Books about dying, death, and grief surround me in my office. There are additional like-minded books in digital form on my tablet.
Do any of them truly help me understand the grief I’ve experienced in my life, or help those I tried to support as they grieved a loved one’s death?
And what about the workshops, seminars, and webinars I’ve attended? Helpful? Not helpful?
The resources I’ve casually thumbed through or read and re-read, and the experts who have shared their wisdom in person or online, have added to my knowledge. And, given my love of books, and that I like to keep growing even when I’m now retired, I’ll probably buy the next well-reviewed memoir about grief or read the newest research about hospice care.
I love learning! Books are my friends! Workshops can provide new knowledge!
However . . .
I recall spending time with someone who had dealt with a terrible tragedy. I won’t reveal what she experienced, and who died in her family, but this person struggled with an unbearably difficult event. You would not want to be her. And if you’ve ever had a similar traumatizing event, then you might begin to fathom how deep emotional wounds can change everything. Or maybe you wouldn’t understand, because tragedies can numb the ability to empathize with others for a long time.
This gentle, hurting person and I talked about books.
Like me, he (clever of me to change personal pronouns, eh?) had a personal library filled with books. There were lots of recently purchased self-help books and memoirs about loss and grief. Newly released books filled with chicken-soup-for-the-soul words of comfort and old books deemed “classics” were within reach for daily browsing.
“None of them help,” this person told me. “All of them say the same thing.”
Foolish me, I suggested another book, wondering if he’d heard of it.
“I’m reading that right now,” was the immediate reply.
This person was reading one of my favorite (such a foolish word) books on grieving: a slim work by Nicholas Wolterstorff entitled Lament for a Son. Written in 1987, it remains relevant.
“How do you like it?” I asked. (What a shallow question.)
The person hesitated. And then provided positive feedback and an appreciation for Wolterstorff’s talent to express powerful feelings in accessible words.
I didn’t have the courage to ask if reading Lament had really helped.
None of them help. All of them say the same.
That’s not true! Or is it true?
Grief is a firestorm that everyone, even the strongest, even the experts, confronts with a thimbleful of water. Maybe our faith is deep and wide, but when a child dies, a dagger of a question stabs our hearts: how can a loving God allow this? Maybe our extended family is nearby and supportive and always available with a warm casserole and kind words, but when a beloved mother dies—the one at the center of family life—every bite of food feels like cardboard and the kind words tumble like the last dried leaves from a tree in winter.
We read for answers; there are none. We listen to an expert for hope; but hopelessness still shadows us when the workshop or resource ends.
In my own small way, I cast out sentences on this Substack letter. Have my words ever helped anyone who dreads what hospice represents or who is staggered by grief? At the hospice office where I last worked, I attached a nametag to my shirt with: “Bereavement Support Specialist.” Specialist? Did my specialized/expertized/educated designation made a difference for those longing for comfort in the worst—the absolute worst—time of their lives?
Maybe you will be a kind reader of these weekly ramblings and reassure me that my words have mattered. Maybe you once received a bereavement call from me, or were in a grief support group that I led, and you’ll regale me with how my special expertise mattered. And if you do, I would humbly appreciate your compliments.
But I think of that lovely, wounded person. None of the books helped, she freely admitted; all the books said the same, he shared honestly. Really? That can’t be right! Some must have helped! Some must have shared distinctive, unique, and helpful viewpoints!
In the little I know, I know how inadequate all responses and resources can be. A friend and mentor’s wife unexpectedly died years ago. She was alive on one fine morning, and then dead before the worst sunset of his life. I wrote him a note. Later he told me it was among the truly helpful “gifts” he’d received. Some friends had ignored him. Some told him her death was part of God’s plan or that God needed her and “brought her home.” Some told him it was her “time to die.” Some told him he’d feel better soon . . . just like they had when their great-grandma died.
I just told him I didn’t know what to say and that he must hurt like hell. And I told him, though I don’t know this for sure (but believe it with my feeble, inadequate faith), that God must also be weeping. Really, what I tried to tell him was that there was nothing to say other than I wanted him to know I was thinking about him. Was that enough?
I am glad for all the books by the experts. (Hey, I wrote one!) I am glad for easy-access seminars and webinars. I am glad for memoirs where writers expose their scars and regrets and hopes so that the ones who buy the book know they too might survive into the next hour or day.
Everything that truly tries to help those who grieve can help. And it won’t. I recall sitting with that lovely, hurting person on their worst day. I wish I had the right words. I wish I were a specialist. I wish . . .
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Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash
My book, A Companion for the Hospice Journey is available at Amazon.
I am so grateful I found you, your words do help. Thank you!