You may recall the blog posts of last summer when my friend
Steven died (grieve posts, I call them). It isn’t as if the anniversary of
Steven’s death snuck up on me, like an unexpected guest pulling into the
driveway. Rather, it was the case of a slow, steady approach, like a car
traveling across country; I could see it coming from miles away. And I was aware
with each passing mile that it was headed toward me, this anniversary of pain
and grief and loss. With each holiday, birthday, and for a hundred ordinary
days in between, Steven’s death has become a more permanent part of the
landscape of my life (oh how the heart wishes still that it were merely the
landscape of bad dreams).When July 20th came, I needed to tell someone, to say it aloud: This is the day he died. So I told Chad as we were steeping our morning tea. Wow, I can’t believe a whole year’s gone by, he remarked. Chad was surprised to learn it didn’t sneak up on me at all – that in fact, Steven has been with me all year long. Frankly, I am surprised, too, having been such a stranger to grief until now. I have been surprised by many things concerning death. While it’s true I cannot sit down to a plate of chicken and rice with Steven (his favorite), I am relieved to discover that death cannot rob us of a loved one’s spirit; that in fact, it possible to carry on a relationship with the dead, that spirit and matter do operate independent of one another – that in fact, my relationship with Steven feels richer than it ever did here on earth, informed by whatever grace, whatever joy, whatever wholeness now consumes Steven in his afterlife. In a sense, I can even have a friendship with him that did not feel possible before he died. I have experienced Steven's presence throughout the year in nearly inexplicable ways. I feel him watching over me, like a saint. Sometimes, I whisper to him my troubles, like prayers, and I know he listens.
I am also surprised to discover that death has gifts to offer, should we find ourselves
able to accept them.
The other day, The Times reported the death toll in Lybia as
50,000 over the past six months. No longer a stranger to grief, I find that I
read now with the eyes of my heart. I think less in terms of numbers and more in
terms of human beings. Instead of the common nouns of graves and bodies, I
imagine the proper nouns of each body with a name, not to mention the grieving
brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters. It seems to me a
whole world dies with each human being – a world of love, passion, talent, joy,
and beauty, just as it was with Steven. And I feel my heart being stretched and
pulled beyond itself, in directions it has yet to go, expanding my capacity to
love. And this, friends, is a gift. Because why else are we here, but to learn
to love?
As we observe the tenth anniversary of September 11th,
I think of the three thousand lives lost and the ripples of people who grieve
those losses. What I feel keenly aware of, based on my own sense of grief, is
that even ten years later the victims of loss are still grieving. While the
moment of death might be an event on the timeline, grief occupies all of time
as it stretches out to eternity. Strikingly, I know of six deaths in my very
own town since Steven’s, and my response to each one has been tailored by my
own grief experience. Where before I might have been too timid to act or even complacent,
I now send a card, deliver a meal or care package, or offer a longer-than-usual
embrace. I challenge myself to reach out when I know grief hides in the hearts
of those around me. I think to know the experience of grief – its particular
flavor on the tongue, the way it seeps into your very pores without permission,
the way you can’t make your bed or even sleep in it, the strange restlessness
that sinks into the depths of your very bones
– does bestow a gift: empathy. While it is always within our capacity to
find sympathy for those who experience loss, empathy is hard won; we must first
suffer to understand the suffering of others. And to be understood in the midst
of suffering is medicine for the soul. While we may resent the means by
which we gain empathy (and rightly so), in the end we are able to offer
something valuable to a world all too familiar with suffering.
So as we move into fall, I take with me my unexpected gifts from Steven. And I thank him for not just who he was, but who he is in my life.
So as we move into fall, I take with me my unexpected gifts from Steven. And I thank him for not just who he was, but who he is in my life.
