When you have lost a dear friend or relative, a sense of grief and loss always remains nearby, walking just ahead, beside or behind you.
A few months ago, Bob died. He had always been there, not just as a brother-in-law, but more like a brother and friend. When he died, it brought into focus a half century of great memories, memories now shaded with sadness. A day after his death a phone call from a family member meant that grief would not simply walk ahead, but turn and face me, for the caller asked me to take the funeral. Although I had trained for and worked in pastoral ministry, I had little experience conducting funerals. To conduct one for someone I loved presented a special challenge.
Grief no longer walked ahead of me. It had turned and stared directly into my face. I found myself looking back into 200 tear-filled eyes and knew that tradition and culture demanded that I hold back my tears and force my voice to remain strong and true. Three years of public speaking and practice preaching classes hadn’t prepared me for this. When my son sang a solo and Bob’s children read eulogies without breaking down, I knew I had to hold together. Somehow we all made it through and I congratulated myself, thinking it can’t get worse than this.
However, grief and loss doesn’t leave you; it turns and walks beside you, ever ready to tap on your shoulder and remind you of its nearness. Sometimes a sideways glance will catch you unaware. That happened on a joyous occasion just days ago. Anna’s sister celebrated a milestone birthday that brought the whole family together. This marked the first time they gathered since Bob’s funeral – at a restaurant with husbands and wives seated side by side or opposite across the table. Anna and I sat on one side with Bob’s wife, Marg, next to Anna. As we ate, fun, jokes and laughter danced around the table. Then it happened. I glanced across Anna to speak to Marg and noticed one chair stood empty directly across from Marg. Bob’s chair, left empty by design or accident in honour of Bob.
Whatever I had planned to say froze in my throat. My eyes, the same eyes that had stayed dry at the funeral, now filled with tears. I tried to speak to Anna, to point out the symbolism of the empty chair, but the voice that had not let me down previously, failed. While the party continued, I sat weeping, unseen by the folks around me. I hoped no one had noticed me: an old man crying on what should have been a joyous occasion. I felt sensitive about it, because I cried easily as a child. The taunt of an aunt was, “God made Ray with his bladder too close to his eyes.”
I expect that one day when I think of Bob, grief and loss will no longer appear at my shoulder. It will have moved behind me, still there when I look for it, but casting a much dimmer shadow. I know this will happen because when my brother, Harry, comes to mind things are different. Harry died in the 1970s. I can glance behind and see grief waving at me over the decades as I remember him. The words of his funeral service have faded and I see beyond to the great memories of brother Harry.
Tears eventually fade into smiles and laughter.