The remarkable C.S. Lewis, chronicling the loss of his wife in his acclaimed book “A Grief Observed,” pulled no punches in describing the stinging loss and bewildering doubt associated with that time. Here was perhaps the greatest Christian apologist of the 20th century angry with God and spiritually despondent at the prospect of living without his beloved wife Joy.
One of the most heartbreaking insights Lewis shared was the fact that not only did he have to live with his grief, he also had the assurance that he would be living with it tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. It was not only a grief observed, it was also, each new day, a grief resumed.
That whole dynamic is a variation of what happens to so many of us during the holidays. Some version of the grief we have endured either in recent times or even in times long gone, comes back in the seasonal rush, the department store sales, the TV snowflakes and the sometimes arbitrary expectations of joy. And our rampant and obsessive consumerism doesn’t help; it becomes little more than an inefficient distraction.
In the years I have attended the grieving process, participated in grief seminars, written books on the subject and sat at the deathbeds of people I love, one of the most important things I have learned about living with the loss of someone dear is that each and every manifestation of grief is entirely individual, not subject to anyone’s notion of “stages” or “phases” or other prescriptive blueprints. Our grief is our own. Any one of us may exhibit responses common to others who are grieving, but for each of us the experience as a whole is absolutely singular.
Another thing I’ve learned is that we are creatures naturally given to remembrance, and that the act of remembering can be as sacred an act as there is. As Catholics, in the very center of our worship, the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, we embrace an act of remembrance. We don’t fully understand it, but we participate in the sensate choreography of a remembered and found again miracle; we enter the Mystery of Christ’s Presence. The philosopher Gabriel Marcel said, “Life is not a problem to be solved but a mystery to be lived.” In our grief we live in remembrance, as Christ asks us to do in every Mass. We live in the sacred mystery of our memories.
The holidays (holy days) are upon us and when it comes to our grief, each person may have to find his or her own path through the sometimes unpredictable maze. Along the way, however, it is important to recognize that grief is a normal, natural human response to loss. Memorializing or remembering – such as taking flowers to a grave, offering Masses, praying together with other family or friends for the repose of a loved one’s soul, establishing a charitable fund in a loved one’s name, or any number of other memorial gestures, including giving gifts that may recall the life of our loved one – can help us in the healing process.
One grief counselor recently wrote that he disliked the word “closure” in that we sometimes suffer the illusion that we can grieve for a period of time and then put away our memories, fears, hurt, anger and loneliness – putting them away in cubbyholes as if they never existed. I have learned that grief doesn’t work that way. I have learned that grief never expressed in any way can become a dark, perhaps even volatile part of us. And I have learned that our grief is always assimilated in some form or fashion. Our losses do become a part of us, and, if expressed in any of a hundred different healthy ways, they can become a beautiful part of who we are, infused with the character of the love one who has passed.
As for the holidays, this year it might be time to decide just how much of the chaos generated by commercial aspects of the season we want to be a part of. It might be the year to keep it as simple as we can and let ourselves feel the gratitude and the blessings of Thanksgiving, knowing full well that there is an absence at our table of plenty. It might be the year to try to ease up on some of our seasonal obligations and take time to come close to love the Christ Child as never before, to live in His mystery, to imagine the tender care of Joseph and Mary permeating the air in that rough-hewn cave and making its way to our own hearts. It might be the year to take a little closer look at the loved ones around us who could be saying all the wrong things, like, “He’s in a better place,” or “I know how you feel” or “Don’t cry,” or “Just keep busy.” But they are well intentioned and we know they do love us.
The intensity of our pain will lessen but our suffering lingers. It is, in fact, evidence of a love greater than loneliness, a love greater and livelier and more potent than death itself. In the holidays our grief is often resumed because we remember that very love. Our experience of it does not die, but it does change. For the present, the great and sacred mystery of the love we have shared lives most sweetly in our encounters with others and that love does, most assuredly, define us. And so it is that in the depth of our wounds that we find our capacity to continue to love: a grief observed… a life resumed.
Fred Gallagher is an author and editor-in-chief with Gastonia-based Good Will Publishers Inc.