Last September I started a series of blog posts on grief. I never finished due to the fatigue that I suffer from Long COVID. I was just starting to feel better when our son called us about his diagnosis. “I am going to die,” he said. I am writing this partly to offer thanks to all those who have reached out to us with your prayers and condolences. Nothing makes it better, but we have felt supported.
A few weeks ago, Jacquie and I lost our oldest son to pancreatic cancer. He was 49. His wife and two teen-age children are grieving and disoriented from the fact that he was fine until about 10 weeks before his death. So are we.
We got a lot of cards, emails, and personal expressions of love and support from dozens and dozens of people. People told us that they were sorry for our loss. Our Jewish friends and family usually said, “May his memory be a blessing.”
Many of them admitted, “I don’t know what to say.” Some just said, “There are no words.”
In fact, we found those expressions of wordlessness the most comforting. They matched our own feelings of inexpressible grief.
The French philosopher, Montaigne, the inventor of the essay, tells a story about a king who was defeated by his enemy. To torture the king, his enemy had the king’s beloved horse brought forward and then had the horse slain in front of the king. The king cried out in dismay.
The enemy brought forward the king’s closest advisor and best friend and cut his throat. The king howled with grief.
The enemy then brought forward the king’s wife and children, and murdered them before his eyes. The king said nothing.
The enemy was surprised. Why had the king wept for a horse, howled in grief for his friend, but was silent about the loss of his family? The enemy thought he had failed to break the king’s heart.
But, as Montaigne said, “Lesser griefs weep. Great griefs are dumb.”
There are no words.
Statisticians can tote up the numbers murdered in the Holocaust. Historians can trace the development of Hitler’s final solution. But anyone who walks through the Holocaust museums in Washington, D.C. or Jerusalem leaves knowing that there are no words.
We have been fortunate not to have encountered the kind of people that Gardner Taylor, one of the Black Church’s great voices of the 20th century, used to call, “Spiritual Speakeasies.”
I used to meet them in funeral homes when I visited parishioners who had lost loved ones. They, to paraphrase Reinhold Niebuhr, always seemed to be able to describe the furniture of heaven and knew the temperature of hell. They glibly said things like, “we know (insert the name of the deceased) is with (insert the name of a dead grandparent) and they are rejoicing to meet all their other loved ones.”
Well, maybe.
The New Testament tends to describe the afterlife the way you might describe Florida to an Eskimo without the aid of photographs. All you would be able to say is, “There are no polar bears in Florida. No ice. No snow.”
So, Jesus says that there is no marriage there (Matthew 22:30). And Revelation says “there will be no more death’ nor mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.”
To come back to the Eskimo analogy, you could say that Florida has palm trees and white sandy beaches, but it would not mean much to someone who has never seen them. The Eskimo might take your word for it that Florida is a nice place, but would not sign up for trip there anymore than most of us want to be on the next bus to heaven.
Death, especially the death of a child, leaves us with more questions than answers, more grief than confidence.
There is a part of me that cannot believe that my son still lives. But, I have no proof of that, either.
Death is a great mystery.
Maybe when we die, we die.
Maybe our atoms return to the stars from which they came.
Maybe we get to try life all over again.
Or maybe there is something after death that is beyond all that we can ask or think. I hope so.
We do not grieve like those who have no hope. We only grieve like those who have no words.
I hesitate to respond, because truly there are no words. Just to say my heart breaks for you and Jackie and Matt’s family and all who loved him. And after losing my own sons who were born too soon, William Sloane Coffin spoke the words I needed to hear. “God’s was the first of all of our hearts to break”
I am so, so sorry.
I am with those who don’t know what to say but do know that my heart reaches out to you all in ways I cannot put into words except love is love is love.
Last week we scattered the ashes of my oldest brother, the one closest to my age. It was a sudden death. He had COPD, he had Covid, but his death was caused by a fall during the night.
With my parents both gone and now the next oldest person in my family, I find myself the keeper of the memories.
Personally, I appreciate the expressions of sympathy. The words themselves may be insufficient, but the intent is there. These friends know their words are inadequate, but they love me enough to try to asage my grief.
And, so to you I say, I’m sorry; sorry for your son’s death, sorry for your grief, sorry that I cannot say or do anything to make things better for you, my friend.
A beautifully written piece on an impossible subject.
Roger and Jacquie,
I have been thinking about you over the past few days and wondering whether you were OK since I had not received any blogs during the past year. We’re so sorry that you have been ill and suffering from long covid and now needing to deal with such a sudden and unwelcome change for you family. Your words in this and in your prior writings about grief are very meaningful. I will forward them to another friend whose 16 yo granddaughter died suddenly.
We had dinner at TASTE last week after a long hiatus and wondered whether you were still practicing yoga.
Roger, you spent your career especially the last few years before retirement supporting and performing numerous funeral services so caringly.
Your words were always spot on.
I wish I could give you and Jacque that extra caring comfort with words.
Just know my thoughts are with you both as you grieve.
I know your son was raised by 2 very kind, caring Christians and he had to appreciate that.
My sympathy to his wife and 2 children.
Be well and cherish those fun memories
With love
Beth and Jerry Milos
Roger and Jacquie— truly there are no words. Losing a child at any age seems a violation of the natural order. I am so sorry.
Marilyn Jones
As always, your thoughts are beautifully written.
Roger, Janie and I cannot begin to comprehend the pain of your loss. Please accept our love to you and Jacquie..
I lost my son to Cystic Fibrosis at age 21. The only thing that I know is that grief never gets over but it does get better. Small comfort, I know.
Thank you for sharing that Mary.
This post moved me a lot, your pain and your grief is palpable. I am so deeply sorry for your unthinkable loss.