I have been writing this in my head, in some form or another, for 3 years now – since my Grandma died two weeks before Easter.
We buried her the day before Palm Sunday on a hill fresh
with new grass, a creek singing and flowers starting the march to life, and the
pastor spoke of the hope of resurrection to come. We tossed daffodils on her
casket and watched as she was taken away from us for good and lowered into a
hole in the ground. I thought how beautiful it was that we buried her so close
to Easter – how I felt the promise of seeing her again.
Then, after all the services, we went back to a home in the
forest without her.
The next day, the church around the world celebrated the
entrance of a King on a lowly donkey.
Five days later…we contemplated his death.
Death is an ugly thing. It just is. It puts a screeching
halt to the way life was and changes the way life is now. It stops your plans,
it breaks your heart, it messes with your mind, it causes literal physical
pain, and it is just there. The person you love is no longer here. No wishing
will change that, and the “hard stop” is more infuriating than you realize
until it’s your turn. You will miss that person and everything they were, are,
and could have been for the rest of your life. It hurts. You are not the same
person you were either, and that hurts too.
Over the last seven years, countless people who are dear to
me have died. (Notice how I say “died” – not “passed”, not “gone on”, not “left
this earth”. I say they died. Because they did. The truth needs to be acknowledged
so I can reckon with it, and so others can as well – it is uncomfortable, and I
have learned to roll with that. More on this later.) I have lost both
grandmothers, a great aunt, multiple cousins and friends, and several small
ones who should be happily growing and playing in the household of my dear
friends, their parents. Many that I love and care for have suffered much death
as well, and it never seems to stop.
A lot of us calculate the numbers of death – it’s been three
and a half years since I hugged her last, now three years since she died. It’s
been seven years since I heard her voice on the phone, excited about my
engagement. It’s been two years since three of them died and I had the awful
realization that much of the older fabric of my family is gone and now so is
one of the friends I never thought would get old and die, and oh boy, that is a
scary place. She should be three. She should be almost one. She should be six
months old.
They should be here.
Death is an ugly thing.
We need to admit this and say it to each other and sit with
it and stare it in the face. We need to acknowledge our loss and call it what
it is. We need to give ourselves the grace and the space and the kindness of
telling the truth, of stating the fact, of speaking the words out loud. We need
to claim their existence and Say. Their. Name.
The question, then, is why? Why do we need to tell the
truth?
One month after we buried Grandma, I found myself involved
with a pediatric hospice – something I never knew existed. I found myself training
to facilitate grief groups for children, children who have suffered unimaginable
losses at times in their lives when all they should know is love and stability.
And I found myself learning about loss and grief in a way that changed my own
life at a time when I needed it the most.
We learned to listen, to reflect, to let people tell us
their stories without jumping in or assuming. We learned to talk about the
person that died and directly acknowledge their existence. We learned to honor
their grief and their strength. We learned that helping people always leaves an
impact. And, we learned to say the word “died”.
He died. She died. My grandma died. My niece died.
Why?
Because talking directly about what happened, without
metaphor or artifice, is one of the best ways you can process what has happened
to you – especially if you are working with a child. Kids cannot process
a loss if they are told “she passed” or “he went to a better place”. They want
to know “well, where is that, and is he coming back?” In our love and concern
for a child, we almost instinctively want to shield them from death, precisely
because it is so ugly, and we do not want them to be hurt by it. But, in the
end, the dishonesty hurts them the most. They deserve the truth, and so we look
these children in the eye, and we ask them to do one thing every time – “Tell
me your name, and tell me who died.”
I learned very quickly that adults are no different than
kids in this way (and in most ways, to be frank). We have learned how to
sugarcoat and massage and sidestep and swallow down the lump in our throats –
but that doesn’t always help us deal with the worst parts of life, like death
and loss. We also need to face the reality head on and admit what we do not
want to admit has happened to us. So, I say “died”. Because processing the
truth is far better than ignoring the pain. And – possibly the most important
reason in my opinion – because it matters.
What does?
Their deaths matter.
Because their lives matter.
That’s why it hurts so much, isn’t it? Because we remember their
laugh and their voice and their face and their hugs and their sense of humor. The
constant mugs of tea, the apple pies, the bag of mints in the car, the wry
jokes, the smiling welcome, the vacations, the quiet days at home, the texts,
the pride on their faces, the prayers, the stubbornness, the Scottish
persistence, the singing, the strength, the life. We miss who they were. We miss
who we were. We grieve what was and what could have been. Oh, how we grieve
what could have been. We grieve the things that could have been better, the
things we wish they had done differently, the things we wish we had done differently.
Really, there aren’t enough words to describe it all – because we are missing
an entire person, and how can you truly quantify that with twenty six letters
and a blank page?
And that’s why we love them so much. They are our people,
our community, our family, and our friends. They are gifts. They are human
beings. And to honor this, I can say they died. I can grieve them. I can enjoy
the memories. I can walk through the anger and the confusion and accept it for
what it is. I can say their names. I can honestly admit what happened and ride
those waves. I can tell their stories. I can speak with their loved ones and we
can take solace in sharing their existence, together.
This Easter weekend, I think of them and the risen King, the one who now holds them in His arms. I think of a Pennsylvania hillside and bright green grass. I think of graves that will one day be empty. I think of faces and names and families and friends and all who feel the pain of a loss we should never have faced.
Their lives mattered.
We grieve because of that, and I think that’s a beautiful
thing.
You matter, Grandma.
You matter, Grandmama.
You matter, Aunt Maribel.
You matter, Uncle Ralph and Aunt Dawn and Pastor Ong and
sweet Elyn.
You matter, my precious nieces Charlie and Vivian and
Winnie. Oh, how you do.
You matter, my loved ones who are no longer here.
I am so thankful for you.
I will see you again.
