I Refuse to Relinquish My Loss

 My experience with the collards told me that I have a long way to go with my grief.  Just when I thought I was doing fairly well, I was rudely sent back to square one.  I knew I had a few books in my library on grief, and the next day I found them.

 

One was a little book by Hardy Clemmons titled: “Saying Goodbye to Your Grief.”  I scanned it to see if it would help.  I quickly determined that it would not. 

 

Hardy’s book (and I have a signed copy and I really like Hardy) is too simple, too easy, too neat . . . grief is complicated; it’s hard and messy.  

Hardy said that as soon as you accept, grieve, and relinquish your loss, you are on the way to a new life.  

 

Here is what I have to say about that . . . 

 

I have no trouble accepting my loss.  I have said many times that God was merciful. Joyce’s death was in many ways a blessing.  She had no quality of life and we knew she would only get worse, not better.  When death came I told her, “Honey, you don’t have dementia anymore.”  She was healed.  She was whole.  She was fulfilled in every way.  

 

But knowing all of that does not diminish my grief.  I lost my wife of 48 years.  My best friend, my companion, my partner in ministry and in life was gone.  

“As soon as I grieve?”   I have been grieving for a long time, even before she breathed her last.  In many ways, I lost Joyce a long time ago.  Grief has been long and complicated by dementia.  Yes Hardy, my grief is real.

 

But then Hardy said that I must “relinquish my loss.”  This is where I have a problem.

 

We are not good in knowing what to say at a time of death.  I have often told people that sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all.  There are times when a hug is all that is needed.  But people feel the need to say something.

 

People often say that they are praying that the void can be filled, but that is just wrong. The void that I feel represents Joyce.  I don’t want anything to fill it, to replace it.  I want it to remain.  No one, nothing, can take her place.

 

People often say something along the lines of praying that one can find peace in the midst of grief.  But death is incompatible with peace.  Death is the enemy of peace.

 

Years ago, when I was on the Rescue Squad, we responded to an emergency call one day.  A man who seemed to be in good health had suddenly collapsed.  We quickly determined that he was not breathing and we started CPR.  We tried everything but we could not save him.  When I told his wife that he was gone, she responded very stoically, “I’m at peace because I know he is with the Lord.”

 

I know that Joyce is also with the Lord, but I am not at peace.  My life has been shattered, my whole world has been turned upside down.  I really don’t think the lady who lost her husband to a sudden heart attack was at peace either.  She said what she thought she was supposed to say, but in the midst of death, there can be no peace.  

 

One does not have to find peace to continue with life.  I know that my life will be very different, it will never be the same as it was before.  I have been wounded by death and I will allow that wound to stay open, because it will make me a better person, a better minister, a better friend.  

 

I have often said that working in a funeral home in college and seminary made me a better minister.  I was working with people who were experiencing the grief of losing a dear loved one. I learned what to do, how to respond, what to say . . . but maybe more importantly, I learned not what to do and what should not be said.  

 

When I worked at the funeral home I could sympathize with people who were grieving, but I could not understand what they were going through . . . I could not empathize with them.  

 

Now I know what it is to grieve.  Now I understand. When I would speak to grieving families before, I said what I had been trained to say.  I knew the right words.  But now I can speak from experience, I can speak from my heart.  My loss has bonded me to all who mourn. 

I will not relinquish my loss for that loss has redefined me.  I am now a wounded healer who is much better equipped to walk beside those who are also wounded.  

 

I refuse to relinquish my loss, for to do so is to separate myself from my wife who was my soulmate, my companion, my best friend.  I will never let her go.  And that is okay . . . . I can carry her with me into a new life.