Integrating Grief
Rev. Mark Stringer
First Unitarian Church of Des Moines
5/25/03

 

Meditation for 5/25/03

Creative Spirit, Spirit of Life,

that which is greater than all, but present in each…

The circumstances of our individual lives are different,

and yet, each of us carries within empty spaces…

empty spaces once filled by those we have loved,

empty spaces that can bring with them anguish and pain.

When we feel these empty spaces the most,
we cannot help but wonder 

why the seasons do not stop for our grievings.
Shouldn’t the earth respond to our pain and our longing?
Shouldn’t the earth grieve with us?

How can it be that when our inner world is suddenly unrecognizable,

the sun still shines as it did during happier days,

The wind still makes the trees sway and the leaves dance.

and the rain still falls like teardrops from the sky?

When we are pierced by profound disappointment,

shouldn’t the rivers stop flowing,

and the lakes be stilled,

and the night envelop the day?

Shouldn’t the phones should stop ringing?

Shouldn’t the televisions fall silent,

and the restaurants close,

and the neighbors stop mowing their lawns?

Why is it that even when life ends, life still goes on?

We can’t help but ask the question…
even though the answer is clear.

We know, somewhere within, that life goes on

as a reminder that we too must go on,

we too must live with the empty spaces

just as all those who have come before us have,

just as the earth itself must do.
For the empty spaces do not go away,

They remain as a means by which we can measure
that which we love.

They remain as a reminder that the life we now inhabit
 will one day be an empty space.

They remain to remind us that even when life must end,

life too must go on. Amen.

 

Reading
“Mentioning of Souls” by Gerald Stern

 

If I get up one more time in the dark
you will have to cover me up completely
I will be shaking so much from the cold.

And if my voice trembles as I go from room to room
you will have to leave your own luxury
to see if I am just moaning or already talking to the dead.
If you come into the kitchen
you will see how painful it is
to cross over to the dark stove;
if you sit with me one whole night
you will see how slow the hours go
in front of the hanging plants.
Stand by the crowded window for five minutes
and watch the light come in through the crippled birch.
You can laugh a little
at my wolfish soul staring at the moon;
you can close your eyes
as I say the names,
and remember, with your own lips,
as I go over the victories and the failures.

 

Sermon

Last fall I attended a lecture on grief presented by Elizabeth Harper Neeld, a woman whose first husband died unexpectedly at a young age, leaving her in the midst of a debilitating sorrow.  During the lecture, Neeld asked the over 200 attendees to raise their hands if they had experienced grief.  Of course, nearly every hand went up.  I shouldn’t have been surprised by this show of hands.  After all, who else would be interested in a lecture on grief besides those who were looking for guidance in how to live through it…or how to help others live through it?  Nevertheless, seeing this almost unanimous declaration that, yes, those in attendance had experienced grief was an “a ha” moment for me…another reminder that death and grief are inevitable components of this life that we share.  No matter how alone we might feel in the darkest moments of our losses, others are with us, at least in spirit, because they too are grieving their own losses.

 

Neeld reminded the audience that grief is a universal experience, which, in our American culture at least, is often trivialized, if not ignored.  Most of the time, we just don’t want to talk about grief, beyond telling ourselves that we should just “get over it.”  Studies have shown, however, that people who suppress their grief are more likely to experience physical and psychological ailments and remain more disturbed long after a loss than those who are encouraged and willing to more intentionally express their feelings. Since her own emergence from the depths of grief, Neeld has devoted her life to helping people see the grieving process not simply as a hurdle to jump or a period of time to live through, but as an opportunity for growth and discovery.  After working with our grief, she contends, we may find ourselves stronger and more balanced.   Therefore, she believes people should be encouraged to see their grief as an extremely important, albeit sometimes excruciating, chapter in the narrative of their lives, a chapter that must be observed, worked through, and eventually integrated if the trauma they have endured is to produce something more than future pain…if the next chapters are to be anything more than reiteration of the sorrow.

 

In her book Seven Choices, Neeld has laid out a map of the grieving process, a journey each of us will take, one way or another, when we are faced with the inevitable losses of our lives.[1] Certainly we know that the circumstances surrounding each grieving process are as unique as the individuals experiencing the grief; however, Neeld maintains that there are some identifiable phases we encounter when we grieve.  Each of us will move through these phases at our own pace, and in our own order.  We may flip-flop around, go back and forth, skip some, and redo others many times over.  Nevertheless, Neeld assures us, these phases are recognizable and worthy of our attention.

 

As I listened to her describe the different phases of grief and the choices these phases ask us to make, I heard her telling my own story…as well as the stories of others I have encountered before and after I trained for the ministry. So I share these phases and, perhaps more importantly, these choices with you this morning with the hope that you might find comfort in the acknowledgement of what you or someone you love has gone through in the face of grief, and that you may find a means to help yourself or others live through grief not yet completed.

 

Grief, simply put, is a series of events provoked by the first indications of a devastating loss—the death of a loved one, the death of a marriage, the loss of one’s health, or dreams, or expectations for the future.  Any of these invoke the death of one’s “assumptive world,” or the way one always thought or hoped life would be.  As a wise man put it, grief occurs when “sorrow is no longer the islands, but the sea (itself).”[2]

 

The moment of transition from “Life as it was” to the loss of some aspect of that life, is the first phase on Neeld’s map, the phase she calls Impact. This phase features the mostly involuntary and immediate reactions to the loss. Shock, surprise, numbness, a sense of removal from what we thought was normal, confusion, feelings of sadness, an inability to concentrate, listlessness and apathy are all common during impact. The idea that we have a choice to make at this difficult time seems unlikely, since the grief itself seems to be calling all the shots.  However, the choice that can be made is to experience and express the grief fully.  Those around us during the impact phase may not want us to express our grief. It may be uncomfortable for them, or it may provoke difficult emotions.  That’s why during this phase it is important to be around people who encourage the grieving process, who allow us to grieve any way we want to.  When people close to you are in the impact stage, how do you respond?   Do you encourage them to “get over it” or do you allow them to “get into it”?  Neeld reminds us that getting into our grief at this phase might be the best thing we can do.

 

The second phase on Neeld’s map, though, again, not necessarily second in order, is called Second Crisis.  The second crisis can occur weeks or months after the initial impact.  It is oftentimes worse than the original loss itself because it carries with it the recognition of how much has been changed by the loss…and that the loss is irreversible.  The Second Crisis occurs after the immediate attention of the loss has passed.  The cards have stopped coming, the sense of separateness from others has increased.  There is a feeling of suspension in midair.  Despair, helplessness and loneliness are common and decrease our ability to concentrate.  We engage in behavior that is out of character, and often abandon our long-cherished beliefs and philosophies.  Everything feels bleak and empty. As one person in the Second Crisis explained:

 

 “…in any idle moment I still experience the feeling of hopeless amputation that I expect to carry with me for the rest of my life.  I’m trying to make something out of all this pain that might give it some lasting meaning.  But how do I do that?  It seems not to be enough just to communicate it. … I wish I could feel the presence of God, who I want to believe is somehow with me through all this, but I can’t.  I don’t think I need a burning bush or a voice from the sky, just a sense that I will be able to extract some purpose from my life that will balance the losses I have suffered.  … Now I move through my life feeling like an actor in a play I had no part in creating.  I say my lines, fulfill my obligations, but what will it take to regain the capacity for joy, which redeems the struggle?”[3]

 

The choice we have during the second crisis, then, is to suffer and endure, to face up to the truth of what we have lost, and do whatever we need to do to carry on. This is the time when it is especially important to exercise, eat right, slow down, and get help when we need it.

 

Neeld calls the next phase on her map Observation,  a time when we gain some distance on our loss and begin taking stock of our own reactions and responses.  During this phase we review both pleasant and unpleasant memories, when we ask questions of ourselves, deal with our hostility, and pursue forgiveness.  It has been said that if suffering alone made one wise, everybody in the world would be wise.  Neeld says that what makes the difference, then, is observation.  We must choose to look honestly at ourselves and at our circumstances…  a choice which requires courage and a willingness to examine all of our coping defenses…even those which may have been useful at first, but which now may be keeping us from honestly asking and answering the questions that will enable us to move on with our lives. This is the phase when we begin to consider the larger meanings of our loss and how we might face the future.  This is not a time of resignation to our situation; it is a time for “living in the question,” for reflection, contemplation, and considering possibilities.

 

As we become aware that our responses to the loss are holding us back from enjoying life, we enter the phase that Neeld describes as The Turn.  This is the time when we become willing to take responsibility for our own happiness and well-being. The choice this phase asks of us is to assert or declare or affirm something that we believe will contribute to our rehabilitation, even in the face of denial or objection.  During The Turn, we make an internal commitment to ourselves to make the changes that are necessary for us to pass into the second half of the mourning process, a time for redefining our identity.  Neeld sees this phase as the place where many of us get stuck because it requires a clear move away from the coping defenses that we may find difficult to abandon—things like overwork, dependence on alcohol, food, drugs, television…anything that seems to ease our pain.  The alternative to The Turn is that we remain forever mired in our own victimhood:  We refuse to look out at life because we are always staring inward. 

 

In preparation for this service, I read a father’s journal entry recorded not long after his six-year-old son had died after a lengthy battle with Leukemia.  I believe the father was describing The Turn.  He wrote:

 

“It becomes clear that I must somehow emerge from this experience a better person or I will not have fulfilled my obligation to…[my son’s] memory.  This grief must give way to some emotion of more lasting meaning.  It is a waste of time to grope for rational explanations of what has happened, even worse to flagellate myself for decisions made out of love.”[4]

 

If we can accept the challenge The Turn offers us, we may enter the next phase, which Neeld calls Reconstruction.  This is when we follow through with the assertion we have made.  We make painful but beneficial changes, develop new skills, set new priorities, establish a new identity appropriate to our circumstances and begin to build toward the future, even though we may not be certain of the destination.  The choice Reconstruction offers us is to take action.  We may choose to reorganize our lives towards a new object or goal, risking chances, making new friends, pursuing opportunities to find out what it will take for us to be happy…not happy like we may have been before the loss, but happy according to our new circumstances.

 

The risks involved with Reconstruction may lead to the next phase, Working Through, which is when we must solve problems, find creative solutions, deal with relapses, continue to develop our new identity, and keep risking and practicing our new roles.  The choice we face in this phase is to engage the conflicts (which requires patience as we weigh the pros and cons of our choices), determine our values and set our priorities.  As we work through this Working Through phase we have an opportunity to establish the shape of our future.

 

The future that we begin to establish comes to fruition in the final phase of Neeld’s map, the cumulative reward of all the phases that have come before, the state of Integration.  This is the time when we recognize that we have finished the work of our grieving.  We feel released, no longer dominated by the loss.  Carrying the burden of grief is no longer our primary activity.  We have discovered a renewed interest in living and, when we look up, we can once again see the horizon we may have lost.  At the time of Integration, we find ourselves in a new reality…a reality that is not a replacement of what came before, but a successor…a new creation made possible in part by what happened in the past, but more typically a result of the choices we have made throughout the grieving process.  Even though Integration seems like an end point, it does ask us to continue to make choices.  By engaging fully in the process of grief and eventually integrating our loss into the greater narrative of our life, we will inevitably find ourselves changed, hopefully for the better.  We may emerge from our pain with a new strength, a new confidence in our ability to handle what life dishes out, and a newfound, though hard-fought wisdom that will offer us more ways to handle the inevitable succession of losses that we all must face. 

 

The overall lesson of Neeld’s approach to grief, is the lesson I hope to remind us of this morning: As grief unfolds we have the opportunity to make choices that will lead us in one of two directions.  Our choices can help us integrate the loss into our lives and approach freedom or our choices can keep us imprisoned in the walls of our sorrow.

 

As I see it, one of the goals of this mysterious, finite life, is to translate the circumstances of our lives into a narrative that enables us to engage with the world to our full potential, to as the saying goes, take the lemons of our living and create lemonade.  When we are in the midst of the grieving process, this may seem like an impossible goal.  “How,” one might ask, “can the pain associated with the loss of that which was most dear to me ever lead to something productive…something hopeful and creative and constructive?”  The grieving process offers an opportunity to be immersed in the inevitable pain that is a component of this life we share.  Against this pain, and with its memory forever in our hearts, we may learn to feel joy more deeply…we may grow our gratitude for what we have experienced enough that it can free us from the sorrow of what we have lost…we may more fully appreciate the mystery of life and embrace a new kind of freedom, the freedom that results when we give up the need for control and live more gently with ourselves and with others in our life.

 

Along these lines, I find great comfort in the words of theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer…words composed while he was being imprisoned by the Nazis…words that seem a fitting conclusion for my examination of grief.  He wrote:

 

Nothing can make up for the absence of someone whom we love and it would be wrong to try to find a substitute.  That sounds very hard at first but at the same time it is a great consolation, for the gap--as long as it remains unfilled--preserves the bond between us.

 

It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap, God doesn’t fill it, but on the contrary God keeps it empty and so helps us keep alive our former communion with each other even at the cost of pain.  The dearer and richer our memories the more difficult the separation… but gratitude changes the pangs of memory into a tranquil joy.  We must take care not to wallow in our memories or hand ourselves over to them just as we do not gaze all the time at a valuable present, but only at special times, and apart from these, keep it simply as a hidden treasure that is ours for certain.[5]

 

Closing Words (from an inscription on a sundial at the University of Virginia)

 

Time is too slow for those who wait; too swift for those who fear; too long for those who grieve; too short for those who rejoice.  But for those who live, Time is Eternity. Hours fly, flowers die, new days new ways pass by.  Love stays.