Other "Thinking Drafts" and writing by Keith Drury -- http://www.indwes.edu/tuesday .

 Grief journal entries

(Over a two year period, at losing a father and a brother)

At first I was simply numb. At the funeral I barely cried, wasn't emotional, and didn't exactly know how to act. No one taught me how to grieve. There are no classes in grief. I didn't know how to cry and get it over with. And I felt jealous about others who seemed to be able to cry openly, somehow releasing their grief with each heaving sob. Within weeks my only brother dies, followed by my dad's death. I busied myself with rearranging life in my mind to account for the loss. No longer could I call my Dad to tell him some bit of news I had picked up about which preacher was preaching a trial sermon where. No longer could I even hope for a few hours with my brother Elmer to talk about what a mess the church was in and how we seemed to know exactly how to fix it.

Actually, I didn't do these kinds of things very often, but I could have. That's what I miss so much, being able to talk, call, write, visit. Now I feel abandoned. I am all alone. Sure, there is Sharon, my Mom, JoAn... all precious women. But where are the men I loved so dearly. Dad I need you... now more than ever. Elmer where are you now? I've got a big decision ahead of me and I need to talk to you. Now. Silence. Deafening silence. They can't answer me now. They are beyond my reach. All my hungering for one more talk is in vain. They are gone. Forever. They will never come to me. I will go to them.

People don't help much when you're grieving. They try. Generally they fail. They don't know what to say. That's the problem, they think they have to say something. Mostly they'd do better just being there. But, for most people, they don't know how to handle a person in grief. We make them nervous. I can see their desperate looks when they encounter me. "Should I talk about it?" they were saying to themselves. I can see their nervousness as they try to decide what to say. Whatever they decide doesn't matter. I can't stand it when they talk. I can't stand it when they don't.

It's hard to figure out the effect of grief on the rest of life. I feel so lonely, so abandoned, forsaken, deserted. But most of all I feel lazy. I never realized how debilitating grief is. It's as if I am trudging through waist-deep snow. Every step is work. My life is running in slow motion. I feel tired, worn out, sleepy. Is this connected with grief? I've never been a lazy person. Motivated... whirlwind... aggressive, these are the words used to describe me. But right now I'm lazy. Motivation has leaked out.

"He's with God" they all tell me now. Or they say "He's in God's hands." A few say "Isn't it good to know he was ready?" They all say "God knows best, doesn't he?" It is as if I am a first grader. I guess these are the kinds of things you are supposed to say to grieving people. Like "How are you doing today?" Or "Looks like it's going to rain." Such is the hollow small talk which lubricates social life. People say these things because they don't know what to really say. They think it helps. It doesn't.

Why did God let this happen? In a way I could have handled it better five years earlier or five years later. Why now? If God is God then can't He plan better than this? This is the year I most need my Dad. I know he wasn't much anymore... kidneys gone, heart barely beating, legs amputated... but his mind was still there. And his spirit. And that's what I need now. I need to talk to him. I want one more quiet little chat about where I'm headed. I want to hear one more time his quiet affirming confidence in his sons "doing a great work for God." I miss this. I used to dread driving 12 hours to see him. The kids would get cranky, Sharon would be so worn out, and sleeping on the floor would sometimes take a week to recover from. I did it more than 20 times those last two years. And during those visits there was often less than five minutes of really meaningful conversation. Just five minutes. I'd drive to China for those five minutes now.

I wasn't really that close to my brother. At least the way some families are. We seldom wrote to each other. Only occasionally did we call each other. And the times we got together were usually limited to a few hours or so. He was on his way through town and would stop at my home or office for a few hours. Or, I would pass through his town and stop for an evening of visiting. Occasionally our travel schedules would cross on the road and we'd catch a lunch or a coffee break together. I suppose the total time we spent together in an average year would not exceed a few days.

Why do I miss him so? How could these few hours, with months between, be so important to me now? How could this loss make such a difference in the rest of the hours. I don't understand. I do know that all 365 days of my year are now quite different because of the loss of these few hours.

But, why? Why him? Why both? Why now?
These are questions too big for me to answer.
Only God knows. And He won't tell me.

Mom is here with us first winter alone. She's still in a daze. Barely remembers the dates. Then she hurt her back with a crushed vertebra walking in the mall. I cry foul! It's not fair, God. She cared for Dad all those years... pouring herself out for him... never going to the doctor herself to get the care she really needed... imprisoned in the house as full time nursemaid... now, for the first time in years she can go the mall without worrying about Dad... and her vertebra crushes. It's just not fair. Please God, give her some good years of painless joy now. It's her turn, You know.

Grief is a strange thing... it's periodic. It goes away, seemingly forever, then returns with a renewed vengeance. Sometimes I think "I've gotten over it now." Then a whole new sense of emptiness tumbles in on me. It sneaks up on my blind side. Sure, these times seem further apart now. But the depth of feeling at each occurrence is no less painful. But, being further apart doesn't make them easier.

Sometimes I have a good time in between. Then I feel guilty. "I shouldn't be feeling this good," I tell myself. Dad and Elmer are dead, and I'm having a good time. Sometimes I tell myself "They would want me to enjoy life," but these words seem hollow. Are they enjoying life? Where are they? Are they real? I am real, but I am embodied. Their bodies are buried in the cold ground this winter. I believe their Spirits are somewhere. I wonder exactly where.

I try to recite the cliches about "being with the Lord" and "they are far happier now," but I'm not sure I always believe them with absolute confidence. Not that either would be anywhere but with God. But occasionally I wonder about the mystery of afterlife. Is there is a trickle of doubt flowing among my faith? But the alternative is much worse. Is there nothing after life? Are we a mere collection of molecules which evaporate at death? Is there no invisible world? Is all I have believed imaginary? Is living in vain? That doesn't make sense either. It is easier to believe the cliches.

But belief is not always steady. Sometimes it is stronger, at other times weaker, and often it is mixed with doubt. I hope, over time, the trend is gradually up—toward a stronger faith. But my faith sometimes experiences a bear market.

Anger. I've heard of people getting angry with God. But I've never been. But I kind of feel that way sometimes. Not about Dad. His "time had come" I guess. Though that doesn't make it easier for me. But, about my only brother, Elmer. His time hadn't. It's not fair. He was needed here. JoAn needs him, still does. And Scott needs him, high school seniors shouldn't be fatherless. And Kathy... what an enigma. Who ever knows what she's thinking? Quiet people like this often have even deeper needs than people who wear their emotions on their cheeks. She is about to graduate from Houghton, and is headed into life... if only she could talk to her dad about what to do next. But she can't. None of us can. God, it's not fair. I don't understand. God... Why? Why now? Why?

I've wondered a lot about what really killed Elmer? Was it really a heart attack? Or was it the church? Was the pressure as a college development man too great? What if he had simply done his job "good enough" like most everyone else does? Would he still be alive? He refused to coast. He gave 110%. He burned the candle at both ends. So do I. Was he a hero? Or was he a fool? What of my candle? Should I snuff out one end?

I've got to answer that letter from JoAn. It's been lying here for several months now. What do you say to a young widow? Will it help? I dreaded opening it. Does she really want to hear back? Or is she just needing someone to listen... without talking back? Calling is worse. I called several times right after Elmer died. She seemed grateful. But, as time goes on, I sense I remind her of tragedy, not joy. Would she rather I not call at all? That's what I'm doing. Or rather, not doing. But I feel guilty about it. What about my nephew and niece, Scott and Kathy? Maybe I remind them of their Dad? Maybe when they hear my voice they choke up? Maybe they're mad at God and I remind them of Elmer's connection to the church? I wonder... I wish I could quickly explain all this to them. But I can't even explain it to myself.

My kids have been robbed. David and John need an uncle. Elmer didn't come very often... I can't remember any Christmas we spent together for a long time. But when he came the whole house buzzed. Whatever the kids were doing they stopped. At first to hear him make that crazy horn sound when he "beeped his nose." Later to hear him joke and laugh and solve every problem of the Church and college. Will they remember him? Did they see him enough to catch what he was? Will they grow up positive people trying to be like their uncle? I hope so, but I'm afraid they didn't get enough exposure. Those times were full of laughter. That's why the kids were so attracted to the living room. When Elmer came the house was full of laughter. I laughed too. I don't laugh enough anymore.

Elmer died like he wanted to. I remember when he met me at the airport in Allentown, when Dad was suffering so in his declining years. He shook his head and said "He's slipping lower and lower, Keith." Then, after a moment of mutual silence he pointed to a concrete wall across from the entrance to the airport. "See that wall?" he asked. I nodded. "If that's the end of my life, I want to run all the way 'til I hit the wall." He did.

It's hard to call Mom now. I call her anyway... almost every day. But it's hard. We chatter about details of her life, her church, the kids, my work, the weather, but we usually leave unsaid what we're really thinking. We don't talk about Dad or Elmer much. We sort of play this game together as if nothing had ever happened. Is this good? Or is it an unhealthy denial? I'm not sure. I just do it every day.

As time passes grief worsens. I thought it was worst at first, then it got better with each passing month. In a way that's true, but in another way it misrepresents what really happens. It gets worse. Sometimes when I am driving out on the open lonely road I just begin to cry... for no reason it seems. I know the reason. I'm lonely. I feel abandoned, isolated, alone. I want to be with my Dad... or my only brother. And I can't. Others forget. It's as if they hardly existed at all. I am asked "Now, when was it that your Dad died?" as if it was merely a fact on file... like my birth date or Social Security number. I answer mechanically and unemotionally. They probably think "He's taking this well." I'm not. I am never far from these deaths. They are always near me, like the air I breathe. And a year later I don't feel much better. As everyone else forgets I remember more.

I'm kind of getting over grief now. It's been a while since I even wrote about it. Kind of, that is. Sometimes I go for several days—even a week—without thinking of it. It's been well over a year. Some would probably say "it's about time." They have already forgotten. "That's life, you know." My dad and brother have been assigned to some immaterial place called "history." They are in good company in the musty archives of church history. Life marches on. The Western Pennsylvania district, Penn Jersey District, The Stroudsburg Church, The Croswell Church, United Wesleyan, Central College... all roll with their daily duties as if these two men played minor roles somewhere far back in time.

Sometimes I too act this way. Elmer is a foggy memory... as if he is on some extended trip somewhere and will be home any time now. And Dad is on his way to dialysis, and won't be back for a while yet. Reminiscences. Memories. Dreams. People of the past, who like old family pictures, are now identified with a name and a single anecdote. I'm getting over it I guess. I do this too.

I'll never really get over it. Not completely. It's not like a cold or the flu. You get sick, get better, then return to normal life as if you've never had it. Death is more like an amputation. When Dad had his legs cut off, he improved, got better, and was finally released from the hospital. His therapy enabled him to do all kinds of normal things again. When he was fitted with an prosthesis for each leg he even learned to walk again. But things were never really the same. In a hundred little ways he was reminded of his missing legs every day. A prosthesis isn't a real leg. With "his legs on" others could hardly tell. He could tell. His legs were gone. Forever. That's the way it is with Dad and Elmer. I'll really never "get over" their amputation from my life. I can put on a good front. "With my legs on" others think I've gotten over it. But really I haven't. I never will. In a hundred little ways I am reminded of these missing loved ones. They are gone, forever. Amputated.

Earle Wilson talked to me about Elmer. Earle was close to Elmer. He said sometimes when he is alone traveling sometimes he breaks out into tears about Elmer's death. What was it about Elmer that makes a macho-type leader like Earle melt into tears more than a year after he's gone? I hope someone cries for me when I'm dead.

Frankly, most of my grief is self pity. I'm not really feeling bad for my dad and brother. I feel bad for me. I miss them for what they can do for me. I miss what I got from our conversations. I miss having their invisible support for my own ministry or "career." What of Mom... she is grieving her husband. Certainly this is much worse than grieving a father. And what of JoAn? She has lost her life-long lover. Certainly this is much worse than losing a brother. Why do I still grieve? They are entitled to their fair share of grief. The legitimate grieving time for me has expired.

Aloneness. That's what I feel most. Dad's gone. Elmer's gone. It's me alone now. Two people I could turn to are gone. Not that I turned to them enough when I could have. But I always knew I could. Now I feel alone, naked, exposed. I am stripped of some necessary of indefinable security I need. I wasn't even aware of how much I needed it. But it's gone. Forever. That's the trouble with death, it is forever.

Resurrection and hope. What is heaven like? I know there is life beyond the grave, but, not this kind of life. A much better life? I think not. Heaven is not an improved earth. It is totally different. Yes, better in a way, for we best understand it as superior by calling it "better." We suspect heaven is different from here in degree rather than kind. But heaven is not simply a souped-up earth. It is a totally different sphere of being. I don't fully understand how a body can get resurrected and reunited with its' spirit. I think they taught me how in seminary, but I've forgotten it. Actually, I've never thought much about the resurrection, except at Easter. But it's been on my mind lately. I admit that sometimes I have glimmers of doubt. But what's the alternative? If I do not believe the resurrection, then the Bible is a myth and God cannot be trusted. If God can not be trusted then life is a mockery... merely a high-level animal existence. This is no real alternative. Resurrection may be hard to understand, or even hard to believe at times, but it stretches the mind far less than nihilism. I believe in resurrection.

On that basis, I have hope. I yearn for a reunion somewhere, somehow, in that state of being the Bible calls heaven. Maybe then I'll have another of those little quiet chats with my dad. I'll have one of those laughing reunions with my brother. I don't know exactly where. I don't know how. But I choose to believe it will happen. If Christ was raised, shall not the rest of us rise? And if Christ be not raised, what does anything else matter. I choose to believe in resurrection. It is a choice, not a feeling.

Why has grief so preoccupied me? The death of my father and brother had far more effect on me than they should have. Why? I think I know. It's not just because I miss them, though that was certainly the first factor. The reason my grief lasts is because it reminds me of my own mortality. It reminds me that every happy experience I create here, will someday be left behind. It reminds me that the closer I build relationships the more difficult it will be to part. It reminds me that my exit date is out there lingering for me, waiting anxiously for me to catch up to it. Life is short... always shorter than you think it should be. This is the truth of death. Life is a mist. My life is a mist.

So what? What good comes out of all this? I don't know how many years I have left. I could have 50 years. I could have a month. What have I learned for these remaining years, more or less? What is the permanent influence of these two deaths on my life? What is the conclusion of the whole matter? After all, I can't keep looking backwards... what does God want to teach me through all this for the rest of my life? It is clear. I remember that little plaque my mom hung right above my childhood bed. It was a sort of blue mirror with fancy lettering on it. I remember lying awake sometimes and reading it as a child. Funny how it has kept coming back to me these last two years. On that little plaque is the essence of my new commitment based on these deaths. It will be the new banner of my life:

"Only one life, 'twill soon be past...
Only what's done for Christ will last."

So what do you think?

To contribute to the thinking on this issue e-mail your response to Tuesday@indwes.edu