they find that promised joy
that right now may seem so far away.
--by Roger Lovette, lrl1035@bellsouth.net
Loss reminds us of how much we have had
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