Thursday, May 23, 2019

What Might be in Our Words to the Grieving

Something I learned, finally, in the years between graduating from high school and nearing retirement, was this: Preferring my theories to what others around me are experiencing is almost always a mistake. In my ongoing dance between my thoughts and various phenomena, I don't like to have my values exposed as illusions. I think this is especially true of things that are said about politics. Over the years, I have learned, finally, to pay attention to what is really going on and to set aside my cherished theories when warranted. My political views have changed over the years as I've learned to take in new experiences, cases, and facts. 

Setting aside my theories and beliefs, however briefly, and instead listening to another person is especially helpful when we approach the grieving. Certainly, it's possible that my most cherished ideological or theological framework might feel threatened by someone else's loss. I may want to work out my own doubts by encouraging or forcing my grieving friend to feel better or get over it. It will seem that to just go with the flow will be wrong. So often, people talk to the grieving as though it is their job to contain, control, and channel grief. But this is always the worst approach. People who are suffering loss do not need to be controlled or preached to or reminded of things.

What people have to me said over the past 20 months has cued me in to what they might be thinking. Usually, the words have suggested to me that when we approach the grieving, our thoughts are more on ourselves than on our friends.

"I can't imagine what you are going through." 

While this is true, it can also be a cop-out. What is said to follow this might be key in determining the rightness of it. Sometimes, I've noticed that what is meant is "I don't want to imagine." In contrast, a friend of mine said this right after the memorial for our son: "I just can't imagine what you might be going through." But he followed it with, "but I'd like you to know that I'm available to just listen and find what you are facing." That was real care.

"He's in a better place."

This was said to me right after my son took his life. And it was such an offhanded remark that I'm not sure that the person saying it gave it much thought. Of course, this was said in a church. But really, do we know that he is in a better place? Most of my life I've lived as a believer, but I've never been clear on where exactly the better places are. Most of all, when I am missing the presence of my son and want to talk to him--especially right after we lost him--this remark had the effect of casting my desire to see him as the most selfish of possible desires. My wanting my son alive was to wish him in a worse place. How dare I think such thoughts.

Final message? You have no basis to feel bad. Stop grieving.

"You have such wonderful memories of him to share and keep him with you."

While this statement actually cuts a little closer to the real absence that the grieving feel over the loss of a loved one, it raises other real questions. The first one I considered when this was said to me was this: What in my memories are so much better than having my real son still around? My memories are vague, subjective, open to change. Is it really true that they can replace or take the shape that our dead loved ones once assumed? C.S. Lewis once referred to this idea as idolatry. He imagined replacing his deceased wife Joy with all of his memories of her, which he would increasingly render as sentimental. But this idol he created wouldn't stand even a few seconds in the presence of the real presence of Joy, were she to suddenly appear to him.

Shortly after we lost my son, our older son made a case for us to remember his brother Michael in all of his flaws. He didn't want us to forget the real person. He wanted us to remember how he used to swear.

Behind the pain of those who grieve is the real loss of a person we would like to have back. And that is what we can't have. So we must simply go forward and keep living with loss until we have learned to live in loss. But it seems that the people who say the things they say don't understand that the loss is relational, that we miss a real person.

That is the problem with approaching the grieving with our pet theories and sayings. It's best to set these aside and just sit with them and listen. It is really easier with the grieving than it seems. They, we, don't want advice. We don't want to be brought to look on the bright side, to see the silver lining. For us, there is none of that. Cards and flowers are nice. Thoughts are nice. Prayers make a difference. But the friend who is not afraid to bring up the lost loved one and is not afraid to simply listen is a friend.

(The comments from C.S. Lewis are from his book A Grief Observed.)