An examination of loss
The first person I knew that died was my grandma. I distinctly remember feeling like I couldn't feel as sad as I thought I was supposed to feel because it just didn't make sense to me that she would be gone forever. Not only did I feel like I would see her again, but that she wasn't very far away.
When I was in elementary school a boy close to my age died in an accident involving another young family member and a firearm. I remember being confused that one day he was there and then he was gone. I hadn't seen anything happen or change, he was just gone. I knew the story of what happened, but it still made so little sense to me how he could just be gone, the emotion I remember the strongest is overwhelming confusion.
In 5th grade Fauna, who had been in my class for most of my life and was in my girl scout troop lead by my mom, was trapped in a fire. I think that was the first time I felt the sadness. Classmates and teachers taped notes to her locker telling her we loved her and would miss her. I remember finding a letter my mom had written among the crowded pieces of remembrance. I remember some the words of the note. It said, "If girls scouts are all sisters, then leaders must be big sisters. So to my little sister Fauna..." I stood in front of her locker crying as I read that note over and over. At her funeral we sang the song "We are marching in the light of God" because she had lead her church in singing it the week before.
Having a major experience with death every year or so seemed like it came with the territory of living in Alaska. The land was tough, life was tough, and we were tough. But the town was small. When someone died, it was an experience for the whole community, and that is how I learned to deal with loss. Everyone you saw at the grocery store was dealing with it too, your friends and family all knew what had happened. I don't remember many discussions about the tragic loss of loved ones, but everyone knew we were hurting together.
Deaths got harder as I got older. One of my very close friend's parents left us in high school. We silently grieved together. This one was very close to home and it stung. I felt helpless to make it sting less for myself and my friend. I think it was so acutely overwhelming that though I thought and continue to think about it, I have never really talked with anyone about what happened. No one that I was aware of knew how to talk about it. It seemed like the only thing we knew to do was keep going.
Then there was Nick. I sat by Nick every day in band for years. I knew Nick's heart, I watched him develop, he influenced me, he was gifted, and flawed, and loving, and wonderful. I remember the last time I talked with him. He was his sweet, bubbly self, and he every so briefly mentioned things he was ashamed of. About a year later he was gone. I was on my mission so I couldn't attend his funeral. I couldn't be with all of the people who loved him, and deal with his death the way I had dealt with all of the others I had experienced. When I went home for my high school reunion this summer, everyone was still talking about Nick. It's how we handle it, it's how we remember.
Grieving in the isolation of my mission was hard, and the deaths kept coming. A friend with a drug overdose, a very very dear friend ending a long and courageous battle with cancer, my uncle Walter. I loved them and missed them but I ached to experience it with everyone else. Grieving in isolation is like fasting without prayer. It just makes the emptiness get bigger.
Then John. Oh I miss John. He was one of my best friend's husbands and had been a huge influence and force for good in my life. He died in a caving accident. I got to be there for his funeral where his life was celebrated. I talked to his family, his wife, his brother in law, I'm still in contact with his wife and their kids. The weight that was carried together was much lighter, though I still carry it with me.
Today I received sad news of the tragic ending of the life of a friend. Like on my mission, no one I know here knew him. I felt alone in missing him today. It felt like my heart weighed 100 pounds and everything was grey. It was surprising when I looked in the mirror and I looked normal. I made some kinds of attempts at sharing with people. How do you bring that up? I feel the emptiness today, and I am sad because my friend is tragically gone.
I know the doctrine of the Gospel is supposed to erase the sting of death. The doctrine surrounding death seems to me to have an inherent contradiction. It's part of God's plan for us, yet it was something we do not choose that Christ has to save us from. Why did he build it into the plan for it to become a sort of 'enemy' we have to be saved from? Couldn't we have done without it all together somehow? Maybe these questions make the balm of the doctrine of the Resurrection less soothing for me. I appreciate it but it doesn't take away the sting.
Knowledge of eternal life brings comfort, light, and some meaning to death. Maybe it hastens the natural softening of the sting that happens with time. However just because something can be undone does not make it not sting.
I miss you my friend, and I want to celebrate your life. I cannot help being so so sad that you are gone.
When I was in elementary school a boy close to my age died in an accident involving another young family member and a firearm. I remember being confused that one day he was there and then he was gone. I hadn't seen anything happen or change, he was just gone. I knew the story of what happened, but it still made so little sense to me how he could just be gone, the emotion I remember the strongest is overwhelming confusion.
In 5th grade Fauna, who had been in my class for most of my life and was in my girl scout troop lead by my mom, was trapped in a fire. I think that was the first time I felt the sadness. Classmates and teachers taped notes to her locker telling her we loved her and would miss her. I remember finding a letter my mom had written among the crowded pieces of remembrance. I remember some the words of the note. It said, "If girls scouts are all sisters, then leaders must be big sisters. So to my little sister Fauna..." I stood in front of her locker crying as I read that note over and over. At her funeral we sang the song "We are marching in the light of God" because she had lead her church in singing it the week before.
Having a major experience with death every year or so seemed like it came with the territory of living in Alaska. The land was tough, life was tough, and we were tough. But the town was small. When someone died, it was an experience for the whole community, and that is how I learned to deal with loss. Everyone you saw at the grocery store was dealing with it too, your friends and family all knew what had happened. I don't remember many discussions about the tragic loss of loved ones, but everyone knew we were hurting together.
Deaths got harder as I got older. One of my very close friend's parents left us in high school. We silently grieved together. This one was very close to home and it stung. I felt helpless to make it sting less for myself and my friend. I think it was so acutely overwhelming that though I thought and continue to think about it, I have never really talked with anyone about what happened. No one that I was aware of knew how to talk about it. It seemed like the only thing we knew to do was keep going.
Then there was Nick. I sat by Nick every day in band for years. I knew Nick's heart, I watched him develop, he influenced me, he was gifted, and flawed, and loving, and wonderful. I remember the last time I talked with him. He was his sweet, bubbly self, and he every so briefly mentioned things he was ashamed of. About a year later he was gone. I was on my mission so I couldn't attend his funeral. I couldn't be with all of the people who loved him, and deal with his death the way I had dealt with all of the others I had experienced. When I went home for my high school reunion this summer, everyone was still talking about Nick. It's how we handle it, it's how we remember.
Grieving in the isolation of my mission was hard, and the deaths kept coming. A friend with a drug overdose, a very very dear friend ending a long and courageous battle with cancer, my uncle Walter. I loved them and missed them but I ached to experience it with everyone else. Grieving in isolation is like fasting without prayer. It just makes the emptiness get bigger.
Then John. Oh I miss John. He was one of my best friend's husbands and had been a huge influence and force for good in my life. He died in a caving accident. I got to be there for his funeral where his life was celebrated. I talked to his family, his wife, his brother in law, I'm still in contact with his wife and their kids. The weight that was carried together was much lighter, though I still carry it with me.
Today I received sad news of the tragic ending of the life of a friend. Like on my mission, no one I know here knew him. I felt alone in missing him today. It felt like my heart weighed 100 pounds and everything was grey. It was surprising when I looked in the mirror and I looked normal. I made some kinds of attempts at sharing with people. How do you bring that up? I feel the emptiness today, and I am sad because my friend is tragically gone.
I know the doctrine of the Gospel is supposed to erase the sting of death. The doctrine surrounding death seems to me to have an inherent contradiction. It's part of God's plan for us, yet it was something we do not choose that Christ has to save us from. Why did he build it into the plan for it to become a sort of 'enemy' we have to be saved from? Couldn't we have done without it all together somehow? Maybe these questions make the balm of the doctrine of the Resurrection less soothing for me. I appreciate it but it doesn't take away the sting.
Knowledge of eternal life brings comfort, light, and some meaning to death. Maybe it hastens the natural softening of the sting that happens with time. However just because something can be undone does not make it not sting.
I miss you my friend, and I want to celebrate your life. I cannot help being so so sad that you are gone.
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