To
regard grief as somehow unworthy of a Christian
who believes in the resurrection is to forget the
example of Christ who was so often “moved with
compassion,” who wept at His loss of Lazarus
and prayed the longer in His agony. We cannot short-circuit
human processes; we have to give the experience
time to come home to us before it can become a motive
for hope and a promise of fuller life…Grief
is only unchristian if it is wholly self-centered
or if we never emerge from it.
--Maria Boudling, Prayer:Our Journey Home
A
Reluctant Griever
By
Virgil Fry
I write these words from the raw side of fresh grief.
Less than two months ago Caryl, my beloved wife
of 33 years, died. A tenacious, vibrant, faithful
woman, she finally succumbed to death after two
hard years of declining health, and 50 years of
being a Type 1 diabetic. Her battle has ended.
But for me, the battle has not ended—it’s
only beginning. Many a kindhearted person has tried
to console me with the reality that she’s now
better off, her suffering is ended, and she’s
in a much better place.
The other side of the coin that isn’t acknowledged
is this: I’m still here. My heart is broken.
The security of a long and stable marriage is shattered.
I’m busy trying to get through the fog of grief
while finishing up legal papers and insurance forms.
I feel like I’m slogging through molasses.
My life is forever altered, and I miss her. No amount
of joy over Caryl’s betterment removes that
cold reality.
Someone I know whose husband died objects when others
refer to his death as loss, as in “you’ve
lost your husband.” She likes to say that he
isn’t lost, but found by God.
But the truth is, it’s not his loss: it’s
hers. And that kind of deeply significant relationship
loss is excruciatingly painful.
Grieving is a process, an energy-draining task.
Those of us in the faith community should particularly
know this, for our God is often presented as sorrowful,
upset, dismayed, grieving. So let us allow grievers
to grieve, rather than trying to hurry them through
their unfolding journey of sorrow. Call out the
name of the one who died. Tell of special remembrances,
of what you miss about that person. Or just allow
the griever to tell, and often retell, stories that
bring smiles and tears. A simple “I’m
with you in prayer and spirit” is infinitely
more refreshing to a lonely griever than “Aren’t
you glad she’s in a better place.”
For now, I just grieve. In my head I know that such
intense grief indicates how blessed I was to have
had such a loving life-partner. In time, with God’s
promised faithful presence, I will rejoice in Caryl’s
“graduation to heaven.”
But for now . . . I grieve.
