Defining Bereavement, Grief, and Mourning…and the Blessings Therein.

Actually, I'm rethinking my epitaph.
It might read instead: "This machine
temporarily out of order."

Most North Americans, in my experience, use the words Bereavement, Grief, and Mourning interchangeably. But some of us regularly discuss the experience of loss, its effects, and the means of processing its intrusion and integration into our lives. For specialists in Hospice and other fields like death education and grief counseling, there are important distinctions among these terms. I think that you may find these distinctions helpful, too.

Bereavement = having experienced a significant loss. Whether the life of a cherished loved one, a position of employment, a marriage, a child’s affections, or any other loss, being “bereaved” simply means, “I had this; now it’s gone.”

Grief = our reaction to bereavement. When we significantly value anything (whether positively or negatively), losing it upsets our sense of balance, order, and/or identity. The various elements of these reactions have been traditionally labeled within five categories. “Denial” is that buffer that allows us to process the loss in “bite-sized pieces.” “Anger” may be merely irritability for some, yet overwhelming rage for others, independent of what some might see as the “severity” of the loss experienced. “Bargaining” is our attempt to establish some argument or action that will change the reality of having experienced the loss. “Depression” often results when our mental, emotional, and physical energies have been nearly exhausted by the intensity, the hard work, of these reactions. “Acceptance” is that fluctuating state in which, I would hope, we are able to integrate the valued existence, of whatever we’ve lost, alongside the loss, of whatever existence we previously valued.

Mourning = our proactive response to grief. Most of us process our grief organically, independently, and successfully. Even when we find our way intuitively, though, we generally discover particular techniques that are especially helpful to us, and we practice them repeatedly as we “effectively mourn” the “authentic grief” that results from a “significant loss.” Some of us have specialized in discovering and developing as many of these methods as we can, and are available to help you when you feel “stuck” at some point, or find that some of your reactions are troubling and/or persisting. (If you find that you would like a referral for a grief counselor in your area, please send me an email at deathpastor@frontier.com.)

In addition to discussing death, dying, bereavement, grief and mourning, of course, as “Death Pastor” I also get the opportunity to discuss scripture, theology, and spiritual care just as regularly. In my tradition, as a theologically-conservative Christian, there is an assumption that the answer to every question is supposed to be “Jesus.” (A popular joke offers a Sunday School teacher asking, “I’m a furry gray creature with a bushy tail who lives in a tree. What am I?” After repeating the question twice and getting no response, he directs it toward his most promising student. She replies, “I know the answer is supposed to be Jesus, but it sure sounds like a squirrel to me.”) But as much as we might imagine that Jesus provides direct, even simplistic answers to all of life’s problems, when we actually read what He says, we find that He distinctly complicates our lives.

For example, Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” (Matthew 5:4) In my context, I hear that as “Some of us more openly express and process the grief we feel over having experienced a significant loss. When we do so, we invite the compassionate response of those around us to provide whatever comfort they may have to offer.” Again, in my culture, that differentiation makes perfect sense. Many of us choose not to openly express and process the grief we feel. We do not openly mourn. (In fact, too few of us actually mourn privately, either. We follow the usual prescriptions to “get over it and get on with life,” to “be strong for the kids,” or simply to “get a grip.”)

Are we willing to name our reality?

In the testimonies of Jesus’ life and followers, though, there are several words with similar ranges of meaning to our “bereavement, grief, and mourning.” Yet Jesus chooses a word that incorporates all three elements: the experience of loss, the effects of that experience, and the expression of those effects. If I may take liberties to translate one word with three, “Blessed are the bereaved, grieving, and mourning.” Culturally, in what I read of first-century Palestine, there was no need for such careful delineation as I have to practice today. If you lost something, and especially a loved one, then you reacted to that loss and expressed it openly. This “mourning” of which Jesus is speaking is often contrasted with joy, happiness, and blessing. It is seen openly, and recognized, and attracts comforters…or at least fellow-mourners, even professionals who would weep and wail alongside the family and friends—but that’s another discussion for another time.

Where Jesus upsets His culture and mine is in saying “Blessed are those who mourn.” He does not say, “Those who mourn will receive a blessing by being comforted.” We are blessed while we are bereaved, grieving, and mourning. It is not that we will be comforted at some point in the future, but that we shall be comforted in the midst of, and as a part of the reality of our bereavement, grieving, and mourning. That’s not what we may want to hear. It may be very different from what we seek to provide to others, compassionately desiring to comfort them. But the complications Jesus causes are many and varied. This is just one of nine blessings Jesus describes in what are called “The Beatitudes.” (Matthew 5:3-12)

In The Beatitudes, Jesus speaks to His disciples about a realm of existence, the kingdom of God, that seems entirely upside-down to them. The poor, the mourning, the gently, the pure, the peacemakers, the persecuted…these are the marginalized, oppressed and exploited, those who many see as sub-human. Hardly blessed, at least in our eyes. But Jesus says they are blessed. Not will be, not have been, but are blessed. How? Because they recognize the reality to which so many others have blinded themselves.

The world lives in the midst of an incalculable loss. Every day, every life experiences the longing for that which we were created to be and to enjoy. The environment, the economy, our relationships, and our own minds and bodies—these and so many other evidences remind us that something is not quite right. In fact, it is far from being merely satisfactory. Just as there are alternatives to each of the other categories Jesus addresses in The Beatitudes, those who mourn are blessed because they can name the reality they see. We are bereaved. We grieve. We mourn. And we are comforted in knowing that there is hope for the broken and damaged world, just as much as there is for us as broken and damaged persons. But only if we stop refusing to see things as they are. Before we can get angry, or begin to bargain, or deal with our depression, we must overcome our denial.

We are broken. And blessed. Not just because Jesus said so. But because Jesus is here to say so, to us.

“Be Healthy, Happy, Wealthy, and Wise!” – Is that how we choose to comfort the afflicted? Where does that leave the “Man of sorrows, acquainted with grief?”

In Paul Louis Metzger’s “Uncommon God, Common Good” blog (The post in question is found here: http://www.patheos.com/blogs/uncommongodcommongood/2015/01/blessed-are-those-who-mourn-not-those-who-are-spiritually-comfortable/.), he has embarked on a series of posts on The Beatitudes (a part of Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount” as recorded in Matthew 5:1-12). This series is of special interest to me since I believe that the Sermon on the Mount most clearly explains the foundational ethics of our lives as subjects of God’s Kingdom. The Beatitudes fall behind only The Great Commission and The Great Commandment as priorities for the life and ministry I pursue in answer to the question, “What would Jesus have me do?” I recommend the same for you, and offer here a little of how that works, at least regarding this particular Beatitude.

Some afflictions are obvious, except that we hide them away.

For a long time I have considered The Beatitudes as counter-intuitive statements. In them, I see Jesus stating what is not immediately evident, or what is, in fact, contradicted by the patterns of our attitudes and behaviors. But some might see an exception in His second Beatitude, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” After all, who can look upon someone who is mourning and not feel compelled to comfort them? Unfortunately, as I've written elsewhere, our attempts to comfort others often result in unfortunate misstatements. But it is not our compulsion to comfort the mourning that supplies the contrast in this Beatitude.

The “normal behavior” being confronted by Jesus is this: we avoid the causes of mourning as much as possible.

Even those who make deposits get significant withdrawals.

The inescapable reality of grief does prompt us to mourn our own losses. Even then, however, our closest supporters often try to alleviate their own discomfort by encouraging us toward “closure,” imagining that we can “get over it and get on with life.” Through a variety of means, we may also self-medicate, employing various means of denying the truth of our loss. Eventually, we find that there is a blessing in mourning; we reminisce over aspects of our loss and gradually integrate both the valued existence and its loss as equally true aspects of our ongoing lives. Again, though, I don’t think that’s all that Jesus has in mind here.

Sometimes we have to really hear what's being said around us.

In addition to our individual losses and personal spiritual brokenness, Jesus regularly addresses the world’s structural and systemic brokenness and its endemic effects on us and others. Here, He does so in confronting our avoidance of mourning. We need to recognize and accept the intense contrast between the blessing of mourning and our desire for its opposite. This contrast is most evident when applied among those who live as though the Christian’s "default" experience is being “healthy, happy, wealthy and wise.” Too many of us view anything less than a life of continuously triumphant celebration as an aberration, a malady to be confronted and corrected, generally through prooftexts and other platitudes.

The "widows and orphans" include orphans and their children.

In such an environment, it becomes far too easy to imagine that I am free to be comfortable, so long as I share some portion of that comfort with the afflicted. When I am afflicted, it's easy to imagine that somehow the comfortable are responsible to share some portion with me. In either case, the goal we seek is a return to that “good life” in which our robust health, giddy enjoyment, material wealth, and creative imagination are ever-escalating.

But the "Man of sorrows, acquainted with grief" willingly took on the brokenness and pain of a damaged and dysfunctional creation. If I am His follower, then it stands to reason that I will end up in those places where the comfort I have received in the midst of my affliction must be made available to those I find in any affliction. (That's the logic of II Corinthians 1:3-5, as I see it.) So when I openly acknowledge and mourn the reality of this life, I do receive comfort, but not for the sake of my own return to "the happy norm." Instead, the comfort I receive is to be applied to the hurts of others, so that they, too, may share comfort with all those they find (indeed, seek out) in any affliction. This is what I understand to be the pattern of Christian ministry, a cruciform, sacrificial servanthood pursuing solidarity with the afflicted, at least until we all find ourselves comforted in the immediate presence of Christ.

Intervene today in the "supply-and-demand" equation.

So, comforting the afflicted does not increase the ranks of the comfortable. (Would they then need to be afflicted?) Instead, it draws even those being comforted into solidarity with others who have yet to experience anything but the affliction. But it all starts by being willing to mourn the current conditions in a sin-damaged world, even as we look forward to the ultimate comforting when all our afflictions are over.

On a personal note: Amidst a life devoted to the contemplation of bereavement, grief, and mourning, the past eighteen months have been a season in which my desperate dependence upon Christ’s comfort has reached depths that were previously unimaginable. For all the condolences and sympathies that have been offered, the greatest comfort I have received during this time has been found in the lives of others. It has been the comfort that God has provided to others in the midst of their afflictions through me in the midst of my afflictions, and seeing their comfort, that has most comforted me.

Especially if your recent experiences have tended toward triumphant celebrations, but even if that has been far from the case, I would urge you to follow Christ into the lives of the afflicted around you. As you do so (or have done so), I would welcome your comments, stories, and experiences of what He is doing through you in this area. Feel free to email them to me at deathpastor@frontier.com.

Dismiss, Delay, or Distract – Client Autonomy and the Desire to Discuss the Unspeakable

"Could we speak...?" (No, means no.)

I am currently teaching “Bereavement Intervention Skills” for Mayers Memorial Hospital. It’s the third time I’ve done so, and there continue to be adjustments to the course content and presentation. But one thing that I have recognized in the course of Hospice chaplaincy (probably having originally learned it from instructors with American Academy of Bereavement) is the importance of allowing the patient and/or family member to discuss what they want to discuss, when they want to discuss it. Especially with regard to those who volunteer to offer services to the bereaved, the assumption that our “best time to talk” always matches theirs can prove disastrous.

The Three Ds

And so, I remind my students at least once in each of our six sessions that our clients have the right to “dismiss, delay, or distract” when we arrive with an offer or support, encouragement, or assistance, or even at any subsequent point while we serve them.

"Would this be a good time to...?"

Dismiss: A client may dismiss us by saying, “No, I’m fine. Really.” There are variations on that theme, and it may occasionally be stated somewhat vaguely. Sometimes it even turns out that they mean, “I’m fairly sure I do want some help with this, but I have no idea who you are. I hope you leave a card or brochure. I may call if I start to feel more desperately in need.” But our polite compliance with “Please leave” is essential to any hope of future assistance to that client. (Still, I’ve been known to ask, “Are you sure?” Not that I should, though.)

Delay: More often, a client may delay our assistance. We may hear, “Now really isn’t a good time,” or “I don’t think I’m quite ready to discuss that yet,” or even “That’s already being taken care of, thank you.” On this last point, we need to remember that clients are sometimes mistaken about the resources and support think will be available or adequate. When the client chooses to delay, we should always seek an opportunity to “check-in on them” at a (not very much) later time.

"Can we get to the subject at hand?" (Not yet.)

Distract: Most often, even before “getting down to business” in a scheduled session with a client, s/he  may want to distract the conversation from the topic at hand (i.e., the effects of and efforts toward dealing with a significant loss). “Could we talk about anything else but that?” is a frequent request. Why? Because, it seems, every coworker, classmate, friend and/or family member feels compelled to put on a pained expression and ask, “So, how are you doing?” (to which there is rarely a ready answer). Any other topic can be a welcome relief from the constant analysis and expression of their moment-by-moment experience of bereavement, grief, and mourning.

An Example

I was recently asked to speak to an early-adolescent domestic violence refugee. (If you need a clearer definition of that, feel free to email me at deathpastor@frontier.com.) When I asked her if she wanted to talk, she declined. My first inclination was to accept this as a dismissal. But it wasn’t an outright, “Go away,” so I said, “Okay,” and continued to sit across from her.

Let the client determine the direction and timing.

She began showing me what she’d like to order from her school’s most recent book-order form. When she noted that a boxed set of six books was thirty-five dollars, she added that if there were seven books they would be five dollars each. I asked if she was always able to do math that quickly, and she ran to her room to get her math homework. It was done and graded, and she was clearly doing well. I said so. But then she asked, as long as I was there, if I would help her with her spelling homework. I agreed.

There were some wonderful opportunities to explain the I before E rhyme—especially since the word “weird” also appeared on her list. She almost has it memorized now. But she seemed especially interesting in another word on the list. “Mourn,” she explained, was not the time of day when the sun arose. It had to do with feeling sad, she told me, but she wasn’t sure quite how.

In due course, I was able to explain the connection between bereavement (the condition of having experienced a significant loss—not always by death, but including the kinds of upheavals she had been experiencing), grief (the reactions we have to bereavement), and mourning (the proactive response we make to our grief, primarily through discussing its elements and effects aloud).

(For those wondering how to express these concepts to a hurting eleven year-old, I would first suggest simpler vocabulary, of course. But again, I’d be willing to pass along some ideas for developmentally-appropriate bereavement care. Feel free to let me know.)

There is still a lot for my young friend to process, and her circumstances continue to shift and spiral. But my point in sharing this brief experience is to note what can happen when we honor the client’s autonomy—allowing them to dismiss, delay, or distract, in order to be available to them when they do decide it’s time to discuss what we might know about the process in which they find themselves.

Police Protocols and Community Conflicts – Reflections on “Bad” and “Worse” Deaths in the Wake of the Michael Brown Shooting

Pastor Clifford O. Chappell

My friend and colleague, Cliff Chappell, serves St. Johns All Nations Church of God in Christ in Portland, Oregon, and is the founder of Man-Up, an effective “urban mission project” that serves men and boys in support of their roles as providers, fathers, husbands, mentors, and leaders in their communities. I highly recommend his post regarding the aftermath  of the Michael Brown shooting (and some notable lack in the aftermath of other shootings). You can find Cliff’s post here: http://culturesvoice.wordpress.com/2014/08/16/my-heart-bleeds/

I’m reminded by your post, Cliff, of Theodore Roosevelt’s statement that “Death is always and under all circumstances a tragedy, for if it is not, then it means that life itself has become one.” In my work, being “Death Pastor” in a number of ways, I frequently have opportunities to pontificate about the varieties of circumstances that result in a person’s end-of-life experience, and other people’s evaluations of “good” or “bad” deaths. Since death is not factory-original, but is, in fact, the absolutely worst after-market accessory we human beings have installed, I tend to think instead in terms of “bad” deaths and “worse” deaths.

President Theodore Roosevelt

In the eight years I served as a police chaplain (and less so during the two years I served as an interim prison chaplain), I heard repeatedly: “Rule Number One: At the end of the day, we go home to our families.” That did not always happen, of course. Some officers’ days ended far differently than they had anticipated when they showed up for their shift. But the message was clear. Any death was a “bad” death. (Anyone who has seen, much less been through the personal aftermath of an officer-involved shooting knows that the image of trigger-happy exterminator is difficult to reconcile with reality.) But there was certainly an aversion to having a “worse” death, which would be that of an officer.

In short, there seem to be two equations at work here.

First, from the perspective of law enforcement officers, there is an immediate judgment made toward anyone who willingly enters into an altercation with a trained, uniformed professional who is armed with several deadly weapons, all of which the officer has been carefully certified to use effectively. (The phrase I was taught: “continue firing until the threat is eliminated.”) That judgment: if that individual will confront a uniformed officer, they are, then, an even greater danger to the average citizen. We could debate the logic, but we need to understand the protocol necessary for law enforcement to protect and serve at all, much less with reasonable personal safety.

Michael Brown, dec. 8/9/14

But the second perspective is also valid, and needs to be discussed more frequently, openly, and broadly. From the perspective of most community members, of whatever cultural, socio-economic, racial, religious, or other background, there is an immediate judgment made toward anyone who willingly puts on a badge and a gun in law enforcement. The belief is common that those in uniform, especially, are interested in provoking such an altercation, profiling and eradicating “certain elements” of the community, and to do so with relative impunity. And that belief is common because it is too regularly reinforced through tragic exceptions to the millions of routinely-handled incidents addressed by law enforcement annually. Again, which are exceptions and which are rules can be debated.

What is not in question, from my perspective, is that the public perception of law enforcement officers, as well as that of law enforcement officers toward the public, combine to create an environment where tragedies are likely to increase. Unless, that is, we have a clearer understanding of the unique dangers faced by officers, and the impact that the resulting protocols have on the communities they are called to protect and serve.

"At the end of the day, we all go home to our families." But not always.

I believe, as does my brother, Cliff, that the system must be changed. And where there has been an emphasis on “community-oriented policing,” with greater engagement and education between law enforcement and their communities, improvements have come. But our pursuit of one another as persons beloved by God, despite whatever background we come from, or what uniform we wear, must not only persevere, but increase in the midst of such tragedies—even when they involve the death of a law enforcement officer, not just when it’s the life of someone else in the community that is lost.

Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part Two

Not a watched pot. Just potted watches.

“A watched pot never boils,” but sometimes they do. “And patients never die while someone sits vigil.” Well, that’s most often the case. But sometimes they do.

This morning, I found myself watching a pot come to a boil, then reflected on a patient who died during a very brief time alone (that’s Part One, which you’ll find below). But that was only after finding myself again in the midst of mourning the loss of a friend who most certainly did not die alone.

It has now been twenty-eight years since I was called to serve The Fort Jones Community Church. There’s a lot to say about my tenure there, but on my mind this morning, watching the pot slowly build up steam, was the Elder who wasn’t an Elder, yet. He served as an Elder would in every way but one. He just wasn’t “official,” initially. He was not allowed to attend Elders’ meetings, nor was he allowed to be called an Elder through the official channels of recognition in that congregation of that denomination at that particular time.

Watched pot, and pot-watcher.

He’d been a one-man woman for as long as anyone knew. But there had been an earlier marriage during the earliest part of his military service. The combined damage of that relationship, later experiences in Vietnam, and especially the inexorable deterioration and multiple diseases that accompany severe radiation exposure (he served on spotter planes above detonations on Enewetak Atoll), left him very mindful of his limitations, and the wisdom of simply serving wherever Christ called you, no matter what others may call you.

His advice, counsel, questions, and reproof of a then-twenty-four year old pastor in a redevelopment church was perhaps the single largest factor to my continuing in ministry there. His continued input and reminders over the subsequent years contributed significantly to my continuing in ministry…at all. For more than half my life, he called me his pastor, and he was my Elder and, I claim proudly, my friend.

The above barely does justice to him, but in this limited space, perhaps it offers some explanation for my reaction when I received a call from his wife some time ago.

After lengthy battles with the variety of damages his early experiences had imposed upon him, “He’s taken a turn for the worse,” she said. She wanted to know what my schedule looked like over the next week or so. She wanted to know where to find me when it was time for “his pastor” to help arrange the funeral for my Elder, my friend. That warning call came on a Saturday. Of course, I had duties the following morning. So, despite her concern that I might end up making two trips in the same week (and that in the time it took to drive there, he could be gone), I agreed that we would make the five-hour trip only after calling to confirm that he was still there to be visited.

We arrived that Sunday evening. He was still there. Using talents I’d developed in working with ALS, Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy, and brain injury patients, I was able to enjoy a lengthy conversation with my Elder, my friend. He was weak, bed-ridden, but still able to reprove his pastor with good humor, even when I had to ask him to repeat with greater enunciation a particular gibe in my direction.

The next morning, we stopped by their home to visit briefly before heading back for the week’s responsibilities, knowing that my agenda and schedule were likely to be interrupted by news of his death. As we stood around his bed, though, his hand in my left, his wife’s in my right, and my wife completing the chain between husband and wife by grasping his big toe through the bed sheet, I prayed for my Elder, my friend—and I felt the unmistakable slackening in his grip, followed by the sigh I had heard from others many times before.

It momentarily threw me. I had never had someone die in the midst of prayer before. But knowing that he desired no “heroic measures,” I simply concluded my prayer (though probably more abruptly than I would have otherwise). At that point, his wife, retired from her nursing career, and I, an experienced Hospice chaplain, went into technician mode: things to check, calls to make, a pathway to clear. And then the long wait for contact from law enforcement (in some counties even a death on Hospice care requires the same attention as any other “unattended” death), their arrival, the arrival of the mortuary service and their departure with the body of my Elder, my friend. And then, the long drive home, trying to regain my bearings.

Somewhere along the twisting roads of the Northern California mountains, heading inland from my friends’ seaside home, I came to a realization. Nobody ever really dies alone. Granted, not all die surrounded by friends and family in the midst of a time of prayer. I trust that it was a blessing to my Elder, my friend, as the last words he heard on this earth were the prayers of his pastor. But as much as Jesus was with us in that moment, Christ is here, today, with every one of us.

Why, then, does it seem like so many choose to let go of the last threads of this life when all their fellow-humans have left the room? Maybe a lot of us just wait…until there aren’t so many interruptions to our conversation with Him.

Sometimes a Watched Pot Boils – Part One

“A watched pot never boils…and patients never die while someone sits vigil.” There are exceptions, though. This morning, just to prove to myself what I’d seen, I watched a pot come to a boil. But still, the adage is well-founded. It’s not something I would do very often.

The fact is, patients do most frequently die when alone. Some will hold on for that one last special visit. Some seem to remain long enough to hear the conclusion of a particularly interesting conversation. But it is in the little breaks in a vigil, when everyone leaves the bedside to see the new grandbaby, or the primary caregiver needs just one quick cigarette, or when a loved one comes away to the desk to escort the next shift’s visitor to the room…

Saturday, 2:00 p.m. – I was the one to find that he’d gone. The long-term care facility’s nurse had directed me to the room and said she’d be along in just a moment. She’d been sitting, reading to him, watching his breathing grow slower over the past half hour.

Saturday, 9:00 a.m. – Some of the family had gathered at our favorite breakfast place. On our way out – “Would you mind stopping by to check on Dad? He’s not doing too well, and I know he’d love to see you.” I promised I would go after the funeral. After all, the request was made by a son just hours before his mother’s funeral. His mother and father had long-since divorced and remarried others. I’d buried the step-father some months earlier. So, that afternoon, I left the widow’s funeral for the local long-term care facility where I entered her ex-husband’s room to find that he’d died.

Saturday, 3:00 p.m. – Because I’ve trained for, served extensively at, and taught others in making an appropriate death notification, I was asked (and it seemed only right for me) to handle this one. I made a couple of phone calls to determine where the family had gathered before dispersing to their distant homes. As I drove to the hotel restaurant at which they’d gathered, I prayed that I would be able to gather the four men in order to break the news all at once. But the potential of one being in his hotel room, another in the bar, one at a table in the restaurant, and perhaps the fourth standing outside saying goodbye to friends or relatives…I imagined they might make assumptions about the purpose for my visit. I was prepared for a less-than-optimal situation.

But when I walked in, the four brothers were standing together, engaged in conversation with one another, with everyone else in rapt discussions around various tables, seemingly oblivious to my presence. The second youngest saw me, welcomed me, and asked if I had stopped off to see his dad. With just the four brothers, I was able to explain that I’d stopped by, that the nurse directed me to his current room, but when I spoke to him he was unresponsive and, in fact, I had called the nurse into the room to confirm my suspicions. “She did, and apparently in the couple of minutes he was alone, he had died.” (I try to, and train others to break the process down into seven gradually leading elements. Given the circumstances, I was very glad to come up with even six steps.)

Shortly thereafter I found myself in the center of the hotel bar, joined hand-in-hand with a circle of thirty-some family and friends, praying with them. Having gathered to mourn and reminisce together, a new grief, anticipated but still shocking in its timing, was introduced. One of the daughters-in-law asked afterward, “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” We were in good humor at that point, so I responded, “You mean, have I ever done a mother’s funeral, then left to visit the father, her ex-husband, been the one to find the body, come to the post-funeral family dinner and break the news of the second death to the family? No, I’m not sure that’s ever happened to anyone before.”

But this morning, I stood in my kitchen and watched a pot come to a boil. It’s not something I would do very often. But I’ll tell you why in part two.

The Gracious Bereaved: Why sincerity in our hearts trumps the stupidity of our words

In its early stages: Cute.

My friend explained it this way. The visitor had nearly exhausted her. Pancreatic cancer left her with significantly less stamina than the hour-long visit had required, even though the conversation was primarily a monologue as the visitor related a litany of her own difficulties in the areas of health, relationships, and finances. “At least she knew not to ask, ‘How are you?’” my friend said.

But when I offered my regrets that she had been subjected to all that, my dying friend stunned me. “It was nice to have someone come to visit me.”

In light of that, and some comments on the last two posts, let me reiterate a point or two. First, those things on the list of what not to say? They’re things that have really been said. (I’ve said some myself.) I share them frequently, to dispell your fear of saying the wrong thing. You will, of course. But that no matter how badly you stumble, others have said far worse…and survived.

As it progresses: Awkward.

A second restatement, from the first of these three posts, is that questions (Other than, “How are you?”) are better than statements. But even questions are often unnecessary. The bereaved and dying are often longing for someone to sit quietly and listen. Let them know you’re really there (and not looking for the first opportunity to run from the room), prompt them with a question or two if necessary, and listen. “Bearing silent witness to their suffering,” said a friend, “is sometimes all you can do. But it’s often everything they need.” To simply know that someone knows something of our pain can mean more than all the words of all the philosophers, theologians, and Helen Steiner Rice wannabees combined.

Understand, though, that one of the elements of grief is Anger. There are times when the outrage of disease, disability, and imminent death results in lashing out at even those closest to us, even our primary caregivers. Even in those moments, however, the importance of presence still overcomes ridiculously inept statements. And that’s not just because the bereaved and dying are desperate for company.

Ultimately: Incurable.

I was the one in the hospital bed. Widespread systems failures from an unknown cause left me attached to (and invaded by) most of the kinds of tubes and wires owned by Castleview Hospital in Price, Utah. I was conscious, and not terribly glad to be. No one from the congregation I served came to visit. My ministry supervisor, though, had called to assure me that the district office was praying for me. Still, I was feeling a bit desperate for company. But when a local ministry colleague arrived, he didn’t speak at first, clearly aghast at the sight. His eventual question was “How are you?” I managed not to respond verbally. (And it wouldn’t have been “Fine, and you?”)

But I was glad he came to visit. Admittedly, I was desperate for someone who was there to see me, rather than merely the charts, monitors, and reports in which my life had become enmeshed. So, despite incredulity at his question, I realized that I’d asked the same question just as inappropriately. I vowed there and then to try to stop.

And so the list was born. It’s up to “Fifty Things Not To Say to the Bereaved.” There will be more. I will keep showing up, listening, asking questions as necessary, and occasionally opening my mouth only to shock myself at how the sincerity of my heart can result in such stupidity in my words.

I hope not to presume too much upon it, but I do thank God for the graciousness of the bereaved. So far, none of them have thrown me out. And so I go, and listen, and ask questions as necessary, and pray that you find the courage to do the same.