It isn’t the grief that changes. It’s the jar.
Yesterday, December 5, marked 41 years since my mom died.
This means that Mom has been dead for as long as she was alive. This fact has not eluded me. When my oldest sister messaged into our family chat yesterday, we all shared how crazy and frustrating this unit of measurement is. It makes the years seem even greater.
It’s not that we haven’t been counting each year since Mom died. It just hits differently this year. For me, the annual countdown usually begins on Dec. 3.
It was a Monday in 1984 when Mom was taken to the hospital. She had made Dad promise to not let her die at home so we girls wouldn’t have to live with that memory. Two days later, we all gathered in her hospital room and said our goodbyes.
I only have snapshot memories of that night - telling her I loved her and kissing her goodbye, being called back into her room minutes after we walked out, the silence of her room slamming into my chest, calling a friend to tell her my mom had just died. And now incomplete family walking out of the hospital into a cruelly beautiful snowfall.
Christmas 1982, two years before Mom died.
We had no idea a Mac truck was heading our way.
(I’m the awkward one in the middle with those lovely 80’s glasses)
Over the years, I haven’t really had a way to describe the grief I carry. I just know that since that December day, there has been a hole inside me that longs for things to have been different. I have been jealous of those whose moms are still alive. I have cried out to God in anger. And I have celebrated the memories I have of her.
When I began teaching the death and dying course, I found this illustration of grief. And it helped me realize that it doesn’t matter how many years have passed. My grief is no less now than it was on December 5, 1984.
Unfortunately, some people can’t understand this. They will tell us that we should “get over” our grief, or that we should move on from it. This directive tries to deny us of the deep connection and love we still hold for who, or what, we are grieving.
We will always grieve the death of our person, the opportunities we chose to not taken, career choices that we wish we’d never taken, jobs lost, or relationships dissolved.
Grief doesn’t just diminish over time until, one day, *POOF* it disappears.
As so many of us can testify, what changes is the life we live after our loss. When the death or loss first happens, it consumes our lives, our thoughts, and who we are. But, as the days pass, we find and choose ways to re-enter life. Some days the best we can manage is get out of bed. Other days we make it to the grocery store. Some deathiversaries and reminders knock us off our feet, while others bring us nothing but sweet memories.
We learn to live with the hard truth that who or what we have lost cannot be given back to us, and we must find a way to keep living. It doesn’t mean that we have quit grieving, or that our love for our person has diminished. It means that our lives are growing around our grief. And instead of leaving it all behind, we are finding ways to take our grief into our days.
Since that December day, I have found numerous ways to take my grief into my days. Perhaps the greatest one was a determination to live a life fully committed to God, so that one day I could see Mom again in heaven. I taught Sunday School, I counseled and directed church camps, and eventually I became a pastor. I’ve tried hard to teach my own children about the love and grace of God. Almost 30 years after her death, I accepted the invitation to teach a university death and dying class. And 11 years later, I have headed back to the classroom, where I am trying hard to make a difference for those whose struggles with middle school I can understand.
Full confession, though. Before you think all of my decisions have been noble, they haven’t been. Instead of fully enjoying the moments I’m in, I take copious amounts of pictures so I won’t forget. I have been overprotective of my children and my time with them because I want to make sure they won’t forget me or how much I love them. I have gotten frustrated with those who wish their moms would just leave them alone. I have come to understand that I do these things out of the love I still hold for my mom and wanting to make a difference for others.
Because we are living with grief, our lives will never be the same. My prayer is that the illustration of grief as a ball inside a jar is a source of peace for you as you live with grief. May you know that the grief you carry will not be diminished by the life you continue to live. And may you live in the grace and love of Jesus as you find ways to live these days.
Peace,
Denise
