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• The lost art of witnessing another’s pain

  It’s never easy to sit with a person who is overcome by the pain of loss. Witnessing another’s sorrow can provoke a heightened sense of our own level of discomfort, causing us to try to “fix it” or perhaps even turn away if we’re not in tune with our own issues. Neither is a comforting proposition for those who mourn.

  I remember over a decade ago when a good friend of mine lost her husband suddenly to heart failure. Because her family lived out of state, several of her friends rushed to sit with her in the hospital while she waited for news of her husband’s condition. Following the traumatic news that her husband had died, those same friends sat with her in a quiet room as she prayed over her husband’s body.

  Sitting with her in her shock and sorrow took courage and compassion. It took stepping out of their own comfort zone to honor their friend’s immediate needs. And that’s not easy in our culture today, evidenced by what followed for this woman in the ensuing days.

  In those days following her husband’s death as she dealt with funeral arrangements, legalities and the sheer exhaustion of sudden loss, more friends came and went from her home, some praying the rosary quietly, ready to help when instructed, others brashly attempting to orchestrate her life “back to normal.”

  As I sat praying with the others I watched my friend quite literally running through her home trying to navigate the dark and confusing wilderness of grief she had entered upon her husband’s death. Those supporters who ran with her, offering unsolicited advice and their own stories of loss, seemed to only add to her confusion.

  My own experience of loss is similar as I’m sure it is for many others as well. Some well-meaning supporters, uncomfortable with or perhaps ignorant of the natural ebb and flow of grief’s pain and sorrow, profess to know best what we should do and feel. I recall so many telling me stories of their own loss and how it compared to my husband’s death 22 years ago. As well intended as they were I was bewildered with the comparisons and only wished to focus on my own loss at hand.

  Though sharing stories empathically is a natural way of reaching out to those in grief, commiserating the details may only diminish the support meant to be shared. I have learned that less is more when it comes to words of sympathy and advice especially in the early days after a loss. Simply acknowledging the difficulty of the situation is enough to ease the tension and allow the bereaved to do what must be done.

  There are those whose experience of life has caused a deep-seated sense of urgency to dismiss the pain of grief. Despite the real need to mourn a loss this group believes that there is a quick fix to grief. “Don’t think about it so much,” they’ll say, adding, “You need to get over this.” And “You really should… .” I believe the avoidance of pain at all cost that seems prevalent in today’s culture has created a great need for the reinstitution of the lost the art of sitting with another in his or her pain, acknowledging it and allowing it to transform their lives.

  The art of witnessing another’s pain involves a spirit of compassion and acceptance that supersedes one’s own discomfort and need to assert a leading agenda. Unsolicited advice or running conversation can make for a tense and exhausting time. Being present with the mourner in the silence of despair is sometimes just what is needed. Allow them to tell you what they need or feel.

  Now, years later, my widowed friend says of those first terrifying days, “I don’t remember much about those first days beyond feeling confused at times because so many people were trying to help with stories of their own loss and advice on how to handle things. Sometimes I didn’t know what I needed and I just wanted it all to stop.” But she holds dear those folks who sat with her in her sorrow and witnessed her pain in their silence. “I do remember that my prayer warriors were there on the sidelines lifting me in prayer, and ready to help if I asked. That made all the difference for me to know they were just there.”

  She has learned from her own experience what she will offer to another who has experienced a loved one’s death — a calming, compassionate witness and a quiet willingness to help when directed — and lots of prayer.

   

  Posted on May 15, 2013, to:

• An animal lover’s lessons in grief

  There’s been a rash of deaths among my family members and coworkers recently — deaths of our beloved pets, though, rather than loved ones. “Pets?” you say. Yes, pets — though obviously not the same as losing a loved one. Still, loss and grief come in many forms, pet loss not being the least of them. To this, any animal lover will testify.

  The first was a three-legged cat named Tripod. He was the elder feline of a cherished coworker of mine and was showing signs of his approaching demise. His owner chose, after much discernment, to allow him to die a natural death at home rather than have him euthanized at the vet’s office.

  For those who are not animal lovers, this decision may seem trivial. But I believe at its foundation it’s validity lies squarely in the center of many of the life issues our culture faces today. I respect the courage it must have taken my coworker to choose natural death and the grief that ensued.

  Several friends mused that perhaps a natural death was cruel and unusual punishment for a faithful and trusting pet, but when my own 20-year-old tabby began his own descent, I found myself faced with the same dilemma and empathized with my coworker’s thinking.

  My buddy Max, who came to us as a stray kitten and took to my autistic daughter like a bee to honey, was a dignified yet trusting soul who unfortunately hated visits to the vet. So as his time drew near I struggled with traumatizing him further with a car ride there during his final hour.

  As mobility became an issue for my sweet Max, my girls and I made sure he was as comfortable as possible nestled on his favorite red blanket. He had been a fixture in our home for so long and no ordinary cat (if I do say so myself), so when he meowed weakly to be near us, rather than go off quietly as many animals do in their final hours, we drew him close wherever we were. I was touched deeply by the display of tenderness and care my girls offered this aged cat and am grateful for this beautiful life lesson Max offered us in return.

  My girls and I watched as he struggled with the last threads of life he held in him that last day and I will admit it was painful to witness. But I believe that in his dying as in his expansive and sometimes comical life, Max reaffirmed in his own way my family’s deep-seated belief in the preciousness of life that we are privileged to enjoy with God, nature, animals and our fellow human beings.

  We grieved together as Max lay dying, speaking of his loyalty and prowess. And after he took his final breath we cried together for a long time, holding each other with shared compassion — yet another gift nurtured by this loving pet.

  Because I believe strongly in the power of ceremony and its place in the healing process — even with pets — the girls and I diligently created a grave marker bearing a picture of our beloved feline along with his name mapped out in colored glass. We had a lovely burial ceremony in which we each shared funny and tender stories of how Max had enriched our lives, as well as a few tears. It felt good to remember the place he held in our family and all he was to us.

  That place Max held is empty now, but his memory lives on in our shared stories and our hearts. Those delightful pets have a way of wiggling deeply in the marrow of our souls. Their lives, and sometimes even their deaths, are woven with rich and meaningful lessons just for us. Respect for life, loving-kindness even in infirmity, compassion and the wisdom to mourn a loss of life we held dear as we hold hope for the future in our hearts. I pray these lessons, learned sometimes from a loyal animal, settle deeply in our being, so that the same loving-kindness and compassion can grace others on our life’s path.

  Posted on April 17, 2013, to:

• The shrouded sorrow of miscarriage

  Spring is in the air where I live and there seems to be a rash of new pregnancies among the adult children of many of my friends and coworkers. We have frequently come together to congratulate each other on the new grandchildren to be born who will bring new life to our families, and catch up on how each mom-to-be is faring.

  But recently our gathering took a traumatic turn when we learned that one of our friend’s daughter had miscarried just days before. The joy we’ve worn on our sleeves for each new life suddenly dimmed as our hearts wrenched in sadness for the new mom-to-be in her loss. “How is she?” we all asked. Our friend simply said she was okay physically, but still “kind of stunned.” She observed that with pain medication her daughter was a little calmer now. She seemed “cried out for the moment — like I am,” our friend finally admitted numbly.

  I have not experienced a miscarriage, but my mother’s heart tells me this grief is like no other. Frequently in our mourning-avoidant culture supporters might say that we never really knew the tiny soul that lived such a short life in utero, so there is really nothing to grieve. “It’s no big deal, you can have other kids,” they sometimes add, unaware of the consequences of such a statement.

  Those who have experienced this kind of loss know that there is much to grieve.

  The infant that grows inside a woman, even without being seen or held, is very real from the moment she discovers she carries this God-given treasure. She bonds with the baby in ways only a mother can, dreaming of a bright future of happy milestones and successes for her charge. As her body changes to accommodate the growth of new life, she plans not only for the physical birth of her little one, but for his or her entire life’s path.

  So when her baby dies during a miscarriage, she grieves not only for the loss of her offspring, but for all the future hopes she held in her heart as well. Many young mothers have the compassionate support that allows for public mourning and are able to move through their pain by embracing the hard work of mourning. They may have a safe person or group who will sit with them as they talk, cry or memorialize their treasured little one over time.

  Unfortunately there are other mothers suffering from the loss of miscarriage who may be bombarded with the push from those around them to get past their “invisible” grief and start over. These women may not feel safe to discuss the pain of losing their child and all her hopes and dreams.

  And what of the fathers of these lost babies? Many times these young dads are not even acknowledged in the process as the baby was never viable outside the womb — therefore considered by some as not a baby at all. Because they never held their baby in their arms these dads are encouraged by current cultural misperceptions of grief to “just try again.”

  My friend’s son-in-law, not surprisingly, finds himself feeling a similar state of shock that he sees his beloved wife in. Yet for now he has stepped into his role as provider/protector and in spite of his grief he is simply taking care of the business of the day.

  And of course, this loss affects other family members as well, evidenced by the pain in the eyes of our friend who lost her grandchild, as she speaks of her entire family’s grief, from grandpa to aunt to in-laws.

  As my group of grandmas discussed this sad situation, I found myself surprised at the number of women who have experienced a miscarriage but never spoke of it. One of the grandmas spoke with courage when she acknowledged that her first pregnancy many years ago ended in miscarriage. She was able to relay how painful it was to lose her child and that the norms at the time required she simply not speak of it again, even behind closed doors. How unfortunate, she lamented, that she and her husband carried their grief quietly, shrouded in the solitude of their hearts all of these years.

  Another of the grandmas spoke of how her own sister endured a miscarriage several years ago. To their credit but against family wishes they held a memorial service replete with a beautiful little casket, Scripture, music and prayer. She felt the ceremony was a powerful beginning to the healing process for the young couple as they grieved the loss of their child.

  I have learned that child loss is a layered loss of hopes and dreams for the future. The need to express the inner grief is as relevant as for any loss. When we are open to grief, whether ours or another’s, we can honor even the loss of the unseen gifts of life.

  Posted on March 13, 2013, to:

• The art of grieving

  As I entered the cavernous gymnasium where I was to speak to a group of men and women, all of whom had lost a child to miscarriage, stillbirth or infant death, I saw the small group gathered together in the corner around a horseshoe-shaped table arrangement. Each of the participants of this daylong workshop for bereaved parents was bent over their workspace intently working on a project.

  When I spoke with the coordinator of the workshop that was designed to provide hope for grieving parents, she explained that the group was engaged in creating an ornament to honor their baby and that the process of creating these memorials was a meaningful analogy to grief itself.

  I watched each participant work with glue, torn bits of paper, photos and glitter, with the realization that the coordinator was absolutely right. What was visibly apparent during this activity was the chaos of the process of creation.

  Each bereaved parent had to make some individual choices — choices that might represent the decisions with which they are faced, sometimes daily, on how to design and shape their own grief journey.

  What shape Styrofoam ball would form their idea of memory for the ornament might parallel the ability to identify their own personal style of mourning — the basis for healing of hearts. Choosing the color of torn paper they would use and how would they apply it to the ball might reflect the need to discover healthy ways to express their grief. And how they would fashion the photos and glitter to create just the right look for their memorial ornament speaks to the simple acts that allow them, and hopefully gives permission to others, to mourn individually and collectively for that which they have lost.

  Following each of these artful choices the participants made the decision to act in an effort to move the activity forward. The tabletops were messy and littered, the hands of those grieving parents were sticky with glue, looking much like that of the disheveled spiritual landscape of any grief journey.

  But in the end, after all the decisions had been made and the messy work accomplished, beautiful individually designed ornaments emerged. The fortitude it took to keep each bereaved parent on task brought him or her to a meaningful conclusion, much like the work of grief brings the bereaved in due time into a “new reality” where the memory of their lost loved one finds it’s rightful place.

  My own experience with art in grief began years ago following the sudden death of my husband, Trent. Many of my young nieces and nephews found meaning and solace in their grief by drawing picture stories showcasing amazing landscapes dotted with angels and swing sets. Some were placed in the casket for my dear husband to take with him on his heavenward journey and others were gifted to me in a show of sympathy and solidarity. Twenty-three years later, I still cherish the crayon stick figures that spoke of the shared sadness of that time. In the simple art of those precious children we all found life.

  I have since come to appreciate the use of art in so many grief support situations. A significant part of a grief education presentation I have given over the years for those who have lost a spouse includes a quiet time to reflect on where the participant is in the present moment on his/her grief journey and then time to draw that feeling. I have been continually edified by the responses that emerge.

  Even with protests of “I can’t draw” or “I’m not an artist,” this activity moves us to the creative right brain domain where logic takes a back seat. When we draw, paint or create we reach deep into a place where we can let go of our logic and simply feel, even play a bit with our grief.

  Many seminar participants have drawn boxes in which a small stick figure sits. Others design a path leading to heaven. One gentleman, when asked to share his drawing, showed a blank page, offering profoundly, “I don’t know where I am.”

  I have learned that these artful activities heighten our awareness of how we’re feeling at any given point in our grief. And they can provide a healthy outlet for the expression of that grief.

  So just as the activity I witnessed with such awe at the parent loss workshop that day mirrored the messiness of the grief journey, artwork can also offer one way to find the hope of healing in the chaos of grief. And what a meaningful way to mark our journeys!

  So I’d like to propose this proverbial question: does art imitate life or the other way around? A little of both I hope.

  Posted on February 19, 2013, to:

• Collective grief

  Our nation was once again knocked to its collective knees recently with the horrifying events that took place on Dec. 14, 2012, at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Conn. When a single gunman, who first killed his own mother, forced his way into the school and fatally shot 20 first-grade students and six school staff, and then himself, life changed — not just for that quiet, little community, but for communities across the country.

  With what has become almost commonplace in our culture with disturbed gunmen shooting innocent victims from Tuscan, Ariz., and Oakland, Calif., to Aurora, Colo., and Portland, Ore., our nation stood shocked and more than a little fearful as we watched the gruesome story unfold.

  Our hearts cried out in sympathy for the parents whose children lay dead and for their grandparents, siblings and friends. That day they each began the unique journey we call grief and will have much painful and confusing work to do to heal their broken hearts.

  I suspect it’s obvious to those of us who have known loss that the devastating circumstances surrounding these deaths complicate the grief these families will experience. Sudden death is traumatic in its own right. But murder loss is an entirely different level of grief.

  I’ve been long known to spread the notion that one who experiences loss grieves in his or her own distinct way. Each unique personality, relationship, past experience of death and belief system guides us individually on the journey toward healing. Each loss manifests as another layer of grief on our perspective of the meaning of life and death.

  So how does the killing of these innocent children and adults affect how we see the world? How does it change our perspective?

  It’s natural and very human to mourn the loss of these children and adults whom we’ve not met. Though the loss is seen through our own personal life lens many of us can empathize with the community members who grieve this terrible loss.

  My sister who has lost a son grieves deeply for the parents of those dear children. She understands a little of their pain. A friend whose sister was murdered in her youth laments alongside the siblings of those who were killed.

  Another friend admitted to past judgment of the perpetrators of these crimes and their families until recently when her own friend was in need of emotional support after her daughter committed a crime. Her heart breaks for the families of these gunmen in her newfound compassion. Each of these women finds compassion in their hearts and perhaps newly discovered wisdom that rises from their own pain and grief experience.

  These tragedies can bring old wounds of loss to the surface to be faced once again for many of us. The layers of grief may be peeled back one by one to expose the pain we once felt due to our own loss. So it is paramount now that we honor our grief, both personally and collectively, with time for silent thought and prayer, sharing our feelings with others and perhaps cleansing tears, which opens the possibility of hope and healing to us.

  I believe in these devastating situations that it’s not only the loss of innocent lives and the resurfacing of our past wounds that stirs our souls. We grieve collectively for, at least momentary, the loss of our belief in the goodness of humanity, our hope of safety for ourselves and our children, and our trust in our very way of life — a frightening proposition.

  But with renewed hope and amazement, as we continued to watch the Newtown tragedy unfold, we were privileged to witness the loving, compassionate response of a shaken, yet united, community as they embraced their grief — and a nation who stood along side them in their disbelief.

  Wherever we reside, as we hold the victims of these immense crimes in our hearts and ask “why?” we can find consolation in solidarity — with an entire nation that grieves.

  My hope now is that, collectively, we rise up out of the ashes of yet another great tragic loss of life and become a better and more compassionate people.

  Posted on January 15, 2013, to:

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