Honoring Grief

 As many of you will recall, this past weekend marked four years since I received some of the most devastating news of my life: my best friend, a brother-figure to me in so many ways, was dead. Gone at 31 from a sudden heart attack. Late that Monday night, as I sobbed on my bed and felt myself going numb from the shock, I knew deep down that my life would never be the same. This loss would change me forever. And it has. 

In many ways, the last four years have crawled by. There have been so many days where I just felt like time stood still and aching hour after aching hour just hung there and refused to leave. I had to learn to be okay with that. Grief has no timetable, and nobody can rush it. It's just there as a guest with you, whether you expected it or not. And, while the rest of the world appeared to rush right on, it felt as though I was standing in place and not moving at all. Long days, long nights, long months. Many of them. 

Yet, I'm also kind of surprised that it has already been four years. A combination of being adrift in my grief as well as all the covid craziness and the tension of world events, it's like these years have all sort of run together and flown by in an odd sense. And I'm learning about that, too: how to start moving forward again and creating a new life that still honors the one I had. To welcome new chapters and new people and to start envisioning a future again when I've spent so much time just trying to make peace with the past. 

And if there's one thing that's stood out to me as I've sought, year after year, to find a place for this loss (and many others) in the landscape of my life, it's this: society doesn't teach you how to grieve, and it doesn't teach you how to honor your grief. You have to walk that journey yourself. You have to find what that looks like for you. But, no matter what, you must give your grief its place, and you must remember. 

The world, and others around you, don't often give you the permission to to do this. They expect you're going to be moving forward soon after the funeral, and that you'll suddenly be able to put the sadness behind you and go on. Why they expect this, I'll never know. But I see that how we're conditioned to handle loss in our society has ill-equipped us to handle it when it happens. We struggle with it, common as it is, because we haven't been taught that grief is its own journey - it's a process - and you can't hurry or wish it away. It has to have its way and its work, or else you will never be fully at peace with it. 

And so, each year, each anniversary, each significant date, I've had to decide what honoring Alex's memory looks like... for me, for him, for our friendship. Ours was a connection unlike any other, and that's something I refuse to forget. I can't, and I shouldn't. Because he was a special one, and I'll always love him. He taught me what it means to suffer and to survive and, on so many sorrow-stricken days, I looked to his example to remind me to keep forging ahead in my grief. To believe that the sun would shine again. There were definitely days I felt I could just drown in my sadness but the thought of how he had modeled resilience in the face of his own sorrow was enough to keep treading water... and looking up. 

This year, the date I learned of his passing happened to fall on a very busy week in my schedule. Not only did it happen to hit on a Sunday when I had the usual church obligations but also a friend's bridal shower and wedding landed during that same timeframe... one usually punctuated by some deep sadness leading up to Memorial Day as I remember my Alex, and also the ones we both knew in common, who gave their tomorrows for our today. Trying to get in the mindset of celebration was going to be a challenge. I wasn't going to miss the wedding, but I wasn't sure if I could swing the bridal shower. So, when some ladies in the church (and later, the bride) came asking if I'd help with the shower, or at least attend, I decided to be honest and shared that I was choosing to leave that evening open and didn't want to commit so I could evaluate what I felt up to that day. Not all understood, but the bride later said how much she respected me for knowing myself well enough to do what was best for me. 

I was proud of myself for saying out loud the candid truth: I needed to give myself options and space to navigate how I might be feeling during that time. Honestly, I wasn't certain how many times during that same week I could muster up the inner strength to go and party when all I'd likely want to do is be quiet and find a way to sit with my memories. For a long time, I struggled with speaking up about my grief-needs because I didn't want to 1) deal with people's potential responses and 2) to be a burden or a vibe-killer because of my sadness. Yet, over time, I started to realize that, regardless of whether others understood or not, honoring my grief was something I had to do. It's how I keep alive the specialness of what I shared with those I've lost. It's what gives meaning to an otherwise bittersweet day. So I chose to start owning my needs and doing what was best for me. 

Honoring our grief looks different for each of us. For some, it may look like doing an activity or going to a place that meant something to your loved one. For others, it might be cooking or ordering their favorite meal. It may be playing a song they enjoyed. Some may choose to just carry on with life as usual, knowing their loved one would like them to be embracing joy while others may want to be quiet and shed a few tears of remembrance. For me, if often looks like getting in touch with some of the Marines I know here in my area and being around the Marine Corps Alex loved so much.  It's going to be as unique as ourselves and the ones we've said goodbye to. But it's a natural part of the healing process. No, the pain eventually won't be as acute as it once was, but there will always be moments when that loss taps us on the shoulder and we need to have a minute to respect the loss and let ourselves miss the ones we cared so much for. 

Four years later, the tears have mostly dried and the suffocation of the loss has eased. Life has begun to resume some normalcy and happiness has started to come more often once again. While there was a time when I wondered if I would ever see the proverbial sunrise ever again, I'm now finding that I'm at peace with the loss in a way I could've only dreamt of before. Healing has done its work, and I have taken my time to walk this journey in my own time and my own way. And I'm glad I did. 

Has this path been lonely? Of course! Many times there have been few who showed up in the ways I needed them to as I made my way through. Has it been hard? You bet. Every loss is. Harder than most can even imagine unless they've "been there" themselves. But has the lost helped me grow? Have I learned from it? Absolutely. And am I still grateful, even if death took my best friend too soon? Without a doubt. Slowly but surely, I've done what author Jerry Sitser described as "growing into" my loss. He said that grief isn't something we "get over" but rather, something we slowly grow into ...sort of like a piece of clothing that's a little too big. Gradually, we find a way to adjust to it and make it a part of ourselves and who we are. And that includes finding the ways we best honor and remember our loved ones and give a nod of thanks to our grief for showing things about ourselves, about life, about others, and about God that we never could've learned otherwise. 

I'm not the same person I was four years ago that awful day. Obviously. How could I ever be? Losing someone so close to me and someone whose presence I thought I'd have in my life forever shook me to my very core. Nearly broke me. But I've come through better, not bitter. I'm stronger. I'm braver. I'm wiser. And I'm way more empathetic towards those in the same shoes I once was. Because grief is difficult. But, in a way, it's also a gift and that, I've learned, is something that only time and space to be alone with God and my thoughts can allow me to see.