Permission to Grieve

My 92 year old mother in law died last week, with no pain, in a homey hospice, surrounded by her six children singing, praying and professing their love. Unless you believe no one should ever die, this was a good death, the kind everyone deserves but too few experience. The setting allowed those of us left behind time and space to remember, celebrate, and mourn together. If sacred passages were the cultural norm, perhaps we’d have less fear of dying, more reverence for birth, and communal rituals to facilitate key stages in life.

No Time to Grieve

My own father died suddenly when I was sixteen and my sister was twelve. My mother, for unknown reasons, chose to proceed as if all were normal. That very night she sent Lori out Christmas caroling with the Spanish club. The next day I went to work, where they were surprised to see me and had called a substitute. It didn’t occur to me to go home, so I was an extra worker on the floor.  We attended the usual church services Christmas Eve (he died December 23) where I tried valiantly not to cry, as if that would have been a breach of etiquette rather than a genuine expression of my irrevocably changed reality. 

With no space or time to grieve, I buried that raw emotion only to have it emerge as anger, self-pity, or fear at odd times over the next decades.  With no permission to grieve, I learned to ignore my feelings and act as if something essential didn’t matter, living on a surface of pleasing others rather than acting from my heart’s desires.

So this week, I did it differently, even though this death was neither surprising nor tragic. I used bereavement leave to be available to the family, host meals, organize her few possessions, and take care of myself.  I feel lucky to work at a nonprofit that acknowledges these fundamental human needs with some paid time off. Isn’t this what every worker deserves?

A Life of Faith

Jill Rice was the least addicted, least materialistic, and least sentimental person I know. Her family and her faith were the important anchors in her life.  Her reading consisted of novels and materials published by various Catholic organizations. Her church attendance continued right up to the end, and she prayed immediately when told sad news.

Allowing Love 

Her faith was the source of her sweet love for others. Nurses, waitresses, her hairdresser, and her grandchildren all fell in love with her because she lit up whenever she saw any of us.  Though kissing hands was all that was left of her expressiveness towards the end, she always chose loving over complaining. She really was an instrument of peace.

Thy Will, Not Mine, Be Done

At her funeral, we entered singing Here I Am, the hymn reflecting Samuel’s willingness to do whatever God asks.  We ended with Breathe on Me O Breath of God, singing “that I may love the things you love, and do the things you do/ My will to yours incline, until this selfish part of me glows with your fire divine.”  I cried during both these songs, reminded that this is all I’ve ever wanted—to act from the best in me.

Jill Rice showed me how to love everyone for who they are, to delight in beauty and to simplify with ease. Most of the time I’m aware of falling short of this ideal, but my desire to be aligned with love is strong. Some days it even trumps the desire to protect myself by keeping people away through isolation or criticism.

 

Today, rather than try to eliminate my negative qualities, I’ll follow this sweet woman’s example--plug into the Great Love that moves through this world and offer it to everyone who crosses my path, like Jilly did.