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When Your Family's Lost a Loved One finding hope together
By David Guthrie Nancy Guthrie Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2008 David and Nancy Guthrie
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-58997-480-7
Chapter One How Are You?
Nancy
"How are you?"
It's the question everyone is asking you these days. You're grateful that people care-but it sometimes seems unanswerable, doesn't it?
"Fine" doesn't sound quite right. You may be functioning and perhaps even feeling better, but you know you're not "fine."
If you were honest, your answer might be one of these: "I'm afraid."
"I'm disappointed."
"I'm relieved."
"I'm angry."
"I'm confused."
"I'm sad."
That was my answer for months after our daughter, Hope, died: "I'm sad."
I was deeply, devastatingly, pervasively sad. And I wanted those around me to give me time and space and permission to simply be sad.
It's Okay to Be Sad
Our culture is very uncomfortable with sadness. Unless they've lost someone close, most people don't understand how sorrowful simple aspects of daily life can be when you're grieving.
I remember the first time I went to the grocery store after my daughter, Hope, died. It was all I could do to get there, and I wept as I walked the aisles. Everywhere I looked I saw products I no longer needed to buy because she was gone. And it just seemed too ordinary a task; I was going back to life as usual, but without Hope. And that didn't feel right.
A few months later I went on a retreat with our choir. Standing up, I told everyone, "I haven't lost my faith. I'm not hopeless. I'm just sad. And I'm going to be sad for a while."
In those days, tears always seemed close to the surface. While I'd rarely cried before Hope, now a day rarely went by when there were no tears. There was so much pain inside that needed to find release.
Many people were afraid to say something to me about Hope, fearful it would cause me to think about her, adding to my pain. What they didn't know was that I was already thinking about her. When they spoke of her, it touched me, and my tears were a relief to me.
Recently a woman who'd lost her husband a few months earlier caught up with me after church. She told me she was crying all the time-at work, on her way home from work, and at home in the evenings. "What is wrong with me?" she asked.
"Wasn't your husband a significant part of your life?" I asked. "And wasn't his life precious and valuable?"
The answer, of course, was yes.
"Then isn't he worthy of a great sorrow?"
Before you can get on with your life, you will have to give way to grief.
For some, that may seem easy. For a while you may not want to feel better because the grief keeps the one you love close-even as the days and weeks seem to pull you away from the person you loved and still love.
But for others, sorrow feels like an enemy. Some people are afraid to cry-afraid that once they start, they may never be able to stop. Or they fear being unable to control when or where their tears come to the surface.
There's no need to rush ourselves through sadness or to avoid it altogether. Sorrow is not weakness, and tears do not reflect a lack of faith. God gives us the gift of tears to help us wash away the pain.
It's Okay to Be Happy
While sadness can be awkward, laughter can seem off-limits-or certainly inappropriate following the death of someone we love.
I remember being afraid that some people might think I was in complete denial-or worse, that I didn't really care about Hope-if I laughed out loud during her difficult life or following her death. And I remember the strange look I got from someone at a dinner the night before Gabriel's memorial service, when I asked a friend to tell a funny story and laughed heartily at it.
Sometimes we are afraid to laugh lest people think our pain has passed or that our sorrow has been a sham. But just as tears give vent to the deep sorrow we feel, laughter reveals that while grief may have a grip on us, it hasn't choked the life out of us.
Laughter takes some of the sting out of hurt. It gives us perspective and relieves the pressure. In fact, laughter actually increases the flow of endorphins, our bodies' naturally produced painkiller. It gives us a mini-vacation from our pain. And wouldn't you sometimes like to take a day off from your sorrow?
We know we've found a real friend when he or she is comfortable not only with our sadness in grief, but our laughter. And we're friends to ourselves when we allow ourselves to feel and express both.
It's Okay to Hide
Many grieving people simply don't want to deal with others. They don't want to have awkward conversations and uncontrolled emotions. They want to be alone-to have time to think and reflect, and simply miss the person who is gone.
For some mysterious reason I've never been able to put my finger on, facing a crowd when you're grieving can be hard. Walking into church and other situations where so many people express their compassion can be emotionally overwhelming.
I remember feeling that I simply couldn't walk into the parents' orientation night at Matt's school a few months after Hope died. I feared my total identity was "that woman whose baby died," and with every acquaintance would come an emotionally draining conversation about Hope's death. Fewer people probably were thinking about me and my loss than I imagined, but the prospect of encountering so many I hadn't seen since Hope died during the summer overwhelmed me, so I stayed home.
Hiding, if only for a season, is acceptable when we're grieving. But hiding can become a habit, a way of life that robs us of healing relationships and a returning sense of normalcy.
It's Okay to Engage
Some people have the opposite problem-especially those who've been nursing a loved one through a long illness. Suddenly freed from patient care, they feel a little embarrassed by their sense of relief. They're ready to talk about their loved one and their grief and experience. They're comforted by the presence of others and sharing their memories.
We were blessed during Hope's life with people to talk to-including those who brought us meals. They were often surprised when we'd invite them to bring enough food to have dinner with us.
We had incredibly precious visits during those days. Meaningless conversations were rare. Instead, we talked about life and death and prayer and faith and eternity. It was a rich time, and we enjoyed engaging with people who cared.
Going through grief gives us a unique opportunity to bond with those we may barely have known before, if they dare to draw close to us in our pain. Conversations that go below the surface can become the foundation for new and deeper friendships that give us strength in the midst of sorrow.
It's Okay to Be Weak
The loss of someone we love reveals our very real vulnerability to sorrow and pain. At some point or another, most of us surrender to our weakness-and it can be very uncomfortable.
We may always have been in control, on top of things; now everything in our lives seems chaotic. The house is a mess, nobody has washed the clothes or paid the bills, and we can't seem to concentrate or carry on a reasonable conversation.
Grief reduces us to-or reveals to us-our neediness and weakness. Some of us have to learn how to receive help from others when we've always been self-sufficient. Others of us discover through the process of grief our own physical, emotional, and spiritual weakness that can no longer be covered up.
While this discovery can be unsettling, it's when we are weak that we are prepared to enter into God's strength. Jesus said, "Blessed are the poor in spirit" (Matthew 5:3). In other words, our weakness positions us as nothing else does to experience joy in God and connectedness with Him.
It's Okay to Be Strong
Some of us also discover in the midst of grief a strength we didn't know was there-in character, in mind and will, in commitment, in endurance, in faith. We have the opportunity to put God's strength on display through our weakness as He provides what we need in the midst of heartache and difficulty.
There are surely no simple answers to the question, "How are you?" when you're grieving. We can be sad but not devoid of joy and laughter, wanting to hide but willing to engage, weak in body and mind but strong in spirit.
Getting your family through the loss of your loved one requires making room for all these things in yourself and those around you. It requires allowing for completely conflicting emotions and inclinations. It requires a great deal of grace.
"But How Are You Really Doing?"
David
Following close on the heels of "How are you?" is its requisite follow-up query:
"No ... how are you ... really?"
For many of us men, this is the dreaded, nails-on-the-chalkboard question. To us it implies one of the following:
(a) Your first response is never actually truthful, so now we'll press for the honest answer.
(b) You are clearly oblivious to your own feelings, and it will require somebody removing your blinders to let you see how you actually feel (and I've been appointed to that job).
(c) Your description of how you are is pathetic; here, we'll give you a second chance to come up with something better.
(d) All of the above.
What is it about this line of questioning from concerned friends that can make us so uncomfortable?
I think I know what it is for me. In the midst of my own pain and confusion, I suddenly also feel responsible to others to give an account for my progress. As the words of my reply come measured through my lips, I'm wondering if my report will be acceptable.
In a sense, I wouldn't be surprised if the questioner came back with, "Sorry, wrong answer. More hopeful confidence, please. Less feeling sorry for yourself. Less anger (or more)."
Most of us guys are "doers," and in the uncharted territory of grief we wonder if we're "doing it right." In general, we have no idea if we are or not; the seemingly suspicious questions hit us more as interrogation aimed at exposing us than as loving concern.
Interestingly, many of us find it much easier to answer the question, "How is your wife?" or "How are your kids?"
Our perspective on how family members are doing seems much clearer. We're observing them, we've talked things through with them. Though we're walking through deep and turbulent waters that are probably new to all of us, our senses may be more attuned to family members' daily condition than to our own. And generally we're more comfortable talking about them than about ourselves.
Another reason it's difficult to respond to this question is that most of the potential answers seem somehow off the mark.
"Fine."
"Good."
"I've been better."
"I'm surviving."
"I'm 32.7 percent better than I was last time you asked."
The responses poised on the ends of our tongues seem trite, glib, depressing, unbelievable, or insulting. Or they expose a lack of self-understanding to which we'd rather not admit.
I've found it helpful to tune my ear to hear a different question-or actually, not a question at all. As I slogged through the insecurity of grief with my family during our loss experiences, when someone asked, "How are you ... really?" I began to translate it to mean, "I care about you."
It's that simple: "I am bold enough to ask this question because I know you must be hurting. I know it must be very difficult. When I try to put myself in your shoes I can hardly imagine what it must be like. So I ask how you are. I really want to know, because I care about you."
Sure, I suspected that a few inquisitors were motivated more by an all-knowing superiority than by compassion: "I'll get you to dig down and tell me the dirty truth whether you want to or not!" Or, "I know grief, and I can tell by your superficial response that you're not really dealing with it yet."
But I chose to receive even those probings as gifts of concern. At least the interrogator cared enough to ask!
Eventually, I worked out simple, honest answers like these:
"It's very hard, but I'm doing well. Thank you so much for asking."
"This week was difficult because _______. Thanks so much for asking."
"Believe it or not, I'm great. Thanks for your prayers, and thanks so much for asking."
As I tried to respond graciously to probing questions, I saw that even though the process made me somewhat uncomfortable, it proved to be a blessing to the one who asked. This is a great arrangement, because it pays dividends for everybody. As Proverbs 11:25 (ESV) says, "Whoever brings blessing will be enriched, and one who waters will himself be watered."
Can you receive those sometimes-too-earnest inquiries that make you squirm or snarl as genuine gifts of love and concern? Can you see them as coming from friends who struggle to understand your situation and to know how they should respond?
Chances are that many people want to try to walk with you. Some want to help if they can; others just want to empathize. Receive them all as a gift from God, knowing that they care-really!
"And How Are You Doing As a Family?"
Nancy and David
When we think back to those early days of grief in our family, we realize that the process took a dramatically different shape for each of us.
Much of Nancy's emotion was wrapped up in disappointment that she wouldn't have a daughter who would look like her, talk like her, and grow up to be her friend in her old age.
David, on the other hand, felt the helplessness of a father who was unable to protect his daughter from the foreign invader-and a husband who couldn't make everything better for his sad wife.
While our son, Matt, couldn't articulate many of his thoughts and feelings at the time, we have to wonder: How does a sibling compete with the memory of a child who was never old enough or healthy enough to disobey or disappoint? How does he adjust to having parents who cry at the most inopportune times?
Perhaps the starting place for figuring out how your family is doing is to identify how the loss has affected each of you-to get outside your own thoughts and feelings to consider those of each family member.
That can be awkward, even intimidating. But it can also be rewarding and strengthening. You may wonder how your family will cope with the mixture of intense emotions and needs, but grief gives you an opportunity to go deeper with each other and grow closer to each other than you were before this loss. Grief does not have to drive you apart.
What will determine if you move away from each other or draw together, whether you emerge from this crisis broken, bitter, and divided or healthy, happy, and whole? It depends on whether you are willing to identify and address grief's impact on each member of your family-or if you choose to ignore and avoid it.
Ignorance Is Bliss?
It can seem more comfortable to ignore and avoid how grief is affecting your family as individuals and as a unit. Part of you may wish everyone would retreat to his or her own room and emotions and coping mechanisms rather than dealing with them head-on.
As humans who don't want to hurt, we have several ways to avoid feeling the pain of grief. Maybe you recognize one or more of the following in yourself or in other members of your family.
1. Postpone. We think that if we ignore it, it will just go away. So we push it out of our minds and put it on the shelf. We don't talk about it, hoping it will dissipate through neglect.
2. Somaticize. We become obsessed with our own health or lack thereof, using physical illness as a way to avoid our emotional pain.
3. Minimize. Using self-talk such as, "We weren't that close, anyway," we minimize the value of our relationship to the person who has died. By telling ourselves that our loss is not unique ("We all lose our parents at some point"), we try to convince ourselves that a common loss shouldn't hurt so much.
4. Displace. Rather than giving energy to our grief, we give it to blame, to righting a wrong, to making someone pay.
5. Replace. Many grieving people channel their energy into causes such as passing a law, starting a foundation, or pushing for research. A cause can be an excellent outlet for honoring someone who has died, but pouring energy into a cause before the work of grief is done can derail that important process.
6. Spiritualize. While we rest and rely on the promises of Scripture to bring us comfort in our grief, the truth of heaven does not take away the pain of loss.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from When Your Family's Lost a Loved One by David Guthrie Nancy Guthrie Copyright © 2008 by David and Nancy Guthrie. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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