A friend of mine saw an 84-year-old patient and asked her how she was doing. “I’m a bit sad today,” she said. “It’s the anniversary of my daughter’s death.” He immediately imagined what it must be have been like for her to lose her adult daughter. He wondered if this daughter had her own children and perhaps grandchildren.
“I’m so sorry. How long ago did she pass away?”
“Sixty-two years ago,” the woman replied.
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Yes, grief is like that. She’d never forgotten that precious three year old who’d been struck by a disease that today could have been treated routinely.
As I’ve spoken about grief and loss in many places, I’ve heard amazing stories of people who are now a decade, two decades—even many decades—down the road from their grief.
The pain is different. It isn’t as intense usually, thankfully. But it isn’t entirely gone, either. There is still a nagging sense that something is wrong, that something is missing.
David Wolpe describes well the process of healing:
“When we experience loss, a hole opens up inside of us. It is almost as if the loss itself plows right through us, leaving us gasping for air. We bleed through that opening, and sometimes old wounds are reopened. Things we thought were safely inside, patched over, healed, prove painful again in the wake of the new pain.
“Very slowly, the immediate agony subsides. Around the edges of that opening, things begin to heal. Scar tissue forms. The hole remains, but instead of allowing only a constant stream of emptying, it begins to permit things to enter. We receive some of the love and wisdom that loss has to give us. Now is when loss can have content beyond the ache. This is the time to create meaning. Pay attention to what comes in that open space. Nothing can make the pain go away. Making loss meaningful is not making loss disappear. The loss endures, and time will not change that truth.”
Slowly, slowly we begin to see ways in which our losses can be formative. If we don’t allow ourselves to become withdrawn and bitter (all too common), we can find ourselves becoming more compassionate and more centered. We realize that much of what occupies our time and worry just doesn’t matter all that much. We reach out to others. We learn the skills of friendship. We become more dependent on faith and our faith community.
But trust me on this: no parent who’s lost a child forgets. If you mention the child (a story, their birthday, the anniversary of the death), you will be a cherished friend. And if you have a new friend whose child you never knew, ask them to tell you everything about him or her. Ask to see pictures. Your friend will need you to know that child (in most cases) in order to let you into the deep places of their heart.
And trust me on this, if you’re a parent who’s recently lost a child: life and joy will re-emerge. One day you’ll realize, without warning, that you just laughed at something funny . . . that you were whistling a joyful tune . . . that you are looking forward to the day. You may be surprised and even feel guilty about it. “Does this mean I’m forgetting my child?” Oh, no. You won’t forget. And there will be plenty more sorrow-filled days ahead. (Grief has a way of looping back around for repeat visits.)
But time does help. You will, with the help of God and friends, survive!
Most of you will not, thankfully, lose a child. But you’ll have friends, neighbors, acquaintances who do.
What do you say? In the previous post, I encouraged grieving parents to receive everything as a gift.
But that’s not easy for them to do—especially at a time when they are confused, sad, and uncertain about their own future. (Who envisions their own future without their kids in the picture somewhere?)
Let me start with what not to say:
1. Do not — repeat! — do not pretend to speak for God. Keep your theology to yourself. If you think God needed another little flower in his garden, please don’t share that saccharine image with the parents. Trust me: it won’t help. (“God ought to get his OWN flower” would be a likely unspoken response.) Don’t say:
“Everything happens for a reason” (I heard this a lot)
“God is in this”
“We just have to trust that God’s doing something”
Please—this particular blog post isn’t the place for me to try to respond to these theologically questionable statements. From a merely practical side: these comments won’t help! When a child dies, everything is delicate. Don’t take a chance on tying God to the loss in ways that God hasn’t specifically told you to. The Christian conviction is that God is with us in our loss. He grieves, too. But the parents will have to come to know that through the dark valley of experience. It’s also true that God will “use” (that needs to be unpacked, I know) even this loss for his purposes. But again, this is something the ones in grief will have to recognize in the rearview mirror someday.
2. Do not attempt to diminish the pain.
“At least you have other kids.”
“At least it wasn’t like losing an older child.”
“At least she isn’t suffering any more.”
Rule of thumb: Don’t say anything that begins with “at least.”
3. Do not tell them you understand. Ok, if you’ve lost a child perhaps something like, “Our stories are so different, but they overlap. And as one who understands the pain, I’m so very sorry.” But other than that, don’t do it! The parent may come back and point out that you understand something about suffering. Great. But let the person in fresh grief make that connection.
4. Do not oversell the future. God will one day make things right. But this is not that day. As the writer of Ecclesiastes knew, there is a time to weep. This is that time.
So . . . what do you say? Here are some ideas:
- Nothing. Seriously, you don’t have to say anything. A nod, a hug, a tear—these are tomes of love. I remember an older woman putting her hand around my neck, kissing my check, and nodding. Her eyes were leaking. She spoke not one word, but all these years later she’s still comforting me through that moment.
- “I’m so sorry.” Less is more. This is enough: you’re sorry, you hate this for them, you’re with them.
- “I will be with you.” The fear is that everyone will rally around the funeral and bring chicken spaghetti for a week and then return to their lives and forget that your grief has just barely, BARELY begun.
- “I will never forget her (him).” Saying something about the child means that you will miss them but you will NOT forget them. We need that. (Just last week, a man who’s in his mid-40′s told me a Megan story from his college days—a story I either had forgotten or never knew. I felt like a little bit of her came back to me.) Eventually, this is something the parents may want you to explore more. What do you remember? What did you love about the child? What stories will stay with you?
- “I’m praying for you.” Good! You can work out all your theology in prayer. But the parents just need to know that others will be praying for them when they feel prayer less.
I’m guessing some will look back and wish you could take back some words you’ve offered from the past. It’s ok. We all learn as we go. I offer these suggestions not as a person mad at the insensitive things people say (although, trust me, I haven’t even begun to share the worst ones I’ve heard!) but as a friend who knows you mean well and want to help.
Remember this rule: if you don’t know what to say, nothing is just fine. Being present is the gift of gifts.
(More to follow in the series.)
I guess because so many know the stories of our daughter’s death and of the horrible accident our son was in (that took his friend’s life), Diane and I have been privileged to walk through deep, dark times with others who’ve lost children. It’s holy ground. You welcome people into a club you don’t want anyone else to ever have to join. You receive them knowing that they have no idea how long and deep the suffering will be. I remember a counseling class I took in seminary where we were told that the roughest part of grief comes in the first three months. Maybe I’m slow, but my worst grief came long after that.
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My next post will be about what you can say to someone who’s lost a child.
But first, a few words to those who experience the death of a child. My advice to you is this: receive everything as a gift.
People mean well. They are horrified for you. They know that nothing fits. Sometimes profound words come from them; at other times folks will say things that are stupid—things that could make you mad if you dwelt on them; and still others will tear up and have nothing to say.
But receive everything as a gift. If others had the perfect words to comfort you, that’s what they’d say. But they don’t. So they open their mouths, and stuff comes out. But the translation of that stuff is this: “I love you, I’m so sorry, I don’t understand, I’d give anything to remove this from you, I’ll be praying for you.”
You don’t have to respond with anything more than “thanks.” If you’re up to it, you might tell them that it’s important to you that people who knew your son or daughter help keep his or her memory alive. They’ll understand. (And you’ll understand many years later why that’s so important . . . when everyone else’s life has gone on.)
There are so many things to say about grief (and I tried to say some of them in Megan’s Secrets). But I’ll start here: receive everything as a gift. Even the most vacuous, ridiculous piece of pop theology (death brings out the worst!). Don’t analyze it; don’t rebut it.
Just receive it as the best gift your friend had to offer on that day.
A palliative nurse recorded (over several years) the dying bits of wisdom from patients in the last twelve months of their lives. She recently listed the top five regrets.
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Here are the five:
1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish that I had let myself be happier.
Does this surprise you? What would you expect to hear of regrets about faith decisions? Does it match up with regrets you feel bubbling up inside (or is that a kind of revelatory wisdom that comes near the end of life)?
If you need a fresh shot of courage, 
of hope, of faith, then listen to the interview on Competitor Radio with Shelly Shepherd about her daughter Haven:
- Whose biological parents in Vietnam had her out of wedlock;
- Whose parents, out of shame and knowing they couldn’t be together, strapped bombs to themselves while holding her, attempting a family suicide;
- Who survived the explosion, though her parents both died, but lost both of her legs;
- Who was welcomed by Touch-a-Life ministry and was brought to Missouri, where she was adopted by the Shepherd family;
- Who is competing with prosthetic running legs.
Take the time. The interview is here.
In blog years, Preachermike.com is an octogenarian! It’s time for a facelift.
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And that’s coming soon.
Along with more regular content!
I’ve been taking a blog break as I’ve launched a new ministry (“What Really Matters”), started preached regularly (Golf Course Road in Midland), and taken baby steps with my new role at Pepperdine as Director of Bible Lectures. (Even as I mention the latter, I’m breathing into a paper bag to prevent hyperventilation.)
So check back soon!
It was so good to be at Highland this past Sunday (first time in months!) and to hear Padawan Josh Ross. I was asked to give the communion thoughts for this, the first Sunday of Advent. The communion meditation is below:
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In the beginning was the Word. The Word was close beside God, and the Word was God. In the beginning, he was close beside God. All things came into existence through him; not one thing that exists came into existence without him. Life was in him, and this life was the light of the human race. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. (John 1:1-5)
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The speech therapist for Gabrielle Giffords—the US Congresswoman who was shot in the head while meeting with constituents in Arizona—focused on one word: LIGHT. “Can you say, Light?”
It’s a word pregnant with meaning for Believers around the world this morning as we live into the hope of Advent. We remember that God’s very first words in scripture, spoken to rebuke the chaos, were, “Let there be light!” We recall that when chaos struck again in Exile, the prophet Isaiah anticipated God’s new work by saying “Arise, shine, for the Light is come.”
And we believe, in the fulness of time that Light—the Light of the World—did shine among us. He exposed the darkness; he illuminated God’s Way; he brightened our hope.
But the damage to the left side of Giffords’ brain, the side that controls language, was so great that she couldn’t find the word. She tried again and again, but wound up with only frustrated tears. So the therapist began singing, and immediately Gabby Giffords joined right in word for word, “This little Light of Mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”
[PLAY CLIP]
The song, emerging from the right side of her brain, came out and helped restore the structure of her language center. It was the beginning of Rep. Giffords finding her own voice.
And for us, for those who still often feel like we live in the shadowlands, who seem to be groping about in darkness, we experience this meal in the same way. This simple meal helps retrieve our rhythm, pitch, and melody that gets lost in this damaged, wounded life. It sustains us once again, filling us with the life of the one who shines among us. The one who has illuminated our way. Who has invited us to join him as lights to his world.
This morning, on the first Sunday of Advent, as our brothers and sisters around the world remind each other that he who appeared once will appear again to restore all things, we affirm in this meal our belief that on that great day there will be no need for lamps or bulbs or candles or the sun, for he will be among us and will shine brightly.
Here’s my first video promo I shot for the 2013 Pepperdine Bible Lectures.
Ok, minor corrrections. I didn’t shoot it. It’s not mine. It’s not technically about the Pepperdine Bible Lectures. But check out where this guy ends up. Yes: that’s exactly where he’s heading!
