A few years back, David and I were spending the day at one of our favorite spots on the Oregon Coast, Hug Point. Hug Point is named because of a rock cliff that juts out, creating a little sheltered beach. When the weather is fine, we like to take our chair and a lunch and our books and just sit in the sunshine and watch the waves. The point provides a wind break. It’s a beautiful spot. When the tide is out, you can walk around the point (or “hug the point”) to see a beautiful little waterfall.
This particular beautiful summer day, the tide was out, so we decided to leave most of our things there on the beach and take the short walk around the point to the waterfall. We were just about to round the point when a sneaker wave hit. Sneaker waves are just about like they sound. The sneak up on you! They don’t look any different from the shore than any of the other waves, but they just keep coming. We made a mad dash back for our things, but the wave got there before we did so we were chasing books and bags and magazines down the beach for a few minutes. Nothing was lost, so it’s kind of a fun memory, but we don’t leave our things on the beach anymore – no matter how far out the tide is.
This isn’t the blog I planned to write today. I actually wrote something else earlier this week, but then Barbara Bush passed away.
Mrs. Bush’s passing has hit me hard. I’ve been weepy every time I’ve thought about it. Her death was a sneaker wave.
When I threw out the idea for this blog on my Facebook page, more than one person said I should write about the grief of losing a parent. In the past five or six months several of my close friends have suffered the death of their mom and/or dad, and the world has lost the dearly loved and respected Billy Graham and now Barbara Bush. It’s not that these deaths were unexpected – they were all in their eighties and 90nineties – they lived long, full lives. Many of them had been suffering with illness in their body or their mind. We didn’t want them to linger in their suffering, we may have even felt their passing was a “blessing,” but it is still so hard to let them go.
My Mom has been gone since 2003 and my Dad since 2014. Barbara Bush was born the same year as my Mom – Billy Graham the same year as my Dad, and that has made their deaths feel more personal somehow. I’ve found myself grieving the death of these famous people in a way that has surprised me. I wouldn’t have said so publicly of course, but I’ve been a little irritated when people acted like they lost their best friend or a family member when someone like Robin Williams or Heath Ledger died. It seems a little overly dramatic to weep and carry on over the death of someone you only knew because they were famous. Yet, here I’ve been this week, swallowing down the lump in my throat and wiping away tears every time I think about Barbara Bush and the Bush family.
Grief is a sneaky thing. You don’t always know what will send you spiraling back into grief until you’re in it up to your neck. Like ocean waves that come up unexpectedly and sweep people out to sea, grief also comes in waves. There is the initial wave of loss, and then years can go by with only gentle memories and an occasional longing for the one you lost. Then something seemingly inconsequential happens and you are engulfed in grief as if the loss were happening now. They say there are seven “stages” of grief, but they are not necessarily sequential and you can and go in and out, and back into the different stages at any time or you may experience entirely different emotions as you grieve.
Grief is the great equalizer. Since life itself is terminal, at one time or another we are all going to have to grieve the death of someone we love. Every. Single. One. Of. Us. Live long enough and you will be part of the club – a lifetime member. If your parents make it to old age, it just so happens that the likelihood of losing a parent is greater if you yourself are already in your fifties, or sixties. Consider yourself one of the lucky few if one of your parents is still living when you are in your seventies.
I’m no expert on grief, but I am one of the lifetime members of the grief club. So I say to you, I’m with you. I won’t say “I know how you feel” because everyone grieves a little differently, but I will say you are not alone, and I think there is a small measure of comfort in that. More than that though, for those of us who believe in Jesus, there is hope beyond the grave. 1 Thessalonians 4:13 says,
And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope.
We have hope we will one day see our loved ones again because Jesus promised a place for those who trust him.
Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me. There is more than enough room in my Father’s home. If this were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so that you will always be with me where I am. John 14: 1-3
Let yourself grieve. You are not alone.
Autumn Gospel 