Visiting the grave: reality sets in

Today in our Holy Week journey we find ourselves in that strange zone that grieving families experience when everyone has gone home after a funeral and somehow while their lives go on, we are left trying to make sense of what has just happened. It is a numbed place where the reality of the death of a loved one begins to set in. The pain that was somehow numbed by the funeral, the presence of loved ones, the cards, the sympathy now begins to wear off and the reality of the rest of our lives without the person we love begins. They are gone. We miss them.

A visit to a grave the day after a funeral is a sobering experience. Seeing the mound of clay clung like a mounded and body-shaped blanket over the place that yesterday was a hole into which our loved one was laid makes it so real that this is indeed reality. 'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes...'

This photograph is of my father's grave the day after his funeral: his birthday is today...

Today, Easter Eve, there is a strange 'nothingness' as we reflect on the enormity of what God has given to us by sharing the most painful experience of death to give us hope...

And so until tomorrow... we wait...

Almighty God,
your son through his death and burial
hallowed the grave.
Be with us as now we journey on in the hope of resurrection.
Be our companion and our guide.

May we live by faith, walk in hope and be renewed in love,
until the world reflects your glory
and you are all in all.Amen 
(adapted from the Book of Common Prayer,  ©RCB 2004)

The leaves of death: the carpet of grief

Today, watching once-green leaves now turned to russet fall from the trees with random carelessness and somehow form a carpet  on the ground I am reminded of the power of creation to point us to the reality of life and death. It is at this time of the year while children have been 'trick or treating' that many of us remember our loved ones who have died. This of course brings with it a perplexing sense of the pain of loss and absence as well as the very comforting sense of presence and connection. They are conjoined companions on the journey of grief.

Today, 2 November -commonly called 'All Souls'- in the Christian tradition many people will be attending services of remembrance in honour of someone close to them. At many services we will be reminded that "the souls of the faithful are in the hand of God" Wis 3:1 For some it will be to pray for them, for others it will be to ask for prayer, for others it will be to acknowledge that their loved one is now in God's hands and embrace, and for others there is a bewildering sense of not knowing what is happening or why they remember -a sense of hollowness where it is hard to know what or how to feel. Whatever our beliefs, what unites all humanity is the experience and pain of loss. Remembering together in community is a powerful experience that in itself provides a deep carpet of love, hope, support and care where there is space for the traditions and needs of all to be cherished and respected. 

Grief is an untidy journey. There is a temptation to try and package up our grief and tidy it away into some sort of ordered and controlled bookcase of emotion where we can take it out when we feel like it. Those who would try to tidy grief up have usually either never experienced loss or have run away from their grief. The reality though is that grief is an uncontrolled, untidy experience that rustles us often in the most unexpected ways and places. It can be like the whirling of a wind that scoops up scattered leaves and then creates a new carpet underfoot until the next gust appears. This carpet of grief becomes our comfort and path for the time being -however long that will be. Grief is a 'work in progress' that continues for as long as is necessary. 

Over these days as we think of our loved ones we think of our continuing sense of love and connection as well as marking the pain we feel because we miss them. Their voice, their smell, their physical presence, their companionship, even the things about them that irritated us. Grief can at times can make us feel a sense of loneliness like we have never experienced before. This is indeed the valley of the shadow of death Psalm 23:4 Only yesterday a family member told me that the 'shroud of loneliness fell off' when they attended a service of remembrance in the hospital where their mum had died. It was the very fact of being with so many others who were also grieving that they felt less alone.

As we tread on the leaves of loss let us tread gently because we tread on holy ground. These leaves, although dead, contain within them the marks of life and nourishment for the future. These leaves of death are for now, the carpet of grief.

Father of all, we pray to you for those we love, but see no longer. Grant them your peace, let light perpetual shine upon them, and in your loving wisdom and almighty power, work in them the good purpose of your perfect will; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen

Remembering Dad as light perfuses mist...

On this day, 10 June 2011 I gathered with my mum, siblings and our families around the bedside of my Dad as he journeyed through his final earthly hours. These final hours were spent in hospital. The evening before we were on a journey of interrupted recovery, still holding hope that he might recover, that treatment was still possible. However between the darkness hours of 01:00 and 03:30 it became painfully real to us that recovery in earthly terms was not possible. In hindsight I am only beginning to appreciate the depth and distance of that journey from one future to another. This was telescoped into a very short period of linear time and yet its consequence is for ever.

I have journeyed with so many families at a time such as this and yet only now do I realise what it is to be in that lonely place where we can be presented with options when in effect there are no real options. The only option is to be a companion with the one we love. The mists of life and death, of reality and disbelief come down like a thick fog veiling and numbing past, present and future. In this fog past, present and future become as one. We live in a misty 'now' and stay there for whatever length it takes. Somedays the fog lifts, and on others it descends again -often when least expected.

I am so grateful that our last two hours or so were spent loving my Dad form this world to the next in a tender and gentle way. Each of us played our part as we saw our worlds changing in front of us, in the presence of the one, who with our mum had supported us for all the years that had gone before. She of course misses his presence more than any of us. Now in a timeless metamorphosis everything was changing for each of us during those few hours, the impact of which will unfold for each of us in different ways in the time ahead. There in an Intensive Care Unit where the rising sun lit up my Dad's bedspace as its beams flooded through the fan-light above his bed. The sun rising above the Irish Sea just after 5am that Friday morning brought a hopeful radiance and strength into what was for those few hours our little world.

Today a year later I am pained to be away from my family, my mother, my brothers and sisters, my wife and children as they gather to honour my dad. In the quietness of a wildlife park in the Netherlands it is strangely apt to think of Dad as this place, like him is close to the rhythm of nature and the land. I will remember him and my family at the eucharist here.

So now a year later, a new journey is beginning with so much still to unfold. However the sunlight that filled Dad's bedspace that morning continues to pierce through the mist with light and hope, warmth and strength.




So while separated by distance I am delighted to post this photo from yesterday of my three youngest who play in the grass at home on the farm this weekend. It evokes so many memories of a treasured and carefree childhood on the land (coupled with very hard work too!)






The other is a special memory of dad accompanied by one of his grandchildren and a dog as he went about his work...

Grief

I shared in two public ceremonies of remembrance in the last week where bereaved families came to remember their loved one. In both cases the churches were full to capacity. The first was for those who are bereaved following the death of a baby or the loss of a pregnancy and the second was for those whose loved one died in the care of our local hospice services. In a very poignant way I had a deep sense at both events that I was treading -hopefully very softly- on sacred ground. The sacred ground of hopes, dreams and memories. I was for a short time treading very gently in the land of grief where our sensitivities are heightened and our rawness very bare. Grief is a strange land.

Remembering is at the very heart of the Christian tradition. We remember every time we gather for worship. We recall the saving, generous and loving acts of God in Jesus Christ. However, it is more than simply recalling in a nostalgic sense. Rather, it is about keeping alive the bond of love and connection across time and space. It is hard to adequately express in words -which are so conditioned and limited by time and space- just what this means. How do we convey what it is to be still connected, to still have communion with those 'we love but see no longer'?

At each service of remembrance there was a sense of collective and shared experience of loss, yet, we all grieve differently. There is something very powerful when we can gather together in this way acknowledging the experience that we share yet being able to have a time where each person can be with their own grief. At each service I think this happened.

At the end of the Service for those who were grieving the death of a baby or a pregnancy there was a profound experience where the staff of the hospital each lit candles and formed a ring of candlelight around the church with parents and families each holding their own candle. The lights went down and the music faded. In that silence we were treading in a land without the limits of time and space. It was a time of deep presence and supportive love.


In the second service for our local hospice I was struck by the number of young people there. A full church of families marking the death of a loved one. A service where once again we were in a space of memory and love. Each person there with their rich memories of love and pain. Stories which were shared afterwards with me through the tears and the knowing looks as I reconnected with families I had journey with earlier this year. Young people, parents, children, grandparents, spouses, partners. As a Christian the abiding sense I had during this service was of God coming alongside each person and holding them, embracing them and loving them as if they were the only person in the world. Personal and individual love in a collective setting. To remember in this way is profound and transcends religious and faith systems.

There was no easy way to escape the painful fact that we miss the one who has died. we miss their voice, their physical presence, their smells, their habits -even the ones that annoyed us, their company, their laughter, their playfulness, their support and so the losses can go on...

Death is painful and grief is hard. None of us will escape it so why do we find it so hard to talk about it? Why do we find it so hard to reach out to someone who is bereaved? Instead we don't know what to say, so we duck into a shop to buy something we don't need rather than stop to ask a grieving friend how they are. We are afraid they might cry, that they might get upset. Yet those tears are healing. Let's be real and have the courage to come alongside those who mourn. Words are not necessary, presence is everything.