Grieving Differently

By Miranda J. Chivers

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18 (NIV)

CoVid-19, Nova Scotia’s violent tragedies and my mother’s accident awakened me to the grim reality of death without funerals. Can we find closure in a world where communal gatherings are no longer possible? Over the past two months, many grieved in isolation.

As the stories of sickness and death morphed into an unrecognizable macabre dystopian society, the numbers became just that. No longer people—just horrific, surreal data. After six weeks of self-soothing with junk food and Netflix, cabin fever set in. I craved hugs, female companionship, restaurant food and picnics in the park. 

I was about to be jolted by a deeper shared reality.

In the middle of lockdown—two thousand miles away in her long-term-care home—my 88-year-old mother fell, breaking her hip. My instinct was to fly home, but the limited flights, hotels and my high-risk status made travel impossible. Even if this door opened, the new hospital and nursing home regulations banned visitors. Unable to contribute to mom’s physical or emotional wellbeing, my anxiety fueled further by the awareness that dementia diminished her capacity to advocate for herself. I felt powerless.

I kept thinking, What if. This may kill her.

Then the tragic news from Nova Scotia came like an earthquake in the middle of a hurricane. The media reinforced the challenges of saying goodbye in a time where we must socially distance. And the situation with my mother became more real.

The conversations with my brothers took a somber tone when we realized that if she died, a funeral wasn’t possible now. How could we say goodbye? Was a graveside service even an option? 

Forever the matter-of-fact person, my elder brother’s blunt answer was predictable. 

“I’ll look after the burial and we’ll get together when we can,” he said.

My acknowledgement plagued me with guilt—as if I was dismissing the validity of mom’s existence. I feared this detail being swept away in the inevitable busyness when normality returned. Weddings and funerals seemed to be the only time our family assembled. If we didn’t drop everything when raw emotions prevailed, would we be willing to coordinate our hectic schedules later?

My insides churned. I wanted to hang on to the sacredness of the moment and grab every fragment of memorabilia to push away the regulatory force ripping away my control. I took a deep breath, quietened myself and prayed for peace and perspective.

Funerals are an essential part of life. The element of closure is only one aspect of their importance. In my case, the memories of my father’s death only a decade ago still resonate with both the heaviness and fondness enveloped in the cherished commemoration.

A loved one’s passing is an intimate moment with memories shared by family and friends. This time capsule of communal grief captures the shock of death in a formal memorialization of unparalleled intimacy, containing bittersweet moments that encourage old wounds to heal and lives to change. As our focus shifts to the eternal, relationships renew and deepen. Without this significant event, the clock changes the trauma and the accompanying memorable drama. 

Some may need this spiritual moment to say goodbye. But stepping away from the theatrical still leaves us with the sharp sting of abandonment. This doesn’t go away because of a ceremony.

Although we share our thoughts and feelings with friends and family, the work of mourning is largely a solitary one. Emptiness stabs at our awareness when the telephone rings, or upon waking from our dreams in the middle of the black night.

In the beginning, we cry ourselves to sleep while regretting our sin of not loving enough. The truth that everyone is guilty of never loving enough doesn’t silence the voices in our head.

As time weakens the flow of tears, our compassion for others increases as our loved one’s absence makes us more aware of our own mortality. Closure happens when the pain of missing them becomes a comfortable blanket that helps us sleep at night. 

Mourning isn’t a once and done process completed in a ceremonial salute. It takes months and sometimes years to complete. Fellowship helps us ease into the process by sharing our pain, loneliness and memories with others. But it doesn’t eliminate the personal work that follows the formalities.

Today, in this new society of social distancing, thousands are learning to grieve differently. This temporary new normal of virtual observance catapults us into processing our lament more privately than we may prefer. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. However, it’s important to know that even though we are isolated, we are not alone.

Thankfully, as Christians, our faith enables us to get through these bleak times with the hope and assurance of happier days. Prayer helps us to trust God for our loved one’s eternal salvation. They may be gone, but they are not forgotten. Our belief in everlasting life encourages that they have reached the heavenly shore and one day we will meet again.

Some in our community don’t have this assurance. Grief often appears as a silent enemy. Its victims struggle to find meaning amid loss. As Christians, our responsibility is to be the voice of hope holding candles of support. Death may seem like the end, but in its essence is learning a new way of living. 

Although physical embracing and communal gatherings may be challenged, we must remember that emotional connections through the one’s healing season remain critical. Our compassion and sensitivity to another’s loss may be the lifeblood in their survival.

The LORD is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18 (NIV) 

Miranda J. Chivers is a Canadian writer and author of “Unequally Yoked: Staying Committed to Jesus and Your Unbelieving Spouse” Available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0791LJYX8