The reality of grief
In the early morn of July 31 we lost a beloved family member.
Emily’s son, and my stepson of 23 years, who had been diagnosed with cancer early in the year, died at home. Jonathan was a family man with Gail and three children, 7, 10 and 11, the director of Forestry for Nova Scotia, president of the South Colchester Minor Hockey League, a coach, and a well known and loved member of the Brookfield community and beyond.
At 47 years of age he was in the fullness of his life. He lived large and joyously, leaves a big imprint, and died too soon. We join the myriad of those who have lost a child, and we grieve.
We tend to think of grief as sadness. Which it is, the dark cloud that is constantly there. But grief is more than sadness. It is the whole process of meeting the new reality of our lives. Someone we loved is not there. The whole gamut of our emotions is involved, as well as the practical realities that must be dealt with. Fear can loom. We may become aware of our own vulnerability, and that of those near to us.
And life without the loved one can seem overwhelming. Anger may well up. We often think that anger is an inappropriate response. But times of anger, even furious anger, can burst forth. We can rage against God, the universe, cancer, even against the one who has left us. There is no emotion that is not appropriate.
Everyone grieves in their own way. The nature and intensity of our grief will depend on our relationship with the one who has died. The loss of a partner with whom you have shared soul and bed, and the everydayness of life, is an ultimate grief.
A child can feel abandoned when a parent dies — and fear that something may happen to the remaining parent. A mother who has carried that person in their womb is left with a gaping void.
A father, almost the same. Siblings wrestle with the loss of one whom they loved, played with, fought with, and was a major influence on their lives. A close friend can be devastated.
We experience the compassion of people. People want to do something, anything they can. And it all helps. We need our alone times, but being surrounded by love and caring enables us to bear the burden. The telling and retelling of the story is a therapy that carries us through this time. And there is something about a village that seems to rise as one, and special friends that do what needs to be done without question or reward. It is what people do. And we take comfort and strength in gathering together to honour and celebrate the grandeur of a life, even if cut short.
We have memories and stories, and sharing them brings comfort and moments of joy. As ministers Emily and I have sat in many circles remembering the loved one, and there is laughter and tears.
Those of us who experience loss are thankful for the gift of the life that has in some way been part of our lives. We know that we, and the world, have been enriched by the loved one’s presence. Even the youngest or still-born child has left their mark. There are lives that are forever changed.
Our hearts cry out for answers. Why? But often there are no answers. Why this person took this disease lies in the Mystery.
What lies beyond? We can’t imagine that all that is a mortal life simply ends with death. The basic law of physics says that energy can change form but cannot be destroyed. Many take great comfort in the traditional Christian picture of heaven — we have mostly erased hell.
The theory of the zero-pointfield speaks to me; the great pool of energy from which everything comes and to which everything returns in refined form — a scientific version of heaven. However, the universe is much more profound than any of us can comprehend, a grand Mystery.
The reality remains that in whatever ways the spirit of the loved one carries on, he is no longer physically with us. We are left in shock and grief, but with thanksgiving for Jonathan’s life that touched so many.
Life goes on and now we sing with him, “We rise again in the faces of our children” (Rankin Family).