Comforting the Grieving, Part III: Violating the Precious

Kathe Kollwitz

In my last blog I talked about part of grieving as idealizing, or even idolizing, our love ones who have died, and possibly getting stuck in that idealized relationship.  But, before I share how I was finally able to move forward into the future, it is important to share one of the things that can keep us stuck in the past. 

I pointed out in the last blog that time does not heal; only grieving does.  And one of the most important parts of grieving is being able to tell the story of our loss over and over again.  And here is where the problem arises:  we want to tell our story long after most people no longer want to hear it.

Why and how this happens remains a bit of a mystery to me.  However, I have experienced it repeatedly as being true, both in my own grieving experiences, and with people I have tried to support as a friend or as their pastor.

I can think of a host of reasons.  First of all, not many people are actually very good listeners, and none of us are good listeners all the time.  We tend to hear what we want to hear and focus on what we want to say, rather than really, really listening to others, especially those in pain.

Secondly, and to be frank, we may simply tire of hearing the same painful memories repeated over and over again.

Thirdly, we may find ourselves at times not having the psychological and spiritual energy to keep empathizing and drawing out those in pain.

Finally (and sometimes family is the worst here), we so want the grieving person we love to get better that we become impatient with their seeming lack of healing and ability to move forward.

Whatever the reasons, here is how it happens.  The grieving person decides to open up and share either something that they have already shared many times, or a new feeling of grief they are having, and they sense that the listener doesn’t want to hear what they have to say.

This has happened to me many times, but here is the most dramatic instance.   After Pauline died, I was simply too drained and depressed to work, and so I told the congregation I was serving that I needed to go back home to the midwest for a couple of months, and I told them they didn’t have to pay me if they didn’t want to.  (And they didn’t, which, for some reason, tends to elicit laughter whenever I have shared that in presentations on grief.  I’m really not sure why.  Perhaps it just shows how business-like our world is, no matter how much we are hurting).

Anyway, I was gone for several weeks, and, when I returned, I told the pastor I was working with that I just simply did not feel like I could get back into the pulpit right away.  About three weeks went by before I preached, and in that sermon I told the story of how Pauline had died, and also shared some of her journal entries written as she was dying.

A couple of weeks went by before I peached again.  As much as I wanted to keep talking about Pauline, I decided to preach on Saint Francis of Assisi, as that particular Sunday was his saint day.  Now, this was in the days when many Lutheran congregations only had communion on the first Sunday of each month, and that particular Sunday was a communion Sunday.  So, at the very end of my sermon, as I transitioned into sharing something about the Holy Communion we were about to share, I told the story of how Pauline and I had given each other Communion right before she died.  This was after she had already had one cardiac arrest, was revived, and we knew death was imminent.  I shared how I had come to see even more clearly what an amazing gift this is, as we shared it and I pronounced the blessing on Pauline, “May the body and precious blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, keep you now and unto life eternal.  Go in peace!”

On Wednesday of the following week I received a phone call from one of our most faithful members who asked that I come to her place for coffee.  I sat down, she gave me a cup of coffee, and then she wasted no time or words, “Brian, we do not want to hear about Pauline anymore!”

I felt like a knife had been thrust into my heart.  It is really impossible to describe how absolutely painful such experiences are.  I call it the Violation of the Precious.  It happens when you share something that is so intimate and meaningful to you, and you sense that the other person simply does not want to hear it.  And guess what?  They will get their wish!

Violation occurs when we open up from the depths of our pain and struggle, and it is rejected by another.  As a kind of shame experience, our response is rage, and we slam the door shut, determined not to open it again.  In fact, I never mentioned Pauline in another sermon, until my final Sunday, when I thanked the congregation (genuinely, I might add) for their support and love of Pauline and me during those two years there.

Now, a feeling of violation of a precious relationship does not need to be that dramatic.  It might be as simple as sensing the person is not really listening, or we notice that they kind of raise their eyebrows, as if saying, “Oh, no.  Not this again!”

This is not meant to scare people away from the grieving.  In fact, just the opposite.  Obviously, it is extremely important for one who is grieving to have a counselor, pastor, or support group where they can continue to tell their story and explore new feelings and insights they are having.  However, in addition, everyone of us can play an important role in facilitating healing.  When we encounter someone who has experienced a loss, all we need do is look the person in the eye, and simply say, “How are you REALLY doing?”  The person will sense we actually want to hear what is going on for them, and they will often open up immediately.

In the words of St. Francis:

Comforting the Grieving, Part II: Idealizing Those Who Have Died

Pauline Marie Peterson Erickson 1950-1982

I wrote in my last blog about the shock and adrenaline we experience early in grief, which are gifts from God that help us function when we would otherwise simply fall apart.

However, soon these two gifts, like a strong painkiller, wear off and we find ourselves in agony.  We keep telling ourselves that all that has happened is a bad dream, but, day by day, as we wake up and realize it wasn’t a nightmare, reality begins to set in.  There is no escape from the pain and loss we feel.  This is our new way of life, and it is not going away.

A common next step at this point is to idealize (or even idolize) the loved one who has died (I fully realize there are many exceptions to this, where there has been abuse or neglect: I speak here of generally positive—although not perfect— relationships.)  The Scriptures talk about our sins being washed away and forgotten.  This may not always happen in life, but it does happen in death.  And this is a good thing.  We begin to forget the weaknesses and mistakes of the one who died, and focus on the strengths and beauty of the person.

This can happen to the point where we may begin to wonder if we are mentally ill.  After Pauline died, I had a ritual every evening where, right before I would go to bed, I would walk throughout the house and kiss each of my pictures of her (and there were lots of them).  Then I would crawl into bed on the side she had always slept on.

Over the years I have done a lot of work with Widows and Widowers Support Groups, and one of the positive things about such groups is that you begin to realize you are not really crazy:  many people have their seemingly strange rituals in grief that bring comfort to them.

The ironic thing is that most of us, if we get married, wonder if we will really be able to keep the vow of being faithful “until death parts us.”  And yet we may find ourselves in total commitment and faithfulness to our partner who has died, long after that death.  Indeed, we may find a strange kind of comfort in this ethereal and and almost mystical relationship.  I remember thinking at the time that this was all I needed the rest of my life.

In fact, several months after Pauline had died, a friend suggested that it was time for me to consider dating again.  I took this comment as a total affront, as if they were asking me to break my marriage vows.

So having strange and unique rituals after death does not mean one is mentally ill.  But what if these rituals continue unabated?  Is it possible that we could become “stuck” in grief in such a way that what was natural and healthy becomes a new kind of sickness, a “sickness unto death,” in the words of Kierkegaard, used in a very different context.

A common cliche in our culture is that “time heals.”  This is absolutely not true when it comes to grief.  People can get so stuck in grief that ten years later they have made no progress in healing.  Time doesn’t heal; grieving is what heals us.  Every time we have the opportunity to be blessed by a listening ear who will let us tell our story of loss one more time, we find a touch of comfort and healing.  Every tear shed, ever kiss of a picture, every trip to the grave, every agonizing prayer or journal entry, brings us one more step closer to healing and, most importantly, to being able one day to move on.

I don’t remember how long it took me to realize it was no longer healthy to idolize Pauline.  She had told me before she died that she wanted me to move on, and even to get married again.  Somehow, through journaling and reflecting, it began to slowly dawn on me that God was calling me to something more than living in the past, and that moving into a new life in the future was not being unfaithful to Pauline.

In my next journal entry I will share how I came to that realization, that revelation.

A Graveyard in Las Cruces, New Mexico