Archives for posts with tag: grief

tombstone-with-broken-vaseHere’s my first Blasts from the Past installment. Even though this post is a decade old, it still hits particularly close to home, as I’ve been thinking about this story a lot over the past year and a half since my sister died. I even called the chaplain to thank him for his example in grieving in grace; knowing that it’s okay to let your sorrow show, seeking and accepting grace from others, but also to give others grace as they navigate the turbulent waters of loving you in your grief.

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Till Death Do Us Part

In all my quarter-life thoughts about marriage, this is not a phrase I have spent enough time contemplating, or at least not in the right way. I have recently realized that in spending a considerable amount of time weighing the gravity of the lifetime commitment of “to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, till death do us part,” I have overlooked the eternal ramifications of “for this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.”

A week ago, one of our chaplains lost his wife to a long battle with a particularly rare form of cancer. He’s taking it very hard, as well he should. He’s lost the women who he fell in love with at first sight. I’ve heard the story once or twice, but it’s just as beautiful no matter how many times I hear it.  Read the rest of this entry »

Poets and philosophers have waxed poetic about it since the first icy thread rent the first broken heart. They fill tomes and tombs with tales tall and true. Yet, I’ve spent more than a year trying to conjure some eloquent expression and not a one finds the grace to relent. No, they twist and trip down my tangled tongue then to stick to the tip, frozen, unmoving, unyielding, unsaid. There comes no song; no lay of lament. No sonnet to silence a cacophonous confusion. Only the aftermath, the end; the beginning of some perverted version of what ought to have been. All that is left in the din and the darkness is a single ray, as clear and cruel as the night is dirty and dank. Ruthlessly, it rings with what I’ve always known: The words do not come because, in truth, there are none.

It’s not elegant.
It’s not poetic.
It’s raw.
It’s ragged.
It’s real.

It’s painful and it’s plain:

My sister is dead.