When Holidays are Not So Bright

There are certain stages in life that are tender, even extremely sensitive.

Marriage, the birth of a child, tenderly caressing an infant as he sleeps on your chest, and saying goodbye when moving from this life to the next.

The first time I recall attending a memorial, a funeral dinner, my attention was on the food, and probably a lot of questions of why are we here. I remember being quite young, and the concept of losing someone, especially someone I didn’t really know, didn’t add up. It was a missing piece in this experience we call life.

Fastforward several years, I recall my dad in an emotional moment when a man from the church died. He vowed to carry on this spiritual brother’s ministry as long as he could, and he did. It was a memory he kept until his last days. It was the emotion. The two men shared a passion for people, and my dad determined it was a passion worth carrying.

Carrying a passion when losing someone you love is like choosing to carry someone else’s pack. There are times it will be heavy, but you choose to pick it anyhow. You pick it up because you want to honor the memories of the one who no longer walks beside you physically. You want others to not forget them, even share your memories.

People are interesting when it comes to loss and grieving. Therapists can stand on specific stages in the process of recovery. The good ones will also admit making your way through grief is not an ordered process. It happens as it does; sometimes in an ordered trackable step by step and sometimes like walking through a swamp where you dare not explore what is below the murky water.

Death comes to visit all of us, on both sides of the curtain. It disrupts the emotions of the survivor and sometimes confuses the empathetic. Do I approach the family or friends now? When is a good time? What do I say? Should I ask about the recently departed? It strikes me that the answer really doesn’t have a complete answer. The answer isn’t in the question, but in the relationship first. Some of these concerns are best approached gently because of the emotions and the pain in grief. Those who have earned the right to approach by relationship have the privilege of asking the simple questions and expecting a deeper answer: “How are you?” “Are you doing OK?” “Tell me about him (or her).”

I think of these things because still being a relative newcomer I find myself unexpectedly attached to some of the people here. Some of these friends I call close are now walking the streets of Heaven. Some, the doctors are rubbing the crystal ball and the patient is digging in his heels, waiting for an eleventh hour hail mary pass. Some people have the faith that proverbial pass will connect, or it won’t, and either way they are confident in the next step.

The thing about death is you get to see people for what they really value. Will they sit by the bed and pray with their loved one, faithfully anticipating divine intervention? Will they be just as faithful if he or she is not saved from death? In the next chapter, what gets you up in the morning when trying to process the loss?

I don’t pose these questions as a know-it-all or weekend therapist with a pocket full of cliches. I can tell you of times I got up in the morning because that is what I did; I stayed busy. The process is not easy, and time by itself does not heal. It is a measurement of how you get through it, not over it.

My family’s recent losses varied from a call in the night, a drive through snow in the middle of the night to witnessing the last breath drawn. None of them are magical. They are moments of themselves with only one constant string: we are not guaranteed tomorrow. We must wake each morning seeking to live that day fully. My doctor had a small poster in one of his exam rooms for years. It told the most complete truth for so few words: somewhat paraphrased, it said “life it not designed to finish with your body as perfect as when it started, but to slide in sideways shouting ‘Whew! What a Ride!’”

As difficult as it is, we need to find ways to celebrate both sides of our lives, the start and the finish. Life is to be celebrated, not dreaded.