What do I miss most and the unpredictability of grief.

The question came to me from two sources this past week, gentle sources, from people who have lost children.  I found myself at a loss for words. My first response was everything, I miss everything. But as I read more on the question, we were encouraged to name what we missed most. How do you sort through 25 years of life and narrow down to one thing?  I pondered the question and the enormity of how much our daily lives were changed by Justin’s death struck me. I turned to Doug and said to him that I don’t think people realize how much of our lives was ripped away that day, part of our connectivity to the world, Justin brought a richness to all our lives. Let me try to unravel what I mean. Imagine a huge pair of shears cutting away threads that connected you to people, places, and experiences. And those shears cut so close that where once was a tapestry of color and textures, there is naught but loose strings left on your side, and ragged edges.  As you sort through the threads, the recognition of what each thread once connected you to brings its own mourning. Where does one go with that thread? Some are to be knotted and tied off, some perhaps can be woven back in, some days all the threads are black and tangled and you don’t know where to start. Grief is work, hard work, in a way it becomes a life work, one will always need to keep smoothing the fabric and working those threads.  Time, grief takes time. The work that is done in this moment is the most important thing we have to do.

Threads, a tangled mess, the unpredictability of where a “thread” will take you.  I was still turning the question over of what I miss the most and the memory of that mop of dark, shaggy curls hanging over the couch as he read and not being able to pass him without touching those curls took shape in my mind. This is where the unpredictability enters in, the thread changes color and direction.  You find you are on the thread of whether you will view the body and being plagued 15 months later by doubts and wishing I had asked for at least a lock of his curls.  I remember the funeral director telling me that he had carefully washed Justin’s hair over and over to get rid of all the silt and dirt, how important that was for me to know that some one had cared enough to wash that beloved mop.  And wishing I had held his body, then telling yourself he was pumped full of embalming fluid, we didn’t have a choice about embalming, they won’t fly a body without embalming, he would have been cold and stiff, not warm and pliable.  And once you are there in your thought process, your arms grieve for that which they cannot hold, your body aches for scent of your child.  More knots, more threads, more pretzels for the nausea that has returned.

All of the above is not “losing ground,” or “back sliding in our process,” or “not doing well,” …do you need me to continue with all the labels and pronouncements levied on grieving parents?…the above is what moving forward looks like, its when you don’t follow the threads that you stay in one place, moving forward is exhausting work.

I think back to classes we had taken on Franciscan Spirituality, wonderful evenings spent at the Shrine of St. Anthony with a wise friar dear to our family, we journeyed for nine months together…from September through May….from having a fire in the fireplace in the beautiful library, to having windows open and listening to spring peepers.  One evening Father taught on the purgative, illuminative and unitive journey to God and how that integrates in Franciscan spirituality. Carmel has the castle or mansion and different levels, but Father used the image of a circular stairway. I remember the academic in me wanting to furiously copy down everything that was taught, and having something resonate so deeply that I just stopped writing and was still and listened. When you think about it, Scripture does not tell us that when Mary sat at Jesus’ feet in Bethany that she had her notebook out taking notes, we are told that she was present, listening…being not doing. Father brought out a poster of a circular stairway and had the three ways parallel…not straight across, not chronological, but vertically…so that as you traversed your way to God on the stairway, you passed through all stages…as you wind your way closer there is more unitive…less purgative, less darkness…more light…but still a sliver of darkness.  The illuminative and purgative experiences of our lives is not exclusive of the unitive.  Father could have taught all night and I would have happily sat there by the fire and listened.  It is the circular stairway that gives me courage, the work of grief is not falling down the stairs, it is black and inky and can feel like falling, but it  is in reality climbing higher. Our sensory perceptions of our soul cannot be trusted at times, we must trust our Heavenly Father and abandon our soul to His Divine Providence, He knows His work, He knows what our soul needs.

I have also learned that each day, each hour will bring a different “what I miss the most” and that it is important to follow that thread, where ever it may wander, to acknowledge those things will help us take steps up the staircase.  I can almost see that most beloved face leaning over the top of the staircase, smiling, loving us still, calling us to climb higher.