Helping Those Who Mourn

If you've followed this blog long, brace yourself:  I'm about to break my own rule.  (And if you've followed this blog long, thank you and I'm sorry I'm not more consistent).  What rule is that?  I'm breaking my rule about prescriptions for grief.

Before I do, here's some links for relevant things I've written before:
11 Things No One Tells You About Grief
10 Lessons From Losing a Loved One
Why Are We Afraid of Grief?

Tonight, I was talking to friends about grief.  One of them remarked how sometimes it's difficult to say anything because we don't want to say the wrong thing.  If you've never experienced grief, it can be really overwhelming to try to provide some measure of comfort!  I've also seen people hurt by well-meaning people saying unhelpful things.  So, after 12 years, I finally feel it's time to give some guidelines for helping those who grief.

Before I begin, one MAJOR caveat:  these are guidelines meant to help you navigate grief, they are not meant as rules or a playbook.  Take your cue from the person you're with and use wisdom and discernment.

Without further ado, and in order of how I think of them, the list.

1.  Realize it is not about you.  Being with the other person is about trying to relieve his/her/their suffering, not about making you feel better.  Take your cue from the other person.  If he/she is okay, let her/him be okay; if she/he is a mess, let her/him be a mess.  Don't break him/her just so you can fix her/him.

2.  Listen at least twice, probably 4-5 times, as much as you speak.  Ask good questions.  Try to avoid asking how they're doing, unless you know them well or can do it in a way they haven't heard 300 times already that day.  Ask them if there's something specific you can do to help.  Ask if they want to talk about their loved one.  I heard a Jewish woman recently say that her community says, "I stand with you in your pain and suffering as a member of God's chosen race."  I like that.  I like saying, "I'm here.  I'm with you.  I'll go to the depths of your pain with you as much as I can and I'll celebrate with you on the mountains.  I don't have to fix you, I'll just be here."

3.  Take care of them and the things they need.  This one gets a huge caveat that some people don't like being taken care of; for those people, respect that and don't take care of them.  At the same time, 12 years later, sometimes that is still the hardest thing.  It's hard that I have to call a friend who knows about computers rather than just calling my dad.  It's hard having to think about things and do them for myself when he might have done them for me.  If there's a practical need you can meet, do it- or at least offer it.  Don't be afraid to interfere or inconvenience, but be sensitive to what the other person needs.

4.  Don't linger, but don't wait for an invitation.  Know the person and your relationship.  Read the signals.  If you are close friends, don't wait for an invitation to be in the grieving person's life.  At the same time, if you go over and the person needs to be alone, accept it and go home.  We still love you when we grieve, but sometimes it is just too much to have to be in the same space as someone else because our grief takes up all the extra room.

5.  This is a big one, especially for Christians.  Do NOT recite platitudes.  I know when you don't know what to say, you fall back on other things you've heard that seem like a good idea.  78% of the time, it hurt to hear people say things akin to, "Well, he's in a better place."  I'm not at all saying to not speak truth- I'm just saying to be aware of how that truth comes across.  When I heard those words, I felt like the other person was shutting the door for me to share my grief and telling me that I was a bad Christian because I missed my dad.  When Jesus heard that Lazarus died, he wept.  Even knowing (I assume) that he would raise Lazarus from the dead, Jesus wept.  Do not rob someone of the healing and cleansing that comes from weeping.

6.  Do NOT under ANY circumstance say something similar to, "I know how you feel."  You don't.  I have a close friend whose dad died when she was a young adult.  I don't know how she feels.  I am not her and she is not me.  While I understand some of the principles of grief, I do not understand how she experiences grief.  So I ask her.  I ask her what would be helpful.  I say, "I found myself feeling/thinking/doing ______.  Does that resonate with you at all?"  I look for common ground, but I would never say I understand, because I don't and I never could.  Admit it.  I find it much more helpful to hear, "I can't imagine."  I don't expect you to understand, I really don't.  It's offensive and insulting when you try to pretend you do.

7.  Stay calm.  This person is not himself/herself currently.  They've experienced a loss that is intensely personal and extremely isolating.  They may not be as joyful as usual.  They may not smile as often.  It may take them weeks, months, or years to return to how they were- or they may never do it all.  Help them as much as you can, but have grace for their processes.  Don't freak out because two months later your normally joyful friend still cries at the drop of the hat.  Now, if you are seriously concerned and think your friend is actually clinically depressed or experiencing things beyond normal grief, then talk to someone.  And talk to the friend.  But always remember that grief manifests in the weirdest of ways.

8.  Embrace the mess.  Your friend likely feels very alone and isolated.  They are experiencing things you will never understand and they may never be able to put words to.  If you are close friends, join them in the mess.  Cry with them as they cry.  Hold the punching bag while they're angry.  Feed them chocolate and ice cream when they need it.  Sit in silence when they really just need to have another human present who's willing to not say a single word.  Remember:  it is about loving them, not absolving you.  If you are not a close friend, then support those who are.  Help them help the person who is mourning; don't manufacture a relationship so you feel useful.  If a friend is spending all of his/her time with the grieving one, then clean the helper's house for him/her.  Take THEM a meal.  Secondary grief and trauma is real- support the supporter so he/she can support the grieving.

9.  Realize this isn't going away quickly.  Sure, the initial waves of grief will subside.  The person will likely quit crying so often.  A friend once said, "Grief is like tree rings; you often come back to the same spot, but the rings get further apart."  Mark your calendar (including a reminder) for the important dates, especially the anniversary of the loved one's death or things like wedding anniversaries.  If nothing else, on that day send them a text saying you're thinking about them.  It is such a gift when friends take the time to remember and do even something small to say, "I haven't forgotten."  The cards, flowers, meals, and everything else quickly disappear- much more quickly than grief does.  It's easy for one who is grieving to feel forgotten or like everyone else has moved on.  Let him/her know that you remember and you stand with him/her in his/her grief and ask how you can help.  That is a priceless gift.

We who grieve know that you're trying to help.  We appreciate it more than we can express.  At the same time, 12 years of grief and seeing my friends' grief has taught me some lessons and shown me that we need a better way to help others grieve.  We need a better understanding of how to help.  I hope these 9 things give you a place to start.  I'd also suggest you find someone you know who has walked through grief and ask him/her about the process.  Ask him/her what was helpful and what wasn't.  Ask what they wish had been different.  Ask how they need you to support them in the future. Because the deal is that you're amazing.  You're an amazing friend for trying.  You're an amazing friend for caring.  You're super amazing for making it through this long post.  Don't be afraid.  Keep being the amazing person you have been, just keep in mind that things are currently not normal.  

Twelve Years

I'm giving you fair warning:  it's about to get very real and vulnerable around here.  I hate writing blog posts when things aren't already tied up into beautiful bows for the three of you who read this blog.  :-)  While I'm generally a pretty open person, there are some parts of my heart that I just don't like sharing.  Tonight, though, I was talking with some friends and one of them said it was helpful to hear someone articulate what he/she was feeling in the midst of grief to help understand what was happening.  So, this is me being honest and telling you the best I can about how I feel.

Tomorrow is the 12th anniversary of my dad's death.  Having done this 11 times before, I have certain expectations about tomorrow.  I made the mistake of assuming that I had a grasp on how I would probably feel and what it would probably look like.  Then, like it always does, grief surprised me.

I never expected the 12th anniversary to be immeasurably more difficult than years 1-11.  But it is.

It started early this year.  On Monday I almost lost it at work trying to think of a place my dad would like to eat in Norman.  Grief never starts that early for me.  On Tuesday, I was trying to remember what color my dad's eyes were and I couldn't.  I also did the math:  as of Monday, I'll have spent 39.5% of my life without my dad.  And that's hard.   Today, it felt like a semi had crashed into me while I sat in church.  I thought, "I can't say I miss him.  That isn't it.  My heart just aches."

As I get older, I mourn for the things I've lost and the things I miss about him.  At the same time, my heart breaks even more for the future I don't have with him.  12 Christmases, 12 of every holiday, 2 graduations, 2 cities, countless friends, several jobs, and all sorts of dreams he has missed out on.  When I get married, I don't get a daddy/daughter dance or the chance to have my dad grill my husband and then give his blessing for our marriage.  My kids will only know their granddad through what I, and others, tell them.  Those pieces missing from my future hurt.

At some point I realized what makes this year so exceptionally difficult.  This year I realized my memories are getting fuzzier.  This year I'm more attuned to the details I'm forgetting.  People tell me stories of events I should remember and I either can't remember or have but the faintest memory.  I'm forgetting what he smelled like.  I can't remember what it was like for him to hug me.  Of course I remember so many things.  I remember his embarrassingly loud laugh in the movies.  I remember the silly grin he got on his face as he tickled me mercilessly.  I remember how he wanted to get a yellow truck, but there was a certain yellow it had to be and I never could understand that yellow.

I feel guilty for what I don't remember.  I know it isn't true, but it feels like maybe I didn't love him enough or spend enough time with him.  I also feel guilty for how normal life feels without him.  I feel guilty for how normal it feels for him to be absent on Christmas.  I feel guilty for forgetting his birthday.  I feel guilty when I realize I've gone for several days or weeks without thinking of him (which hasn't happened recently).

But then God reminds of what my dad was like.  He reminds me of what my dad would say to me if he was around.  My dad would tell me to quit feeling guilty and that he was proud of my family and me for living and embracing life.  He'd tell me it's okay that some of the memories are fuzzy because my mind is filled with new memories.  He'd tell me that I remember the important things and my ability to remember his eye color (which was brown or hazel, depending on the picture) had nothing to do with how much I loved him.  He'd agree it was too short of a time, but remind me that even 100 years wouldn't have been enough.  Above all else, he'd remind me that this is a very temporary, though very real, pain.  He'd tell me how amazing Heaven is and to be comforted by the thought of being with him again.  He'd tell me to lean on the Great Comforter and surround myself with people I love.

So, I choose to do that.  Don't get me wrong:  grief sucks and it is unfair.  However, I chose hope over despair.  I choose peace over anxiety.  I choose joy in the midst of pain.  While I feel grief and pain deeply, I choose to remember the hope of future glory.  I choose trust instead of blaming.  I choose to remind myself and believe in God's goodness and kindness instead of hurling accusations towards him.  Above all else, I choose rest- resting in the truth of who God is and that He works all things together for my good and for His glory.

Hey, look, some neat little bows did come out of this!  :-)

August 11, 2002

Phone calls in the middle of the night are rarely a good thing. The odds of it being a good thing go down exponentially when you have a loved one in the Cardiac ICU. I remember waking up to my mom's cell phone going off. We missed it. The number was local. So he's fine, right?

Then the house phone rang. All of our stomachs dropped. I remember hearing my mom say, "should we come?"  It was about 2 am. My mom said my dad had gone into cardiac arrest and we had to go to the hospital (an hour's drive away). I packed a bag, knowing we would be there a while. I'd heard that if you're loved ones died, you could feel it. I felt nothing. 

My mom called my grandma to tell her we were on our way. Realizing it might be a hard drive, my mom called a family friend. Funny enough, he used to be a FedEx driver. We arrived at the hospital and were met at a side door and taken up to his floor. They took us into a small room. I think they call it a family consultation room. Nothing good happens there. They calmly explained that my dad's heart went into tachycardia (beating too fast, so fast that it can't actually pump anything) and they couldn't get him back. 

Shock. No. This wasn't happening. I never felt him leave. I hadn't seem him the last several days. Then, seconds later, calm. I heard a peaceful voice say, "'I know the plans I have for you,' declares The Lord, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, to give you a hope and a future.'" Well, that's weird. 

For this post, I'll spare you the details of the next couple of hours, though I remember them vividly. We left the hospital and I emailed some people. I needed them to know. I slept for a few hours. Then, I went where I always knew I'd go if a tragedy occurred on a Sunday or Wednesday: I went to church. I needed to get out of my house that was so filled with sadness. I needed to be with friends. I needed comfort. So I went where I knew all of these things would be. 

Let me divert for a second. I've heard the quote, "Religion is the opiate of the masses." In that moment, I didn't want religion. I leaned heavily on my relationship with Jesus and assurance I'd one day see my dad again. Those truths were a balm to my soul and a comfort- just like when I was a kid and had a bad dream I wanted my mom or how I call a friend when I've had a crappy day. I was still completely aware of the reality that my life was forever different; I was also acutely aware that this pain was temporary and I'd see my dad again. 

I remember people's faces as I walked in the church. I remember my teacher hugging me as closest friends watched me dissolve into tears. I remember how those friends stood around me so I didn't have to endure all the well-meaning "I'm so sorry" statements (FYI, my family called one family in town. By the time I made it to church, almost everyone had heard). I'll never forget how incredibly loved I felt that day. I'll never forget the feeling of "where else could I possibly go"?

So, today, I'll do the same. In fact, I'll be at two services. I'll go to lunch with friends and celebrate. But today, I choose joy. I choose peace, the peace that surpasses all understanding. I choose to honor my day's life instead of giving into grief. 

Father's Day Part 1: I'm not Fatherless

If you know me, you understand why Father's Day is not one of my favorite holidays.  If you don't know, this was the 9th Father's Day I've observed since my Dad died.  Something within me wanted to write about
Father's Day.  Perhaps I wanted to feel included.  Perhaps I want a group of people (those who have fathers who are still living) to understand what they never can (what it's like to celebrate Father's day when your father is in Heaven).  When I started writing this post in my head, it was a how to on how to love the fatherless (more on this later) on Father's Day.  Then I realized that goes against everything I believe about grief because it implies there is a manual or a one-size fits all way to help.  So.. that post isn't here.. because I don't like to contradict myself. :-)  

I'd be lying if I said that Father's Day is never hard or that I'm never angry.  If you would have asked me 9 years, 10 months, and 8 days (I used an online calculator) ago if I would till be angry, I would have said no.  But I am.  Not every day, by any means.  Not even every Father's Day.  But sometimes I'm angry.  I'm angry because my dad is dead.  I'm angry because it happened when I was so young.  I'm angry for the memories that will never be made.  I'm angry that I'm angry.  (Hey, I'm a girl.. it makes sense).  Oh, and I'm angry that life feels normal without him.  I get angry that I can go a day without thinking about him.  It feels wrong sometimes.  (For the record, the angry days are few... I'm just saying they exist).

For the record, I do not consider myself fatherless.  Weird, I know.  But come on, you probably know me.  Did you expect anything else?  My dad was a great man.  He worked hard to provide a good home for my mom, sister, and I.  Although he had no concept of time (meaning my mom had to remind him several times), he made it to almost every single Little League game I played... no matter how good (or terrible) I was.  Without a doubt, I know he loved me.  So I get a little worked up when people think I'm fatherless.  I also have a heavenly Father who loves me better than my earthly father could in a million years.  Especially since my dad died, I have seen God as my father.  He is the One who comforts me.  He gives me guidance.  

Why are we afraid of grief?

Today I went to see the movie Courageous with my sister.  It deserves its own blog, so we'll deal with it at a later date.  What's relevant for now is that it reminded me of what I lost 9 years, 1 month, and 21 days ago (I used a date calculator; I wasn't committed enough to figure it out myself).  It reminded me of the great sense of loss I felt and how the Lord met me in it.  (Well, I guess we have another blog... or 5).

Then I came home and got on Facebook.  I saw a former classmate talking about how she missed her grandfather and wished her girls had the chance to know him.  The very first comment on her status was a very well-meaning friend, I'm sure, who talked about how her grandfather was with her and how her girls would know him through their mother.  I know she meant well.  I know she wanted to provide comfort.  The part of me who knows the pain of loss and the pain of knowing your future is forever altered wanted to quietly, yet matter-of-factly say, "It's just not the same".

So I started thinking about why the woman felt compelled to respond.  I thought about all of the well-meaning things people said to me that really didn't help.  In fact, some of them hurt- they made me feel like I was a failure as a Christian for missing my Dad.  Why do we do this?  Why do we have this compulsive need to make things better to such a point that we find ourselves saying ridiculous things in an attempt to comfort?  It seems we're afraid of grief.  We're afraid to admit that we don't know what to do or say to make it all better.  Perhaps we even feel like failures when those we love hurt.  Then I thought about another response.  Where are the people willing to say, "Your sadness and anger don't scare me and they don't scare God," as they hold you when you cry?  Where is the friend who fixes everything with one look that says, "I hurt deeply for you because you hurt, yet I know I can do little to make you feel better"?

That's the friend I want to be.  I want to stare the person in the face and say, "Whatever you're feeling doesn't scare me and it's really okay that I can't fix it".  Then, hopefully, at some point I can point them to the person who CAN fix them, who CAN heal their sorrows.  I'm not saying don't try.  All I'm saying is that your response to another's grief and struggles should be about them, not about making yourself feel better or like you did what you were supposed to do.  It's hard, I know.  We WANT to make things better and there's nothing wrong with that.  I'm simply suggesting that perhaps your part is to sit and just be okay with the other person's feelings.