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