grief

5 Years

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Five years.

Five years ago this morning, Dad took his last breath.

He should be here. He should know the weight of his granddaughter, the feel of her squirmy toddler body in his arms as he twirls her around the living room. He should occupy the other side of the dual recliner in the home we now call “Grandma’s House.” He should be here to celebrate new jobs, new homes, new adventures as his daughters and sons-in-law grow (and grow into) our careers and adult lives.

Damnit, he should be here.

Much of the time the pace of life, parenthood, and vocation keep me busy enough that I can set aside the hurt of it, the lingering rage of it…the way his miraculous recovery and life were stolen from us by systems that focus more on efficiency and cost-saving measures than the health and wholeness of the people in the beds. Much of the time I can compartmentalize, outrun, avoid, outmaneuver the grief.

But not on October 16th. Especially not when the last three October 16ths have been filled with funerals of their own — services of remembrance for three powerhouse women in the community that is Smithville First Christian Church. Without fail, after presiding over the memorials and burials of these church saints — after making space for their loved ones’ tears — I retreat to my office and it all falls apart.

The flimsy compartment walls fail. My shoelaces break and my heart becomes sluggish. No more outrunning it. All the grief and pain and rage of another year demands acknowledgement, and all I can do is feel it — this weight of three, then four, and now five years.

Five years without Dad.

Five years.

Bad Wine and Grief

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mg_1665This week I’ve been in Sedona, Arizona on a mini retreat with a group of clergy gals who have become a covenant group of sorts. We get together each month via video chat to check in with one another, and a couple times each year we get together in person at various locations around the country. It’s a life-giving arrangement.

Most all of our in-person gatherings center on locales that, while geographically diverse, share a crucial quality: they have wine. Good wine. By day we visit wineries for tasting flights, and our evenings are spent in conversation on breezy patios and porches with glasses of tasty reds and whites (though never Chardonnay).

For all the good wine and good conversation, there are also the tough spots. Sacred vulnerability opens doorways into painful stories and difficult questions — and sometimes we stumble upon bad wine.

Tuesday was one of those days. One tasting room in particular was filled with bad wines — wines that tasted of prune juice, that clung to the tongue in a thick coating of sickly sweet residue, tainting the next winery’s offerings with lingering aftertaste. And, along with that spectacularly awful wine, there was the grief.

I’d never been to Sedona prior to this trip, but my parents had.  They traveled here with my sister and her boyfriend a few years ago, back before Dad went into the hospital.  Back before everything changed.

Since Dad died, I’ve seen him around from time to time.  He’s shown up on the deck at the house in Neosho, looking out at the yard for a moment before disappearing.  He’s been there on the golf course, shaking his head at someone’s unfortunate slice, and he’s been in the living room at Grandma’s house, hunched over on the couch watching tv while a mess of children blow through the house.

For the most part, seeing him in those places hasn’t fazed me much.  They are places he always was, so it feels almost normal to catch glimpses of him there.  But this week, in Sedona, I’ve seen him everywhere — and it’s been brutal.

Maybe it has something to do with the desert.  The landscape of Arizona feels so much like El Paso, so perhaps I should have expected to be bombarded with memory here.  Maybe it is because of the trip they took here, and all the pictures that came out of that vacation.  Maybe it’s because of the flood of email advertisements in my inbox with subject lines declaring, “Your dad called — here’s what he wants for Father’s Day.” Whatever the reason, on Tuesday he was nearby all day long.  He walked a few tourists ahead as we climbed up to the Chapel on the Rocks, calves and arms as bronze as the surrounding rock formations.  He sat in the restaurant, a few tables over, as we ate dinner.  No matter where I turned, he was there.

Seeing him like that, ever present in a place I’ve never shared with him, ripped the lid off my grief. And so, like that terrible wine, it’s been there at the back of my throat, clinging and cloying.  Unrelenting, it changes the flavor of everything. Perfect sunsets, time spent with soul friends, hours of sleep that should be filled with peace: all carry the flavor of grief.

There’s nothing to be done except to feel it.  Perhaps time, like water or the scent of coffee beans, will cleanse my palate so that one day I can taste something else.  But for now, this is my truth: I miss him, and instead of getting better it has gotten worse.

Good friends won’t make this grief go away, but I know they are here with me in the midst of this, supporting me so I don’t break under the weight of missing him.  And, though they can’t protect me from the pain of loss, they do their best to make sure I don’t drink bad wine.  Sometimes that’s enough.

Celebration, Loss & Raccoons

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*Kraccckthwump!*

It sounded for all the world like a bookshelf or other piece of furniture had toppled and crashed to the floor.  I ran into the living room, looking for the mess – only to find that everything was fine.  Chuck went into the basement in search of the offending stack of boxes – but found nothing.  Again, all appeared to be well.

Then the scratching started.  And the screeching.  And the mewing.

Something in our house was alive and inside the wall.

We went through the process of alerting the landlord and leaving messages for the local animal control agencies, but it was after 5pm.  Everything was closed for the day.  Eventually, we popped in earplugs, finished out the evening and went to sleep.

In the morning, all was silent.  For a moment.  But then Chuck went down to the basement to check on some laundry and there they were:  three baby raccoons.

Somehow, those fuzzy wobbly creatures had managed to work their way through the wall and into the basement while we slept.  One part vicious, three parts precious, they wriggled and mewed around the basement with a certain urgency, never stopping to rest or take in their surroundings.

The kids were looking for mom.

As it turns out, mom was no longer in the picture.  More than likely, during our big rainstorm her den was flooded and she made the decision to move the kids to higher, dryer ground.  The gap in our chimney seemed perfect, so one by one she lugged each wriggling cub up a tree, across the roof and up the chimney, stuffing them away where they would be safe.  After that, she left and, likely hit by a car, did not return.  The kids were on their own.  Not understanding, they began to search for her and, in their searching, they fell down a gap into our wall, ultimately winding up in our basement, hungry and alone.

——–

All week my heart has ached for those little raccoons.  Perhaps it’s because a dear friend recently lost her mother, or perhaps it’s because the hype of Mother’s Day always reminds me of all the people who grieve for mothers lost, mothers absent or neglectful, children gone or children never had.  Perhaps it’s all of that and more.  One way or the other, the thought of cubs lost in a dark and unknown place, thirsting for one who will not return…well, the thought destroys me.

It also convicts me.

So often, dear Church, we do a poor job of remembering these losses when this holiday rolls around.   We give out carnations or daisies to the moms in worship and, if we’re really sensitive and enlightened, we also present flowers to every sister, daughter, aunt and friend in the place.  No one is left out, except for the grief.

In the midst of our celebration, and our fear of truly acknowledging the ugly in the world while inside our safe sanctuaries, we sometimes miss the opportunity to name that unnamed guest in our midst: Loss.

The women taken in childbirth, lost to violence or addiction or mental illness, killed by car wrecks or cancer or other disease.  The children lost to SIDS, birth defects, illness or miscarriage.  The abortions.  The empty cradles caused by infertility.  All of these losses and more will be present in the pews this Sunday, silent specters whispering despair in the pauses between prayer and song.

And if we recognize them, if we name them gently and frankly within the space we’ve carved out for worship, it is holy.  There is no diminishing of our celebration and joy when we acknowledge those who have come before us and those who will not follow us.  Instead, having named that ghostly grief, we give it flesh – and the dry bones of those we loved and lost (or never had) can get up and dance, if only for a moment.

We are a resurrection people.  At our best, we know that death and loss and despair do not have the final word – but instead, there is hope for new life and reunion and joy within the Kin-dom of God.  But in order for resurrection to be possible, we must acknowledge death.  In order for joy to be made real, we must acknowledge despair and grief.   We must name them instead of avoiding them – even when it is frightening or unsettling to do so.

Avoidance and hope are poor dance partners.  They simply can’t sync up, moving to two entirely different beats.  So, as we compose and orchestrate our worship for this Mother’s Day, let’s not invite avoidance to the party.  We don’t have to be disingenuous or go overboard with our lamentations – but we do need to save some space for those we have lost.

In so doing, our celebration is not diminished but broadened because we honor the lives and gifts of women in all places and all times: mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, grandmothers, friends…and maybe even raccoons.