Most often I find myself praying to forget. Despite them being my fondest memories in life, they are what cause me the most pain. Those treasured moments burn like hot coals in the morning and keep me from sleep. If only I could focus on the troubled times, the hard parts, the things that didn’t bring joy. If only the worse times with her weren’t better than the best times anywhere else. I would gladly have the operation to remove every memory from those years. To go on with a hole in my memory where all my hopes and dreams once lived. Unnoticed. Unaware.
Grief is a sign that you loved deeply. And the deeper the grief the greater you loved. The greater you loved the more painful this unnecessary torture of life’s experience will be. There is no way around it but to feel it. And there is nothing good about what you will feel. It is too big to bottle up and hide in the corner. It is to grande, too much, to deal with in quiet rooms alone. It is evidence you are capable of huge love. And therefore, at risk for greatest loss. When love is in front of you the risk is worth every bit. When it disappears, and you feel the pain of generational loss, the gamble seems unfair.
I grieve because my heart was honest about my love for a person.
“You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: what is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen.” Rene Daumal
Once, while married, happy, and safe, I lived my entire day for the promise of bedtime. That glorious moment when you gather the bedside waters, vitamins, and books. Fan blowing across the bed, dogs curled up, and your partner in her glasses reading, you feel your day melt away as you crawl beneath the comforter between soft clean sheets. I still remember how my heart rate would slow, her hair in my face, rubbing feet as an early but welcomed sleep would fall in a quiet dark room. A fresh morning would await. Enter the shock of grief: the grim serial killer of restorative rest. It isn’t merely the loneliness of the bed that once was filled with a covenant of love, it is the intrusive and unwelcome memories like ghosts haunting throughout the night. Sleep will allude you now, quiet will haunt, and rest will be a thing of the past like a fading childhood memory that you are unsure if you experienced first hand or simply heard the story so many times it seems like it was at some point real. Those nights of tormented sleep, hungover mornings despite sobriety, are when we notice the violence of the storm the most intensely.
It is not only the early days of our grieving that plague our sleep. This sick disease goes on for months- sometimes years. God’s love is certainly not evident that one person can sleep soundly with their choices while the other one writhes in pain month after month. No more than the question of the ones we love who died whereabouts in the comfort of an afterlife. For that requires a little more blind faith than the miracles we will witness here on earth, or so it seems. None-the-less, we were designed to persist. And we owe the world our persistence. So we move on like the grittiest of endurance athletes. If only grit alone would bear our trials and deliver us to the other side of this horrific storm. What to do when our perseverance lets us down, and it will, and we fall back toward our last camp on Grief Mountain?
Summits and safe descents are made on the planning and timing of the weather windows in our storms. With grief, we sit longer, we think longer and deeper, we find ourselves snowed in and enclosed from the outside elements. Everything we do to prepare for that short break in the weather makes the difference in our progress up and down the mountain. Who can command the storms and quiet the wind? To whom shall we call out when the waves threaten to overturn our boat?
“The disciples went and woke him up, shouting, Lord save us! We are going to drown. Jesus responded, why are you afraid? You have so little faith! Then he got up and rebuked the wind and waves, and suddenly there was a great calm.” Matthew 8:25-26
So often, in our most painful time, it seems that Jesus sleeps while we hold onto the boat for dear life. We scream out for him to awake and rebuke the wind and the waves. The grit we have is there to help us hold on while we await his awakening and take command of our storm. And for every break in the weather, every time God quiets the rain, we move further to the back of the boat where one day, we hope, we might find rest beside him.
We are driven to the summit because we have seen it before. Though it’s beauty evades our eyes, it’s memory lives on in our hearts. We prepare for that window in the weather: we pray, eat, clean up our lives, slowly grow accustomed to the pain of the cold wind, in-by-inch, until the storm ceases and we emerge ready to climb. Knowing with every step the weather will again change, but stronger now because we prepared a little more with each passing storm.
“Talk to me about the truth of religion and I’ll listen gladly. Talk to me about the duty of religion and I’ll listen submissively. But don’t come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don’t understand. … Reality never repeats. The exact same thing is never taken away and given back.” C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
In the opening of the brilliant novel, The Goldfinch, by the literary genius, Donna Tart, the young Theo Decker finds himself in a tragic and sudden transition from the safety and freedom of a loving mother to the literal and figurative aftermath of an explosion in an art museum: left confused, surrounded by the rubble of walls, ceiling tiles, dust, smoke, and body parts he is thrust into a lifelong journey through grief. Walking into the museum that day his mind never ventured to imagine life without his mother. Why would it? As he wandered and worried about the trouble he had caused in school and the disappointment and anger his mother may have, his thoughts never led him to believe at any moment it would be his last opportunity to say good-bye, or I love you, or I’m sorry. He couldn’t imagine the guilt of leading his mother into that museum or the pain of losing her. For days he sat in the apartment certain the phone would ring and it would be her, she would walk through the door with dinner, seeing her, hearing her, smelling her. First a constant sea of denial followed by waves of remitting and recurring denial, anger, sadness, shock…always an underlying fear.
Denial is not a large body of water. It’s not even fluid. It is the small raft your mind strands you upon in the midst of terror and loss of reality for the sake of survival. The edges of that raft, it’s borders and size, are simply determined by what your mind can handle in the moment. An emotional buffer between the safety of your previous reality and the new reality of loss and pain. In the aftermath of tragedy everything slows down to a survivable pace- the silence of the house, the growing pile of dishes in the sink, the sounds of the settling house and the clock on the wall. Tick, tick, tick, tick… We move slowly, we breath slowly, we wait for that person to call, walk through the door, seeing them, hearing them, smelling them.
That is denial. A slowing of the pace of reality: the brains desperate attempt to restrict how quickly the painful realizations of your new life are absorbed, like a nozzle on a firehose. But there is no permanent comfort on this small raft. While it may protect us in those early days, to stay here and dine on the lotus flower of Calypso’s island is to damn yourself to a life of pain and sadness that will live forever beneath the surface, giving way to an even greater loss- our souls.
In the movie, Braveheart, William Wallace is visited by his deceased wife, the love of his life, during a dream. There is something sad, sweet, and very real how he begs for her to remain when he says: “I don’t want to wake. I want to stay here with you.” Her reply is what God is telling us softly with each growing day: “And I want to stay here with you. But you must wake up.” His reality is no longer there with her and his journey must go on, he must fight, fueled by her memory but not remaining there, defenseless, within it’s company.
I believe C.S. Lewis was right, and that his gutted portrayal of his grief is amongst the greatest in literary history, when he said don’t come talking to me about the consolations of religion, what was taken away will never be given back. That is the underlying etiology of the fear beneath our guilt and grief and why we find ourselves in denial. We don’t want to wake up. We don’t want to say goodbye. The only quiet glimpse of consolation during this period of loss is the silent image of the cross, the hope in a Savior, a garden of prayer. And all of those things are still fleeting for some great time. Waves of consolation broken on the rocks of a sudden memory. But if you are to step off that raft and try to fight, to continue your journey, it will be those moments of His consolation that may sustain you the most. You will never rid yourself of the pain. You are hurting even when you deny it exists. You will hurt when you open your eyes and rummage through the pieces, too. That pain, if you were genuine in your love, will remain: you cannot rid yourself of it, you must change your relationship with it.
“I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss.” Lamentations 3:20. “Though he brings grief, he also shows compassion because of the greatness of his unfailing love.” Lamentations 3:32
When you are ready to look around at your new reality, start by sitting on the edge of the raft with your feet in the water. Feel each emotional current pulling and pushing. And ask God to be with you before you are submerged and swimming toward the shore. Ask him to remind you that your feet will stand on solid ground again. Move. Stroke. Fight. And breath.
