I'm Sorry For Your Loss

When a death occurs we say it often: "I'm sorry for your loss." Because what else do you say? I am the first to admit the phrase became overused and empty for me a long time ago, but the message behind it still rings true.....
     On any given day, I meet total strangers during one of the worst times in their lives. They are people in various stages of grief, and I often have to take a step back and remind myself of that fact. It sometimes means having to repeat a question numerous times to an elderly widow because maybe she was distracted by the bouquet of flowers sent from her college roommate or maybe she simply didn't understand what I was asking. Maybe the phone is ringing off the hook at a house and my walking in the door with 10 folding chairs is not a priority at the time. I quietly place them by the front door and wait patiently to ask if the family needs anything else right then. I shake hands saying, "I'm sorry for your loss," on my way out. Maybe I get back in the van and eat my lunch while going back to the funeral home and jam out to the radio, because for me, this is an ordinary day. For the people I serve, however, it is anything but.  See, while a death may be one of the most painful things your family can face, to us funeral personnel, it's a daily occurrence. It's what we do. It's why we don't let our cell phones get out of sight, and why our closets are filled with dark, muted colors. It's not always easy, but it is not supposed to be. 

     When a death occurs, it is likely that the family is next to clueless as to what to do. As soon as the phone call is made to the funeral home, however, a process begins. We make checklists. We label clothing. We label people. We order flowers and caskets and vaults and mark graves to be dug. We make a list and check it twice in hopes of minimizing mistakes (unfortunately, we are only human and mistakes still happen...).
     In this service based industry, each situation, each family, each deceased individual is different. Each has a story, yet each comes with a unique set of challenges. I would be remiss to say that each funeral is the same ol' same ol'....because it's not. We have a basic procedure to follow, but the details in between are as varied as the day is long. We really are sorry for your loss, but our way of saying it is by taking the necessary care to do the behind the scenes work to help you share about and honor your loved one.
     So yes, I'll come back to open the funeral home for the hairdresser at 7 PM, and yes, I'll clean up the water spill from when you knocked over the vase of flowers, and yes, I'll even go with you when you come to town, 20 years after your father was buried, and help you locate his grave in the cemetery. It's the 'funeral director way' of saying, "I'm sorry for your loss," even when the words fail.

Now What?

It has been one week since I sat for the National Boards Exams in funeral directing and embalming. Passing those tests was the last major hurdle on my track to becoming a licensed mortician. I am happy to say that I don't have to go back to school in the foreseeable future! All that remains is a final year of apprenticeship and some pesky paperwork.
   I finally had a little time to process everything on my evening walk yesterday, and I'll admit, I'm feeling a little lost in the transition. I can't help but liken the feeling to a phenomenon that happens in the grieving process. I like to refer to it as the "Now what?" phenomenon. There may be a more sophisticated term, but I think this gets the point across. The bottom line is that after a major life event, i.e. a loss, new experience, or life change, we often enter a type of 'adjustment period' in which social connections, routines, and priorities shift. Anytime we come to 'an ending,' there is a type of internal pressure as well as that from external sources (peers, society, etc) to move ahead into whatever is next.
  People who experience this feeling in relation to the loss of a close loved one can cycle between waves of uncertainty, depression, and helplessness. Sometimes they must take on more responsibilities or learn to do things for themselves. In the wake of a loss, simple changes can seem next to impossible, but over time and with support, hope reappears.
   While my current situation is nothing like experiencing the loss of a loved one, I am nonetheless in an 'adjustment period,' and I'm constantly rolling around the question, "Now what?!"

   For me, this adjustment period will lead to a pretty thorough job search in the upcoming year. Right now, however, it means trying a few new recipes, spreading out my evening walks a bit, reading a book or two or ten, and not hesitating to spend a little while longer on the telephone.

   If there's one thing my job is teaching me, it is that time is fleeting, but people are valuable. Relationships. Are. Important.
   My job is challenging. It is rewarding. I feel like I make a difference. I do make a difference. And each and every day there are new opportunities popping up as I encounter different people and different types of situations. I'm taking it all in and trying not to get too caught up in the, "Now what?" question and just focusing on the "now."

When Funerals aren't As Beautiful

They say there are two sides to every coin. Funerals are no exception. As I wrote in my last post, sometimes funerals are beautiful; they are moments suspended in time, complete with the idyllic blue sky and the telling of stories of a life well-lived over a gentle breeze. 
    And sometimes they aren't as beautiful. Sometimes they are just plain hard. Funerals are hard because pain is hard. And death is fraught with pain. Mothers, Fathers, Children, Loved Ones. Gone from this world in an instant because death does not discriminate.    Death has a way of bringing out our deepest fears and strongest emotions. It can bring us to our knees or it can send fists swinging. Family ties can be strengthened or severed. Communities can be shaken to their core. Mass fatalities, natural disasters, terrorism. Accidents. Illness. Murder. All of it bringing us face-to-face with our mortality. The funeral itself can seem other-worldly, detached, rote. The flowers and the songs and the shiny cars pale in comparison to the heart-wrenching sobs of a young mother over her child. 
    Somehow, amidst the pain, amidst the tears, we find hope. We find it among the hugs of close friends and near strangers, we find it in the quiet moments spent at the cemetery, right after everyone leaves. Hands are placed on the casket, a final gesture of remembrance. A final good-bye. Hope is there as we drive away from the grave, it follows us home, it sits by us in our sleep and it wakes up with us, always there, always waiting for us to turn around and find it in the stillness. Hope remains alive as waves of grief threaten to overtake us in the days and weeks and years to come. Hope carries us through.
    This world will bring pain. This world will bring trouble. This world will bring death. But I for one have hope in a Savior who has conquered this world.

"I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world, you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world." -John 16:33 (NIV)

Fresh grief.

Small talk is just not comfortable around death.
     In times of fresh grief, words fail. Words can actually make things worse. Sometimes, silence is the only answer to the questions that don't have answers.
     It's like when a child misses his parent and all he can do is look out the window, waiting. He is at the age when he can barely speak anyway, so he doesn't say much. Most anything you do to tear him away from that window results in crying; in pain. To soothe him seems too difficult. In actuality, all you really have to do is hold him and let him know you understand. You understand with a part of yourself that aches for perhaps a different reason. You understand because you can identify with his feelings, though you can't feel exactly what he feels; and, for that reason, to tell him you understand will not help the situation.
      The silence can be uncomfortable. All you can do is make room for the pain and the tears and the unknown. You hope that eventually he'll find his way out of it.
      Fresh grief has a distinct look to it. It's raw and unbridled and scary. After a while, it starts to gnaw away at too much of the insides of the people it affects until it begins to make its way out somehow, some way. It fumbles its way out, snotting, gasping, grasping for anything it can.

     The world of death collides with the world of the living and we don't know what to do with it. We find ourselves standing on the edge of this life and the next, peering over the edge of an open casket..... In these situations, I find myself holding a box of Kleenexes and waiting for the right time to reach over and offer a hug to a complete stranger who has now been irreversibly linked to me by this moment. We both know there's nothing to say. So we don't say anything. We walk ahead into the uncertainty, fresh grief dripping from eyes and a mixture emotions swirling around the room. This, my prayer: "Peace, be still." 

                                                             

This Holiday Thing

I swore I wouldn't do this. This holiday thing. This grief thing. But, today, after a weekend of holiday memorial services honoring those who have come through our funeral home this year, here I am.

It was an innocent chat. She asked me something about Thanksgiving. I said something about my grandparents. For a brief moment, I froze mentally as I tried to ignore the tear threatening to well up in my eye, I found myself thinking,

"I swore I wouldn't do this. This holiday thing. This grief thing. I swore." 

But here I am.

I'm not going to ignore the fact that my grandfather passed away this year. I'm also not going to ignore the fact that his loss means something for my family. It means many things, actually. It means that time keeps going. It means we'll have an empty seat at the table this Christmas--the one with the tennis balls on the chair legs put there so he could get in and out of it more easily. It means there will be stories and laughter and, knowing him, a housefly or two darting around just to remind us of so many good memories with him. Someone will have to sit on the couch all wrapped up in a blanket and ask me how my money's holding out because he won't be there to do it. His stocking will stay in the box. He won't slip me a $100 bill when nobody's looking. We'll keep missing him. And that's ok because he was a big part of our lives and I know we'll never forget him.

This is a special season for all of us. Let's not forget those who are grieving. I even hesitate to say, "those who are grieving," because in many ways, all of us are grieving someone.

Whether it's a recent loss or a not so recent loss--let's not forget. 

I challenge you to honor that empty spot at the table. Fill it with someone or something new and different. Just don't ignore it. Listen as stories are told and re-told. Lend a hand to someone you know is hurting. Don't fear silence, or tears, or even laughter.

If grief shows up this Christmas, don't be afraid of it. Honor it, remember it. And keep making memories.

I love you, Pop.

When the Saints Go Marching In

As many of you are aware, today is All Saints' Day. It is a time to remember those who have passed on during the year.

I had the honor of being a part of a rather large funeral today in which a faithful servant was celebrated. As friends eulogized, voices cracked and tears fell, but I noticed that as quickly as Kleenex's were snatched up, smiles also swept across faces. It made me think about how grief, in its simplest form, is a reaction to loss. This reaction, however, is a process.

Popular psychology will tell you that grief has stages. Elisabeth Kubler Ross even goes so far to define these stages as denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. In reality, these stages aren't really stages in the way we think of stages. There is no set order, there are no set time-frames. We go back and forth, around and around, drifting in and out of our own sense of consciousness. We tell, we re-tell, we 're-member.'

It all brings us to a part of ourselves we wouldn't get to otherwise.

Grief over life, grief over death.
We give each other grief. We grieve for and with one another.
We are taken aback by it.
We all somehow grieve differently and yet we all grieve the same.

Oftentimes, our minds process our stories in pieces. We end up telling and retelling our experiences in an effort to fully grasp them. Our words take on a rote tone, one that Thomas Lynch describes as prayer-like.

It's a funny thing, our rememberings. Our words. Our prayers--even the ones that don't have words. Our grief ages our souls as it brings us to our knees. It shows up in the daily things--in getting the paper and in the breaking of bread. Our comings and our goings--it all becomes more holy. Our daily bread becomes a perpetual communion and sleep is an answered prayer. Life becomes fractional; bits and pieces exist in a type of suspension, but not as a whole.

Our grief, however, is not the end. We can take comfort in the fact that a new world will one day be revealed, a world where death shall be no more. As Revelation 21 says, "neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."

I will leave you with the words of the hymn, When the Saints Go Marching In.

      We are trav'ling in the footsteps
      Of those who've gone before,
      And we'll all be reunited, 
      On a new and sunlit shore...

Some say this world of trouble,

Is the only one we need,

But I'm waiting for that morning,

When the new world is revealed...

Lord, how I want to be in that number

When the saints go marching in!

Prepositions

I'm sitting in the same classroom for the 4th hour in a row. On one side of me, there are two caskets (empty, I promise), on the other, there are twenty classmates, all of various ages and backgrounds. The instructors ramble a bit, confusing words like 'generic' with 'genetic,' 'presents' with 'presence,' and 'elections' with 'electrons.' Nobody else seems to notice. Oh well.

Somewhere between the chemistry lesson and the three-thousandth question about whether or not we have to  know ALL the bones in the body, words begin to pop out at me. The words are simple, prepositions actually: by, with, for...

We have moved on to the 'Funeral Services' portion of the school day and are watching a PBS Frontline documentary called The Undertaking. (<-- VERY highly recommended).

....By the living
....For the living
....With the living

It strikes me as it has done before-- funerals in the modern sense mean different things to different people, but Thomas Lynch's words start to work in my finite brain, "we deal with death by dealing with the dead..."

Our death traditions are just that- traditions- just like our marriage traditions, birth traditions, and holiday traditions. They serve a purpose, but we have to remember they are not immune to change. The processes of planning, conducting, and attending funerals helps usher us through the beginnings of the grief journey. They give us something to grasp, rules to follow, and roles to play as our little worlds change beyond our comprehension.

We all view and deal with death a little differently, but, in the end, we all must face it.

It never fails that at any funeral I attend, there is a solitary moment in which time seems to stand still. It often happens at the graveside as the pallbearers carry the casket to the grave. Watches tick, birds chirp, cars go by, but the hallowed plot of land on which we place the casket is eerily quiet. We've come as far as we can. Family and friends have eulogized, prayed, sung, cried, rejoiced, remembered and now we stand in reverent awe. The casket is lowered and we reach the end. The body stops moving. We stop carting everything around. We arrange the flowers for the last time. We say a final prayer, maybe sing a final song. Then we leave and the reality of the loss accompanies us as we walk away from the grave.

We continue to lean on the living; hearing words of sympathy, accepting tender embraces, and eating fried chicken to our heart's content. In these moments, we are vulnerable in our humanity. In moments to come, as we look back and remember things about the ones we've had to let go, we seem to be more vulnerable in our spirituality. Through tears and laughter we keep moving until death interrupts again; until our little worlds stand still.

Christmas [In July]

Folks,
      I'll admit I was racking my brain for what to write about this month. I thought about just letting this one slide by and making up for it with two posts in August. I came up with a few ideas yesterday... one about my love of reading and the books I am currently obsessed with, another about the conferences going on this summer in Montreat. I just couldn't get myself to sit down and process either of those. Then, today at work, LIFE hit me square in the face.
      It was a quiet moment in the store, a rarity during the mornings of youth conferences when hundreds of teens stream in to get their t-shirts and Cheerwine. In the midst of my own to-do list of cooking, cleaning, packing, forms, classes, and the line of customers waiting to purchase their items, my thoughts were interrupted by a pair of earrings sliding across the counter.
       I reached for a box to put them in and the customer said, "Oh, I don't need a box, I'll wear them out!"
       I said, "Alright, that's good with me! Your total is $36.38."
       I swiped her card, and as I waited for the receipt to print, she said through tears, "They remind me of my son. He always loved calla lillies." Then, as if realizing she was talking out loud, she said, "I lost him recently." More tears.
       I was dumb-founded. Asking her to sign the receipt seemed trivial. I didn't know what to say. This wasn't the funeral home. This wasn't a pre-packaged environment where sadness and tears and death were expected; the norm. There wasn't a box of Kleenexes within arm's length and there weren't any flowers to move around for the hundredth time.
       There was only me. And her. And her grief. Suddenly, the three of us seemed to be taking up too much room so I stepped back a step and said the only thing I could think of, "How old was he?"
       "25," she said.
       "Wow," I said solemnly. "Well, I'm sure he would have loved to see you wear these."
       She removed the earrings from the paper card they were on and I held the pieces in my hand as she slowly and deliberately swapped old for new. I smiled and she smiled and she took a deep breath and walked away to join her friends.
      It bothered me--that space between the "Wow." and the "Well." That space in my thoughts that said, "How, when, where, why?" "WHY?" I wanted to know everything and I wanted to know nothing. I wanted to hear her story and not have to hear her pain. But, then, the two are inseparable. So it goes in life. So it goes with our faith stories and our loss-of-faith stories, our love stories and our loss-of-love stories. And no, this post really isn't about Christmas [in July] or Christmas at all. Except for the truth of the One incarnate, the One who came so that our tears and our grief and our pain will be no more. Praise be to God.