Grief

"Talk to me about the truth of religion and I'll listen gladly. Talk to me about the duty of religion and I'll listen submissively. But don't come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don't understand." - C. S. Lewis, from A Grief Observed

Ever since I read my first Lewis book, Mere Christianity, I have been a fan of the collected, insightful, and controlled Lewis. I came to love his work-- books containing approachable theology-- and even in The Problem of Pain, which deals with the implications of a world created by someone perfect containing conflict, that control and cool rationale are still evident. But the man who wrote the words above was not quite so controlled. I think this is so because of the lapse into an accusatory tone-- and I reveled in these words when I read them in July, mainly because I reacted to horrifying loss in much the same way. My single greatest indulgence in grieving is not self-pity: it is accusation.

Examine the syntax of the three sentences of this quotation-- who are they directed to? In each sentence the word "you" is implied. "YOU talk to me about the truth of religion and I'll listen gladly. YOU talk to me about the duty of religion and I'll listen submissively. But YOU, don't come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don't understand." Permeating these sentences is a muted fury at would-be comforters, thinly veiled by a layer of grammar. I can never even hope to be as eloquent as Lewis, but I feel this same painful sentiment deeply. There is no comfort in most of the words spoken to the bereaved, especially not in those comforts pertaining to spirituality. Forget that old standard, "Well, we know he's with the Lord now" -- Should not the world stop on its axis? Should not everyone be so shocked-- struck-- prone, immobilized-- by the blatant and offensive contradiction between the way things should be, and the way things are?

My accusatory spirit toward those who would comfort me has waned, and now only rears its head when I am at my worst. In perhaps the most surprising event in the process of grieving, accusation in me gave way to a certain gentleness that had never been present before (and that I allow to show all too seldom). I have always had a propensity to be weak, or afraid, but never to be gentle towards others-- and that has been the greatest gift bereavement has given me. I may even be audacious enough to consider it an inheritance, afforded to me by one of the gentlest men I have ever known; that is, Granddaddy.

I saved A Grief Observed for when I really did have to grieve, and it was a good decision. In prior days, untouched by grief, I would not have understood. I am a mess, daily, and I don't expect that to change very soon. But as I told my friend Malia the other day, I would never pray for my grief to be lessened or removed. What 2 Corinthians calls "godly sorrow" is healthy, and important, and correct. It is homage and testament to my close relationship with my grandfather-- permanent fixture of my childhood and young adulthood, my second father, symbol of wisdom and integrity. I feel the horror and separation of death, but there is no shame in real sadness-- therefore, for now, I will continue in honest sorrow, that strange process, grief.

"A sad face is good for the heart." - Ecclesiastes 7:3