Grief: Caught Between Earth and Eternity

Grief. The word seems inadequate to describe something so life changing. I hate the way it sounds and the way it makes me feel. Yet what word would adequately reflect the loss of great love and the broken heart left in its wake? Nothing…really.

Grief is a purgatory of sorts, trapping you between earth and eternity. A gut-wrenching purgatory that few people on the outside can prick.

On Easter Sunday, I went to the cemetery to change my daughter Lindsay’s winter bouquet to a spring bouquet. I took a fold-up chair with me since the weather was so nice. I sat next to her grave, with the tall oaks and pines behind me, their branches filled with chirping birds. I soaked in the warm sunshine of an unusually nice Easter afternoon as a gentle breeze blew. It was nice after all the cold, rainy weather we’ve had.

Across the large cemetery, someone got back in their car and slowly drove up the winding road toward me. The car stopped and a woman in her late 60s got out and asked if she could talk to me. I said sure. Before she reached me, she was sobbing. She said, “I hate to bother you, but I noticed you across the way.” Her husband had died the year before and her brother just a few months ago. Her parents and sister were also buried there. She’d been thinking about how this Easter all her family were there in the cemetery.

I told her I was sorry, and she said, “Can I have a hug?” (Actually, I thought she needed one, but I’m wary of just hugging a stranger nowadays.) So I hugged her and she cried some more. She said, “I don’t know when I’m ever going to get over my husband’s death.” And I said, “Probably never.” Sobbing, she said, “I don’t think I want to get over it.”

Then she stepped back, collected herself, and asked, “Who do you have here?” I said, “My daughter,” and pointed down to Lindsay’s grave. The lady said, “Here I was feeling sorry for myself and you’ve experienced the worst.”

I said, “Loss is loss. Grief is incredibly hard, no matter what. And you’ve been through a lot yourself.” We chatted some more, then I hugged her again and told her I’d be praying for her.

After she left, I sat back down and spent a little more time thinking about Lindsay — her childhood, her dreams, her death…and how empty life feels now without her beautiful smile and contagious laughter.

Later, after I returned home, I reflected on those caught between life and death, heaven and earth — like a parent mourning their child or a widow their spouse — and how they’re often most at home in the cemetery. Strange as it may seem, I realized for the first time in nineteen months how to describe my life. A parallel existence. I’m on the earth, living the same life, doing the same things as before, but I’m also not here because my child is not here. Part of me is gone.

I still eat, sleep, work, and love my family. Life has gone on around me. The sun comes up each day, the earth keeps spinning, people continue to live their lives. Yet it takes a lot of energy to remain in the present and do my daily tasks, which often means going through the motions. I’m not really here. Not totally. Life changed that August day. I still have purpose, but most of the time I feel like I’m on the outside looking in — to each new day, each new season, and new life.

I’m grateful this woman stopped and chatted. In her brokenness, she touched the broken place in my heart. And maybe that’s what life is truly about — those precious moments when you have the chance to bless and be blessed. She stopped because she was hurting and seeking comfort, but in giving that comfort, I was blessed.