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: