About Grief

It's midnight, and I'm wide awake. I'm not sure why, really. I've been awake since before sunrise to work on a couple of different projects. I should be tired, but I'm not.

Instead, I'm thinking about grief.

A big chunk of my day was spent sorting through some old photos, scanning and editing pictures, and putting together a display for my mom's memorial service on Saturday. I think the final result is really nice. As much as my mom hated having her picture taken (and would probably hate the idea of a bunch of her photos on display... sorry, mom), I think it captures her personality at different ages of her life's journey.

One thing's for certain: looking at all those pictures of my mom has left my head and heart spinning. I still feel like I should be able to pick up the phone and talk to mom. I look at a familiar picture -- one that I see everyday in our upstairs hallway -- and nothing seems different. Then I remind myself that she's not there to call... and never will be. My mind almost brushes the reality of the utter finality of it all, and I start to feel this emotional tightening in my chest. But the feelings sort of stay there all bottled inside. It's not that I'm holding back the tears or anything; they just haven't broken through the sort of "productive" mode we've been in this past week.

As a pastor, I've had the opportunity to share the grief of many families over the years. I know some pastors who try to remain somewhat distant from the emotions so they can be clear-headed and helpful to families. I've always tried to connect with the grief and step into the survivor's shoes as much as possible. Yet, despite my efforts, my emotions will only go so far because I know that I have to be a stable support and ready to guide memorial proceedings. It almost feels like I'm in that mode now, even though I've given myself permission to grieve freely.

Sometimes, when meeting with a grieving family to share memories or when leading funeral and graveside services, I find myself feeling this same kind of stifled empathy and emotions. My heart really aches with the loved ones, but there's a barrier that holds back my own emotions at some point. Yet when it's all over -- when I have a moment to myself and am not needed by someone else -- the emotions finally spill over. I remember that first happening with the funeral of Mrs. Foley back in Nebraska. Such a sweet woman, and I was so fond of her husband's courage and wisdom. After concluding her graveside services and lingering to bid mourners farewell, I returned to my car and just sat for a moment. I was surprised as the tears began to flow and I felt the sense of loss Cliff was experiencing. I just sat there and sobbed. And I've had a similar experience with most memorials I've officiated.

Perhaps that's just normal for me -- holding back until all the ceremonies are done and releasing my grief in private. Now that I think about it, there have only been a few times when I've experienced the emotions of grief immediately -- the shock of tragic news for young parents, the impact of a masterfully emotional story, the sadness of what I saw unfold in our final months in Arizona, the overwhelming and contagious experience of being with a group of people whose emotions are overflowing. But normally my tears wait... and that unintentional delay feels really uncomfortable.

There's this huge part of me that just wants to talk to my mom and say goodbye. But for now I'm just going day to day with a tightness in my chest and lump in my throat.

Tomorrow will be a busier day than anything we've had this week, and Saturday will be busier still. Friends and families are arriving from out of town. The memorial service is Saturday morning, followed by lunch provided by my parents' church. Then it will be saying goodbye to my dad, my brother, my aunts, uncles, and cousins that I haven't seen in years. We'll come home, pack up the van, and start making our way back to Virginia on Sunday morning.

Yet even though we're returning to "life as normal," it won't be quite the same. There's something missing in the world now, and that makes me very sad.