On Grieving

My head pounded by this afternoon.  It turns out you can have headaches from grieving.  Not even the deeply personal grief like the loss of a spouse or child, but the empathetic grief where you mourn as a community.

This morning, we attended the funeral of the baby’s kindergarten best friend’s father.  All the kids played with sweet Ethan last year in class and on the baseball field and at birthday parties.  We found out last week his precious daddy was suddenly killed in a car accident.  It was all I could think about last week.  And then this morning, the funeral.  The service was delayed so this wonderful man, who my husband coached our boys little league team with, could donate his organs.  Giving life even in death.

The reality is I rarely cry in front of my children.  I actually cry less overall now.

It struck me this spring after my gallbladder surgery.  I was in so much pain that I stopped, while walking circles around the house leaning on Bray, and broke down in tears.  The kids were shocked and surprised because they didn’t know what to make of it.  They just don’t see their parents cry much.

Why?

If we want our kids to process grief and pain in a healthy way, then shouldn’t they see us cry?

Yet there I sat, on the edge of each of their beds last week, telling them of Coach Ivan’s death, choking back the tears which probably should have come.  I asked if they had questions.  They did.  We talked about death and God and our faith and how we love others who are hurting.

The baby asked if he could attend the funeral.  “Mom,” he pleaded, “my best friend’s dad died.  I have to go.”  So I agreed.  The other two asked to attend as well.  Bray and I talked about it and both wanted the kids to have attended funerals before they lost a close family member. We wanted them to see grief.

So why have I as a mother, maybe all of us as parents, tried to shield my kids from seeing grief?  We try everything we can to keep them from feeling pain, from knowing loss, from knowing what it means to be undone.

Yet some of the moments which have shaped me the most came from times of great sadness or upheaval.  If we shield our kids from loss, how will they grow empathy and compassion and a capability to hold another person up?

So everyone dressed up and filed into the quiet church, filled to overflowing with a community who loved Coach Ivan or his wife or his boys or his parents. We waited in line.  No one spoke.  And everyone in the church fell apart, including me, when his sister talked about his life.  The kids watched me, instead of her, still processing what it means to see their parent grieve.

Kids need to see their parents capable of grief.  Kids need to learn empathy.  There’s no other way to learn it than by holding another person’s hand and walking next to them.

And that’s what they had the chance to do.

The baby kept asking, “Where’s Ethan? I want to see Ethan.”  Of course, this brave 1st grader was next to his mom in the front row and then walking behind the casket on the way out.  By the time we stepped outside, Ethan was safely inside the limo with his mom preparing to go to the cemetery.

We stood making small talk with our dear friend, the priest’s wife, and her boy who was part of last year’s kindergarten crew.  She told the three boys Ethan was in the limo and they could wave so he would know they came.

The boys looked toward the tinted windows of the long black car when the door opened and out ran Ethan into the arms of his three friends.  These boys who did soccer and baseball together under the guidance and encouragement of this small one’s precious daddy stood silently in a closed circle, arm over shoulder over arm over shoulder.

They unlocked and he ran back to the car.  Not one word was spoken but they saw grief and showed compassion.

We’re so scared of loss and pain and hurting.  We pray we don’t have to experience it.  But I pray we are more willing to show our kids our sadness.  That we let them see loss.  And that we teach them, like David and Jonathan, to love our friends deeply and hold each other up in the hard times.

O my dear brother Jonathan,
I’m crushed by your death.
Your friendship was a miracle-wonder,
love far exceeding anything I’ve known—
or ever hope to know. 2 Sam 18

{The first in a series of essays On Living…}