understanding grief

At church this past Sunday, somewhere amidst my incessant rambling about what I need to change in my life (and trying to discern the deceptions from the voice of the Spirit), my friend Michael suggested that perhaps I had not finished grieving. I gave him my attention, primarily because it is not my nature to disregard a brother with a genuine concern for my heart.

But I didn't want him to be right. And if he was -- if grieving had not yet run its full course, how much more could be demanded of me? All I want is to be whole and useful for His purposes, and grief seems so debilitating.

Grief reminds me of the frustrating way in which my dad utilized "grounding" when I was a child. Whenever my behavior warranted being grounded (usually because I underachieved in school), my dad would indistinctly suggest that I "don't plan on doing anything for a while." Without an explicit length for my sentence, I was left subject to his highly unpredictable whims. As soon as I would muster the courage to make plans, he would ask, "Aren't you grounded?" I don't know dad; I just don't know!

Similarly, I believe I would be more submissive to the process of grief if I could be assured that it would end. Often, when we have taken the time to convince ourselves that we are past our grief, it manifests itself in the least opportune moment, as if to ask, "Aren't you still grieving?"

So why bother? Grief is always associated with loss, and we cannot make a purely cognitive evaluation of the relationship to determine when we should no longer feel loss. For example, we can come to terms with the conditions that bring about the loss of a relationship (whether by death, separation, or drifting apart), but understanding the reason for the loss and coping with the feelings associated with loss are two different things. Grief is such a deeply emotional response that our attempts to standardize the process fail us, as much as we all try.

In general, I think we are worse at coping with loss in the 21st century. Dwelling in the pain of loss is in direct contradiction with our generation's value of happiness. The common requests, "Can we not talk about that?" or "Can you think about something else?" preserves us from unnecessary pain, thus grief has been identified as a weakness in need of avoidance.

I'm a music guy -- a pop culture historian, if you will. I can't help but notice the shift in today's music content. For decades, the most influential (and highest charting) songs were written about heartache. If you don't believe me, do the research. It is only in the past ten years that the best of pop music has prominently asked us to feel good through it all: to dance, party, make love, be merry, and forget about our problems. God bless Taylor Swift's untalented heart (perhaps country music in general?) for communicating the pain of real grief, but when we listen to a top 40 station, our minds are primarily relegated to the feel-good anthems of Katy Perry, Jason Mraz, and Miley Cyrus. Are these the lives that we aim to emulate? Our teenagers already do -- without question.

So why is this important? I believe that how we respond to pain and loss indicate a measure of our character and our emotional health. Yes, it is easy for me to enjoy the pursuit of happiness when all is well. I think Solomon recommends this much; with all the pain that we are due to suffer, let us accept and appreciate the moments of pure joy. But to suffer so much unsatisfied grief in this world, and to continually push it away, leads us further from His truth.

I know this, because it is soooooooo tempting. When I felt the pain of loss, my first instincts were to swallow it with alcohol and pornography. I am given a distinct choice: to hurt or to self-destruct. In pursuing happiness, most of us choose self-destruction one decision at a time; when we finally arrive at an unfamiliar place, we have no idea how we got so far, but we suddenly feel damaged and unrestorable. And according to old adage, the only way to "cure" a hangover is to keep drinking.

I have to begin to distinguish the loss from the cause. Yes, I can reason through "truths" of why things unraveled in a relationship with a beautiful woman of God -- maybe I was too scarred, or she wasn't ready; it is likely a million other possibilities in between. But understanding facts does not satisfy my grief. Rather, I have to be willing to grieve the elements that contribute to the existence of loss. My heart is appropriately stirred by the reminder of late-night phone calls, words of affirmation, and personal gifts. It is suitable to be moved when one individual consumed my thoughts for a couple months, and I consumed hers. If these things were good (and they were), I should miss them. It should feel as if a beautiful piece of my life is missing.

This said, I look forward to moving past my grief. I look forward to having my loss filled in an appropriate manner, by something else of worth. This is all subject to the grace of God.

This reminds me of the wonderful couple that taught my Sunday School class when I was in college. While I would not compare my loss with anything so deep, they lost a son (my age) in a car accident, while we were in high school. I can't imagine the amount of pain that this would create -- the level of loss that would be felt. Psychologists say that there is no greater loss than that of a child. I remember the way in which they served as shepherds to those of us away at Bethel; I gained so much from the love that they gave. But inevitably, that love was as much about them as it was about us; admittedly, this was how they remembered their son, and their grief was satisfied through serving his peers in need. In a way, their grief revealed something about their heart and their faith.

Nearly nine years ago, I was given a present by the first girl that I loved. It was nothing costly; she gathered some pipe cleaners and a small flower pot, and she made me a bouquet. On each of the stems were little slips of paper, each of them with an affirming word: "You are amazing just the way you are," "You spur on my faith," "You make me smile," and the like. After she broke off the relationship, I immediately threw the bouquet in the trash, unaware that my loving mom would remove it behind me. I returned home after a summer away and saw it sitting on the shelf. I got a little choked up, and my mom said something to the effect of, "I just thought you'd want to remember that these things are true."

I am sure that such a moment will bring me to the end of my grief. Until then, bear with me.