A River of Grief

I awoke this morning to the sound of the rain and winds returning.  Washington and much of the PNW has been in an atmospheric river weather pattern, which is an apt descriptor for what it looks like outside.  We’d had a break over the weekend, but we knew this was coming.  My prayers are with everyone in danger of flooding and landslides and with those already impacted.  

Last week I attended a grief group.  (Birdwalk: Gloria Dei has an amazing Grief Group, but this is not the group I attended.   It would seem a boundary issue in a lot of ways and I don’t want my story and my grief and my presence to impact the ability of those present to be authentic.  I also want my grief to have plenty of space without the natural instinct to provide care for others.)  In the room there was a man whose wife had been a patient on the same floor and at the same time  as Bruce.  When we determined those coincidences, while we gathered supplies for our art project (yes, I did an art project), it was just the strangest of things.  Others there grieved the loss of spouses and partners and parents and one person came grieving the loss of her cat.  Overall, it was fascinating to watch the dynamics form in a group that had not been together before and might not assemble in precisely the same way again.  It was both very hard and very helpful to tell the story again….anew.  None of these people knew me or Bruce.  I felt that I couldn’t emphasize enough how remarkable he was or how lucky we were to have found one another and how blazingly brief those two decades were.   

I will likely return to this group again, to put this in my toolkit of support.  And it made me wonder over the weekend, when we received news of more mass shootings and when we remembered the tiny children and their teachers who died at Sandy Hook….it made me wonder about how we normalize care for the grieving.  

Because we know there will be two things that happen to every person:  we will be born and we will die.  And so it stands to reason that people we know and love will die.  Of course they will.  But, we really don’t spend much time or effort ahead of death preparing for it.  Sure, we might pre-arrange what happens to our bodies: cremation or burial or human composting or aquamation.  We might even write out what hymns and readings we’d like at our service.  (Please do these things!)  But we don’t imagine how we will support ourselves when the people we love die.   Or at least I didn’t.  

As I’ve said before, Bruce was not old.  He was a young 73.  A healthy 73.  And we’d done the pre-arrangements and we’d had the hard conversations, but we’d not talked about nor had I imagined how either of us would tend to our broken hearts when the other died.  

Certainly the families of the students killed at Brown University last week and those killed as they gathered for worship on the beach and the Sandy Hook families know of the shock and surprise that comes with such sudden loss.  And while they are caught in this unexpected grief, they have had to make arrangements that they’d likely not considered much for their young and beloved children.  One of those Brown students was a young woman from Birmingham, AL.  Her faith community, the Epsicopal cathedral there, shared the devastating news.  I’m hopeful that her parents have the good support of their priest in these days.  

But what of the days ahead?   How do they or any of us make determinations about what we need to survive them?   I was handed a packet of materials from the hospital when I left.  I believe it was literally called “For the Newly Bereaved” and that seems entirely insufficient, even if it is accurate.   I would want the front of such a packet to be more honest, to say something like : “For this TERRIBLE Time”.  I don’t even know where that packet is.  I think it’s in the stack of paperwork that goes with the business of bereavement.  But it was so insufficient and at the same time, I’m not certain that anything could prepare everyone for this.  I was lucky to already have a spiritual director and a therapist and the support and care of the woman who leads our Grief Group at Gloria Dei.  I had the extraordinary care of two bishops, who tended me as pastors, and numerous friends.  And, eventually, I was able to recognize the ways that the trauma of what happened was lingering and so I could add a trauma therapist to my stable of support.  (Birdwalk:  Insurance is such a gift.  We should all have access to good mental health care).  And it is vitally important to me that I find opportunities to worship.  Not to lead worship, but to worship.  And this matters to me because it reminds me of the holy in this unholy loss.   So maybe I’ll return to that Grief Group again in the new year.   I’m still figuring it out as I go. 

Yesterday at church I was reminded that it’s time to sign up for the memorial flowers on Christmas Eve.  And I was shocked and surprised that I would be signing up to remember Bruce.  I did not see that moment coming.  The woman who leads the Grief Group was standing with me when it dawned on me.  “Well, shit” her pastor said.  Of course, she didn’t flinch.  She didn’t explain or try to make it better.  She very simply stood with me until I turned to write his name on the list.  

Ultimately, that’s all we can do for each other.  Be present.  Stand with.  

And in the quiet of a rain soaked morning, we can pray for each other.  For the parents whose children won’t come home from college for winter break.  For the families who will forever miss their first graders.  For the families whose beloveds had gathered on a beach to begin their holy days.  For all of those who are handed a packet of printed material and a plastic bag of belongings at the most disorienting moment of their lives.     May there be solace in our standing together.