Gifts From Beyond

I have not, dear friends, let my writer’s voice out to play much lately. That’s not to say I haven’t been working fervently to finalize the details of my splendid writer’s shack; it’s nearly complete! I have been occupied by other summer goodness as well:  train rides, poolside barbecues, mojitos, ranching it up in the low Sierras… but as the summer closes her doors, something else has been on my mind.

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 20^th 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 11^th, 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.