The Art of Grieving

Love cannot help but remember; remembrance cannot help but weep. Unfortunately our culture sees weeping as a weakness; therefore we feel embarrassed or ashamed when we do shed tears, especially in public. Yet grief springs from the deepest part of our soul because the root of that grief is great love. So why should we apologize when our expressions of grief should be the most natural of things to occur? The most natural expressions of one who has loved?

No doubt we live in a culture that exalts life and averts its eyes to death. Everything we see, every commercial on TV, is about prolonging life, not letting go of it. And when death or loss does come, we do everything in our ability to “move forward” in a quick manner. To pull up our boot straps and say, “I’m okay.” But if we are honest with ourselves, the hole in us is larger than ever. In fact, the experts tell us that not to grieve well, appropriately and timely, to move forward too fast, may lead to mental health issues like depression and anxiety. It can cause physical problems like trouble sleeping, digestive issues, and a low immune system. Compulsive behaviors. Relationship issues. Work performance. Who wants any of that on top of loss? Yet it is what we choose or are thrust into in place of appropriate grieving.

It hasn’t always been this way. Culture used to allow us time to weep, to grieve, and, yes, to even celebrate. But it seems that more and more we are rushing right to the celebration part. In fact, many funerals are being labeled just that: “Celebrations of Life.” And I get that. But we don’t need to pretend there is nothing to be consoled about. We don’t need to play act that everything is good … when it is not. Something sad and irrevocable HAS happened, regardless of the circumstances. We don’t need quick fixes. We need time and opportunity to grieve those people whom we have loved and lost in whatever manner that loss has occurred.

I recall a dear friend who lost her husband some thirty years ago. Glenda Anderson Leonard was and still is one of the finest, strongest and most sincere women of faith I know. After Paul died, his widow dressed in black for an entire year. She gave place to her grief, wearing it as a badge of honor to her husband and their marriage and as a statement of her immense loss. And no doubt she was healthier for it. It was also a reminder to the rest of us to treat her kindly, gently, and with respect knowing that where she looked alive, together and beautiful on the outside there was a broken heart and grieving soul within. She also helped us not to forget Paul too quickly, himself a giant in this world. She knew the art of grieving and she taught us well.

Another one who taught me well was a caregiver that sat with Daddy in the evenings and on weekends. When she learned of his passing that morning, she rushed over and while my brothers and I were being reverent yet stoic, she threw her entire self over my daddy’s body and wept loudly. It almost shamed me that I didn’t respond so passionately to this man who had birthed, raised and loved me so dynamically. This woman, this woman’s culture, knows how to grieve. I needed to see that.

Grief is natural, if we let it be. It’s also a journey. We’ve all heard the well laid out model: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. But seriously, who has ever moved easily through those stages without backing up two steps before moving ahead three? Unfortunately, I have not been able to maneuver those waters well myself. Circumstances thrust me forward and left me little if any time to properly grieve my losses. When my brother died after an heroic battle with brain cancer, seeing to my parents, specifically my daddy, became the most pressing need. It was a long goodbye of dementia with the last fifteen months spent in a Hospice bed in the den of his home. Not given much time to grieve, ten days after his passing, Mom went into the hospital with pneumonia, only to recover and have a stroke six weeks later that resulted in full time care. It, too, has become a long goodbye. Just this week, after one of my daily visits, showing her videos of birds at my feeder and then working a jigsaw puzzle with her, she asked the caregiver after my departure, “Why did she keep calling me Mom? I don’t think I’m her mom.” Long goodbyes. Losses. Grief. Even when the loved one is still alive.

And so this is where I find myself: with mounted grief. Much of it unexpressed. Maybe you do as well. What do we do with that?

First and foremost, we turn to Christ; the One who was Himself acquainted with grief. The One who came and pitched His tent with humanity. The One who shares this journey with us. The One who sees us, knows us, and Who alone can fill those holes left by those whom we have loved and lost.

We can be encouraged that death does not have the final say. That there is a glorious Resurrection where all things will be set right. Where there will be joy and a true Celebration of Life.

We can also give way to the life-giving creative forces within us which is a natural expression of grief. For me, it’s my music. My writing. My journaling. I have a friend who began painting after the death of her husband. Another who cooks … an artistic expression after the loss of her mother. Another who threw herself into gardening.

We can also be thankful. Is it not true that to love at all opens the door to both loss and grief? But surely we can agree with Alfred, Lord Tennyson when he wrote, “It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” Master Eckhart, a 16th Century mystically aware theologian, adds, “To have much is to have much to lose; we ought to remember this when we face a loss, so that this might become our place to be thankful.” A hard word; but never a more true one: gratitude.

And finally, we can let go. Malcom Guite, chaplain, poet, teacher, musician and author writes, “It is not a letting go of love, or a letting go of memory or even of grief. We need to let go in order to receive. In spite of the first shock and emptiness, the sense of unjust deprivation, our long experience of grief can eventually open us up to receiving real gifts: wisdom, empathy and compassion, which might have been received in no other way.”

O Lord, may it be.

Just an ordinary moment…

Nursing Home Ministry

When my mother had a stroke some fourteen months ago, not only was her life thrown into a new season, but so was ours as a family. Whereas we were able to keep Daddy at home during his years of decline, it became impossible to do so with Mom, and my brothers and I made the difficult decision of having her placed in a nursing home … with the caregiver that had been by hers and Daddy’s side while at home still giving her assistance and company at her new residence. 

But it has also meant an almost daily visit on my part to check in on her and to visit. Over the past year, I have been her school mate; her sister; her mother; and yesterday, I was indeed her daughter. I have to admit that at times there has been a great sadness that has pricked my heart when she doesn’t remember me as one she birthed, but at the same time, whoever I am to her that day, she is always glad to see me. She knows me as somebody important in her life, and whoever that is, I play the part on that particular day.

Another aspect of my visits is getting to know other residents there. Unless I already know them, I never enter their rooms, but often their chair or bed has been pushed into the hall. My first encounter was Mom’s next door neighbor, Mrs. Peggy. She was bed ridden, in a fetal position, and wore a stocking cap. On one particular day, I stopped to chat with her a moment and told her it was a good day for staying inside because it was raining cats and dogs outside. And then that sweet little lady began singing in the most lovely of voices, “April showers bring May flowers.” Two full verses. I just about came undone. Only a few weeks later, I turned the corner and I saw the paramedics rolling Mrs. Peggy out; her daughter instructing them, “She has a DNR.” I blessed Mrs. Peggy as she rolled by. It was the last time I saw either of them.

On the other side of Mom’s room was a man whose name now escapes me. What began as both him and his wife sitting outside his room became just her while he lay in his bed. His form took the shape of my own Daddy’s who had died just weeks prior: the way he held his hands; the way he reached. I was still so raw and it was so hard to watch. But I would stop and talk to his wife, learning that her husband had once been a researcher of sorts and had written several books. In her eyes, he was a brilliant man. She was going to bring me one his publishings; but he passed away before she had the opportunity.

Then there was Mrs. Jane across the hall who had lain in that bed longer than anyone should have to. I had known her since I was a young girl so I felt comfortable and welcomed by the family to enter and talk with her. She was never able to communicate except for the slight movement she made when she heard my voice telling her how beautiful she was. Gratefully, she, too, has entered her Rest.

If Mr. Emery’s door was open when I passed, I would speak to him as well. He was a man well-loved by my daddy. One day there was a note on his door that read, “I’m not feeling well today. Please come back another time.” A day or two later the note was gone and I was glad he was feeling better; only to read his obituary a few days later. 

Amber was different. She wasn’t old but very young and discarded by family. I had met her when my sister-in-law would go get her and bring her to church. She liked me, I think, because she liked Tesa and Louis. They were so kind to her. And so I would share a few minutes with her often as she sat under the watchful eye of the nurses desk. Fortunately, her social worker from Atlanta took an interest in Amber and took her to a residence near her; but not before she was baptized in holy water. Amber was so excited to show me the video of that moment. There was such joy in that for both of us.

It was a delight when I rolled Mom into her room that very first day to see Mr. Herbert there. He was a good friend to my parents and the one that drove my daddy to Fort McPherson that last time before heading oversees. Daddy had asked him to go so he could drive my mother home. Mr. Herbert admitted that she cried all the way, just as Daddy had suspected. It’s always good to visit with Mr. Herbert, but it’s even more fun to watch him and Mom visit. They always hold hands while doing so.

Miriam is my sister-in-law’s mother and has been there since 2018 when she, too, had a stroke. Communication is not easy, but she always smiles and, like the others, is glad for company. I have to do all the talking, but as anyone who is reading this knows, I do not lack for words.

More recently I have come to know Mr. Terry, a man not much older than myself. And no family. I would always speak when I walked by, and whereas he would look at me, I never got a response. Then he began to give me a nod; and finally, one day, he actually spoke. From there we have gone to conversations about him; about me. And he even sold me a Wilson’s bakery chocolate donut with sprinkles this past week for a quarter. He was trying to make a little money to play bingo, even though I tried to explain to him he didn’t need money. They gave HIM a quarter when he won. I like that he remembers and calls me by name; a man that once only looked at me.

A beautiful woman named Gloria has moved in next door to Mom. She seemed so happy that I stopped by and spoke to her as she sat outside her door last week. She has asked me to please come again … that it can get lonely.

On occasion, Mrs. Angie sports a nightgown that has campfires and s’mores on it. But even more than that, she always wears the biggest smile you have ever seen in your life. It’s a true joy to be on the recipient end of that. Of course, like many of these residents, she is quite hard of hearing and a lot of very loud talking goes on. She pulled me close last week, pointed her finger at my face and said, “It’s not what you know, but who you know.” I’m glad I know her. There was a “Precaution” sign on her closed door today. I’m concerned.

Mrs. Sara sits in her reclining chair in the hall … hugging her stuffed puppy. She smiles and jabbers to me, telling me all about him. I can’t make out a word she says, but it’s obviously something really good because of the excitement on her face. I just not nod and agree with the same joy she’s expressing.

And most recently I have met Mr. John, though he quickly told me to drop the “Mr.” I heard him call to me as I be-bopped down the hall last week to see Mom. He yelled, “Hey, can you help me?” I backed up and said, “What I can do for you?” He asked me to turn on his overhead lights for him, which I did. Then he surprised me by saying, “I’ve been trying to hem you up for a long time.” I took a quick look at the name on his door, and said, “Mr. John, you couldn’t handle me.” He responded, “I don’t know. I had a lot of training,” to which I just laughed. Oh, my goodness, one never knows what to expect. I’ve learned that as people age, they also lose some of their filtering. But I’m grateful for this new connection … and the joy it provided.

I would never want my readers to think I write this to exalt myself in any way. It’s just a testimony about where I am these days, literally and figuratively. I know for so many that nursing homes are not easy places to visit. I get that. And quite frankly, I have been thrown into it these days with little choice. However, I was fortunate to be a part of a church youth group that saw the importance of taking us regularly to sing and visit the elderly, ironically, at this very Home. I learned the “art” of being comfortable in such places. And I am so grateful.

And, yes, the residents do seem genuinely happy to see me, but the title “Nursing Home Ministry” is not about what I do for them. It’s what they have done and do for me. It is my heart and my step that is lighter when I leave that place. Each one of these named, and there will be more due to the reciprocal nature of a nursing home, gives me something different of themselves. I am so blessed to be on such a profound receiving end of God’s love offered by a group of people that many think have nothing left to give.

Theirs is truly a nursing home ministry.

Just an ordinary moment…

My Grandmother’s Apron

Unfortunately, my maternal grandmother, whom we called “Muh,” passed away when I was eight years old, being ill a number of years even before that. But there are still a few things I can recall about her when she was healthy. Like how she would say, “Much obliged,” when she would get out of the car after we had taken her to her hair appointment. Or the way she would swing with me on the large front porch of her home. Or the way she cared for my older brother and me when the twins were born. Or the way she gathered eggs from the hen houses. Or the way she fed anyone who showed up at her door … whether they be home folks who would stay awhile or drifters moving through via Highway 341. And to be considered what many would call poor, there was always plenty of food on that large oval table (the table that now sits in my own breakfast room); food that had come from her and my granddaddy’s land and the labor of their hands and backs. Ah, yes. I can still feel the sweat running down my back and the smell of corn as she and the other women “put up” vegetables from the garden. 

But the one thing that was distinct about my grandmother is that she always had an apron tied around her waist. It was not anything fancy by any means. Just a homemade piece of cloth she donned in the morning and took off before she went to bed. 

For most people, aprons are a thing of the past. Some might still wear them to protect their clothing in the kitchen while cooking, but a quick look in stores or online reveals a more decorative type wear. But for my grandmother and those of her generation, an apron was a tool. I imagine first and foremost it was to prevent soiling the dress, keeping the clothing from the wear and tear of washing. But she also used it to remove hot items from an oven or to pick up a warm pot or plate from the stove. She used it to dry her hands, dishes … as well as tears. Hers and others. And when gathering those eggs, she made it into a basket to tote them back to the house; or to gather the fallen apples or pears from the fruit trees in the yard. I have read that Susanna Wesley, mother to 18 children including Charles and John, would throw her apron over her head for a moment of silence and to pray. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that my grandmother did the same thing — though she only had two children.

In the New Revised Standard Version, 1 Peter 5:5 reads, “Clothe yourselves with humility.” The New Living Translation says, “Serve each other with humility.” But it’s The Passion Translation that brings it home, opens it up and gives it new light. “Wrap around yourself the APRON of a humble servant.” Ah, I had a perfect picture in that of my Muh.

In all the years that passed after she died, I never heard anyone who knew my grandmother speak an unkind word about her. In fact, it has been just the opposite. They haven’t been able to praise her enough. Maybe it all goes back to when she wrapped around herself that apron; the apron of a humble servant. For indeed she was. 

I kept one of Muh’s aprons. It is safely preserved in a drawer in my buffet in the dining room. Maybe I should go pull it out and tie it around my own waist.

Just an ordinary moment…

Ghosting

I was sitting in the waiting room when a young friend came out from seeing the doctor and took a chair next to me so we could catch up a bit before my name was called. Her presence was a welcomed relief and a good deterrent for one waiting to see a physician. In the course of the conversation, I asked about her sister and her love interest. “He’s ghosted her,” was my friend’s casual response. 

Ghosted. It’s one of those relatively new colloquial terms that refers to being abruptly cut off from someone without having been given any warning. Even when the one ghosted tries to reach out to re-initiate or just try to gain some closure, silence is all one gets. (There is also a “soft ghosting” which is where one person gradually reduces his or her level of communication where there is only minimal contact left.) 

Delving into the word a bit further, I learned that being ghosted “can have a profound impact on a person’s mental health, leading to feelings of depression, anxiety and deflated self-esteem.” Well, of course, it can! Who likes to feel rejected or betrayed? Ghosting actually lights up the same brain pain receptors that cause physical pain. And whether the one being ghosted knows why he or she is being ghosted, the pain is still the same. 

And yet the statement was so nonchalant and rolled off the tongue so easily: “He’s ghosted her.” But it wasn’t the first time I had head the word; and I’m sure it won’t be the last. (Believe it or not, there’s a word that’s supposedly even more painful than ghosting. It’s called “quiet dumping.”)

But words just keep coming. “Breadcrumbing” is the new ghosting and a bit sneakier. It’s what one does to keep the other hanging on by a thread. Lord, help us. 

And there’s not enough time or space here to talk about “gaslighting,” another more recent term on the dating market which is nothing short of psychological manipulation. Or witchcraft, if we really want to call it what it is.

Of course, none of these are limited to the dating scene which does tout a 67% ghosting rate. CNBC reports that in 2023 about 78% of job seekers said they’d ghosted a prospective employer. Really? These are grown ups, for crying out loud. Not children in a school yard.

What it is with these new words on the market that are being thrown around as if it’s now the norm? Have the actions always been evident and we’re just now labeling them? Ghosting. Gas lighting. Breadcrumbing. Some seem to think that these things are more prevalent due to the stress of the culture in which we now live … are we ever going to stop blaming things on the pandemic … and that give us an “easy out” from difficult circumstances and relationships. A “get out of jail free” card, if you will, with no scrapes, bruises or burns. 

But seriously, has kindness been replaced with rudeness? Courtesy with cruelty and thoughtlessness? Respect with dishonor and indifference? Have we lost what it means to look into the eyes of another and see the image of God? To know beyond a shadow of a doubt that person is deeply loved by the Father?

What IS the answer to all this Ghosting and Gaslighting and Breadcrumbing … and whatever the next new word will be? I don’t know. But I have a gut feeling it just might begin with my surrendering my own ego to Perfect Love.

He has told you, O man, what is good:

    And what does the LORD require of you

But to do justice, and to love kindness,

    And to walk humbly with your God.

                                                Micah 6:8 (ESV)

O Lord, let it be.

Just an ordinary moment…

The Place of Tension

He was between songs when I approached his tent Saturday morning at the local farmer’s market. “Good morning,” I said. “Good morning, Nancy. Happy Easter!” Because I knew he is a retired pastor, I responded, “I try to refrain from ‘Happy Easter’ on this Holy Saturday.” He looked at me quizzically. I went on, “It’s important to me that I don’t rush through these days prior to the resurrection. Especially today.” As a way of physical expression, I raised my upturned palms and moved them back and forth a bit as if balancing something heavy or weighty. “It’s important I hold the tension between Good Friday and Easter Sunday.” He nodded slowly as if an understanding was breaking in. “Tension,” he said. “I like that. What did you call it again?” “Holy Saturday,” I said. 

Tension. It’s something we all live with, not just on Holy Saturday, which, by the way, is a day the church through the ages really hasn’t known what to do with. (Sadly I recently read where it was actually called Easter Buy Day.)

Let me give you a few examples of tension with which we are all familiar.

Spring’s attempt to pry winter’s bony fingers from its clutch. The weather has been beautifully warm these last days. But a violent storm moves through, bringing with it destruction and a return to cooler air. Buds are blown and lay scattered on the ground; yet the soil holds the warmth of the last few days. Can you sense the tension of one season trying to gain hold on another? Back and forth it goes until one wins.

Each morning the light slowly breaks upon the dark; and in the evening, the reverse occurs. Steady moments of mysteriously veiled tension. Sooner or later, one always gives. 

One of my more favorite moments of tension is that juncture when the tide changes. When for just a nanosecond, it stands still in order to make its reversal. I am curious as to what happens at that moment of change. How does that moment happen? Oh, the mind of God. Who can know it? 

In music, a suspended chord that does not resolve allowing tension to hang in the air. It goes unnoticed by no one; not even the most musically illiterate. What does one do with that except to sit with it … and hold the tension.

And the Scriptures themselves bear witness to tension. 

A God who becomes a man.

A King who rides a donkey.

When I am weak, I am strong.

In losing my life, I find it.

And on an even more intense level: what about the cross of Christ itself? Two poles cut from living trees. One vertical and the other laying horizontally on top held by a dynamic display of … tension. A literal example of the true force being played out upon it. A Savior being executed.

And we have come full circle. To Holy Saturday. A day of just sitting with something we don’t know what to do with. The day between the death of Christ and His glorious resurrection. The constant push and pull between great sorrow and exuberant joy. But is this not our constant reality in most any given day or week? We hold joy and grief in the same moment. We love and yet hate. We forgive while still feeling the pain of betrayal. We live in the light and the dark. We experience faith and the lack of. All at the same time. And if we have ever sat at the death bed of a loved one, we know that sacred tension of the here and the there. Of the staying and the going. The push and pull and push again that is common to all mankind.

So what do we do with these things? For sure we can’t deny they don’t exist. To do so would deny our very own existence. What is the answer? May I suggest we learn to live with the tension; to hold those opposing forces and allow them to become creative, life-giving, liberating factors for us. After all, the two opposing forces are not really mutually antagonistic. It’s just the opposite. In fact, from a pianist’s point of view, it’s the tension of the strings that makes the music. My job is to keep them tuned to the proper Pitch.

What sacred tension might you be holding? Are your strings tuned in such a way that they sing?