John, your post touched my heart. In in my 80s now, I've had a taste of grief: my parents, many treasured friends, a beloved niece. As a pastor for half my life, I often tried to "use words" - it took years for me to realize that the most important gifts were not words, but *presence* - accompaniment, attentiveness, compassion.
I was in prison when my wife of 50 years wrote me to say she wanted a divorce. Having ministered among folks impacted by divorce, I came to see that divorce is like death, like bereavement, only without the dignity. I felt like I'd been hit by a locomotive. I went to the prison psychologist, a freshly-minted Ph.D. who looked at me from behind his massive desk and delivered his platitudes. I returned to my cell, dejected.
When it was permitted, I went to a neighboring cell to see Melody, whose incarceration was especially complicated. Transgender, coping with all the terrors of being in a men's prison. An MS patient who was walking when I first met her, but who was now barely able to sit in a wheelchair. An atheist. And a Trump supporter. (Go figure on that one!) We'd had, um, many "frank exchanges of views." When she came out to me before her transition (remarkably, the Federal Bureau of Prisons offered gender-affirming care, including hormone treatment), she said I was the first person she told; I was honored that she trusted me.
Now, I needed somebody. The visit with the psychologist had been disappointing, and I didn't even try to confide in the prison chaplain, whose version of Christianity seemed to embody nothing that I see in Jesus. I had other friends among the inmates, but I went to Melody. I sat on her bed, weeping. She sat in her wheelchair.
I don't remember anything she said. I'm not sure she spoke at all. She didn't try to fix me. She reached over and touched me on the knee. And in that simple, gentle, touch, I felt a current of kindness, a reassuring human connection, a comfort that was deeper than any words could convey.
Today, my heart bleeds. It bleeds for all those who suffer under the weight of hate: Conservative, Republican, MAGA, Nationalist, the Haters, the Cheap, the Stingy, the Fearful, the Warmongers, the Rebellious, the deniers, and all those who do not want to leash their large angry dogs. For souls who inflict pain and for souls who bear the infliction, my heart bleeds.
And simultaneously I grieve for TRUTH, watching the arrogance, the utter disrespect, the disregard, the insults, and attempted assassinations soulless, loveless ideology inflicts. Using words, both spoken and projected to gaslight, to spin, having one and only one intent, to ultimately dismantle authentic REALITY. To trample, shun, and shame its very existence. To crush. To kill. To crucify the sanctity of all that IS, desperate to replace IT with all that is not.
Yes, today, hate, masquerading as love, flying flags and waving banners, “Make America Great Again,” brings tears to my soul. How could humans be so ignorant, so blind, so determined to deliver hate to themselves and others?
What I found most helpful in dealing with my husband’s death after a few horrible months of a failed stem cell transplant was to talk it out and not hold it in. I joined a group of people who had also lost loved ones, and every week we just talked. I held nothing back—anger, sadness, regret, bewilderment, you name it. I needed this because I don’t have family to support me. Friends of mine who don’t live close made me leave my house for a few days so I could be with them and do and say whatever I needed, and they helped me so much. My work gave me plenty of time off to deal with all arrangements and paperwork that comes with death. I also got out of the house and got lots of exercise bike riding and taking in the world around me. I went to the cemetery regularly, and I talked to my husband there. I still talk about him, even if it makes other people uncomfortable some times. I realize that even though he is not physically present, he helped me be who I am today, and that part of him will never leave. Also, I became a better listener to other people and their problems, not only grief, but everything else that gives us pain. I started writing, and I still write poetry. On the first anniversary of my husband’s death, I went to the cemetery for a visit, where I sang and played my flute, not caring if anybody heard. I also called or texted everyone who had helped me in the last year and made that a day of thankfulness. I would encourage anyone who is grieving to talk it out, and if you don’t have a whole lot of friends, find a group or a counselor to help you sort out your feelings. Grief comes in waves, and learning how to swim will help you survive!
My parents died five months apart and, looking back, they're one memory.
I shall be forever grateful to the friends who hugged and listened or sat quietly with me, as well as my colleagues who stepped in without being asked. Twice.
They created safe space for my grief with their thoughtful kindness. Twice.
My advice - keep it simple because our destiny is to be a remembrance and allowing another the space to find joy in their unfathomable grief is the paradox of love.
I have two close friends whose adult children have died suddenly. The most important thing is to be available to listen and to continue to remind them that you are available. You are correct that words are not very helpful. There is always an initial outpouring of sympathy and then most move on, but the grief persists. I make a conscious effort to periodically check in, and to particularly acknowledge the birthdays and death anniversaries.
If only work cultures too would understand. Two paid leave days for bereavement or take vacation time. Then return to work as if all were fine and that each hour can be so tough. One day a time of respect for grief and those grieving will prevail. Or so I hope.
I’m 78 and I’m grieving for the loss of my husband of 58 years. It’s been 10 months. Friends say call me if you need me. Why is it so difficult to call??
Ten years ago, today my father died. Our relationship growing up was complicated, but I always knew he loved me. Spirits speak to us too John, so in a dream this morning my father smiled at me tenderly. All is forgiven, all is well...everything shall be well. Wishing you John many smiles and tender knowing nods from your father. He must be so proud of you.
Yes!! Every person grieves in their own way and TIME. There is no ‘wrong’ way or time limit. I wish as a society we would be more accepting of others’ grieving.
John, your post touched my heart. In in my 80s now, I've had a taste of grief: my parents, many treasured friends, a beloved niece. As a pastor for half my life, I often tried to "use words" - it took years for me to realize that the most important gifts were not words, but *presence* - accompaniment, attentiveness, compassion.
I was in prison when my wife of 50 years wrote me to say she wanted a divorce. Having ministered among folks impacted by divorce, I came to see that divorce is like death, like bereavement, only without the dignity. I felt like I'd been hit by a locomotive. I went to the prison psychologist, a freshly-minted Ph.D. who looked at me from behind his massive desk and delivered his platitudes. I returned to my cell, dejected.
When it was permitted, I went to a neighboring cell to see Melody, whose incarceration was especially complicated. Transgender, coping with all the terrors of being in a men's prison. An MS patient who was walking when I first met her, but who was now barely able to sit in a wheelchair. An atheist. And a Trump supporter. (Go figure on that one!) We'd had, um, many "frank exchanges of views." When she came out to me before her transition (remarkably, the Federal Bureau of Prisons offered gender-affirming care, including hormone treatment), she said I was the first person she told; I was honored that she trusted me.
Now, I needed somebody. The visit with the psychologist had been disappointing, and I didn't even try to confide in the prison chaplain, whose version of Christianity seemed to embody nothing that I see in Jesus. I had other friends among the inmates, but I went to Melody. I sat on her bed, weeping. She sat in her wheelchair.
I don't remember anything she said. I'm not sure she spoke at all. She didn't try to fix me. She reached over and touched me on the knee. And in that simple, gentle, touch, I felt a current of kindness, a reassuring human connection, a comfort that was deeper than any words could convey.
Today, my heart bleeds. It bleeds for all those who suffer under the weight of hate: Conservative, Republican, MAGA, Nationalist, the Haters, the Cheap, the Stingy, the Fearful, the Warmongers, the Rebellious, the deniers, and all those who do not want to leash their large angry dogs. For souls who inflict pain and for souls who bear the infliction, my heart bleeds.
And simultaneously I grieve for TRUTH, watching the arrogance, the utter disrespect, the disregard, the insults, and attempted assassinations soulless, loveless ideology inflicts. Using words, both spoken and projected to gaslight, to spin, having one and only one intent, to ultimately dismantle authentic REALITY. To trample, shun, and shame its very existence. To crush. To kill. To crucify the sanctity of all that IS, desperate to replace IT with all that is not.
Yes, today, hate, masquerading as love, flying flags and waving banners, “Make America Great Again,” brings tears to my soul. How could humans be so ignorant, so blind, so determined to deliver hate to themselves and others?
What I found most helpful in dealing with my husband’s death after a few horrible months of a failed stem cell transplant was to talk it out and not hold it in. I joined a group of people who had also lost loved ones, and every week we just talked. I held nothing back—anger, sadness, regret, bewilderment, you name it. I needed this because I don’t have family to support me. Friends of mine who don’t live close made me leave my house for a few days so I could be with them and do and say whatever I needed, and they helped me so much. My work gave me plenty of time off to deal with all arrangements and paperwork that comes with death. I also got out of the house and got lots of exercise bike riding and taking in the world around me. I went to the cemetery regularly, and I talked to my husband there. I still talk about him, even if it makes other people uncomfortable some times. I realize that even though he is not physically present, he helped me be who I am today, and that part of him will never leave. Also, I became a better listener to other people and their problems, not only grief, but everything else that gives us pain. I started writing, and I still write poetry. On the first anniversary of my husband’s death, I went to the cemetery for a visit, where I sang and played my flute, not caring if anybody heard. I also called or texted everyone who had helped me in the last year and made that a day of thankfulness. I would encourage anyone who is grieving to talk it out, and if you don’t have a whole lot of friends, find a group or a counselor to help you sort out your feelings. Grief comes in waves, and learning how to swim will help you survive!
My parents died five months apart and, looking back, they're one memory.
I shall be forever grateful to the friends who hugged and listened or sat quietly with me, as well as my colleagues who stepped in without being asked. Twice.
They created safe space for my grief with their thoughtful kindness. Twice.
My advice - keep it simple because our destiny is to be a remembrance and allowing another the space to find joy in their unfathomable grief is the paradox of love.
I have two close friends whose adult children have died suddenly. The most important thing is to be available to listen and to continue to remind them that you are available. You are correct that words are not very helpful. There is always an initial outpouring of sympathy and then most move on, but the grief persists. I make a conscious effort to periodically check in, and to particularly acknowledge the birthdays and death anniversaries.
If only work cultures too would understand. Two paid leave days for bereavement or take vacation time. Then return to work as if all were fine and that each hour can be so tough. One day a time of respect for grief and those grieving will prevail. Or so I hope.
I’m 78 and I’m grieving for the loss of my husband of 58 years. It’s been 10 months. Friends say call me if you need me. Why is it so difficult to call??
Ten years ago, today my father died. Our relationship growing up was complicated, but I always knew he loved me. Spirits speak to us too John, so in a dream this morning my father smiled at me tenderly. All is forgiven, all is well...everything shall be well. Wishing you John many smiles and tender knowing nods from your father. He must be so proud of you.
Yes!! Every person grieves in their own way and TIME. There is no ‘wrong’ way or time limit. I wish as a society we would be more accepting of others’ grieving.