Miscellaneous
5 Tips for Creating a Personal Sendoff
Today’s guest post is from Elizabeth Meyer. Elizabeth is an expert in planning personalized funeral services, and hopes to make funeral planning a less taboo, more approachable subject. After planning a unique funeral for her own father in 2006, she joined Frank E. Campbell funeral home in New York City as Family Services Liaison, where she served Campbell’s and Riverside Memorial Chapel helping families create exceptional services. She earned an MBA from Cass Business School in London and a BA from New York University. She is currently the Funeral Guru at Everplans.com.
All the highlighted words in the following article are live links that allow you to further explore each topic at Everplans’ website.
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When I tell people that I work in the funeral industry, most become speechless. Looking at me questioningly, they’ll mange to ask, “But…why?” I tell them about the funeral I planned for my father 6 years ago. It was the most emotionally challenging thing I’ve ever done, but it was also the most rewarding. I understand the power that a meaningful funeral or memorial service has in the emotional processing, grieving, and healing after a death. And so I use what I learned from my own experience to guide and empower others to create meaningful sendoffs for their loved ones. I deeply understand the power that a meaningful funeral or memorial service has in the emotional processing, grieving, and healing after a death. I hope that by helping people create personalized services I am alleviating some pain for these families.
Obviously, I can’t tell you what specifically will be meaningful to you or loved ones. I can, however, share the lessons I learned from planning my dad’s funeral and the dozens of special funeral and memorial services I’ve helped other families plan. So without further ado, here are my top 5 things to consider when creating a personalized sendoff:
1. Religion:
Religion is an important factor in funeral plans, and religious rites and traditions can dictate everything from whether the body should be buried or cremated, to where and when the service should be held, to what foods should be eaten afterward. If you’ll be following any religious rituals, get a sense of the traditions before you make any solid plans; the specific rituals you’ll follow may override any other desires you might have.
For example, you might want an ornate casket for your loved one and a lot of flowers at the service. But if you’ll be following Jewish customs, you’ll want to purchase a plain pine casket and forgo flowers, which are not traditional. Or, if you’ll be following Catholic customs, you’ll want to have people deliver eulogies and other speeches at a wake before the funeral service, since the service will be a Mass.
My father was raised Jewish, but was much more frequently found in church with my Catholic mother than in synagogue. While this meant that we were not constrained byto any religious norms at his funeral, it also meant that we were left custom-less, working with a blank canvas. If you’re like us, then the next four issues can be really important, since you’ll basically be traveling without a map.
2. Venue:
When my father died, hundreds of friends wanted to support us; we needed a venue that could accommodate everyone. It was most practical to hold the funeral in the large non-denominational chapel at the funeral home. But we had other options, too: we could have held the funeral in a large church or synagogue, at an event space, or even a restaurant if we’d wanted.
Some funerals are quite large and others are very intimate; finding a venue that can cater to the number of guests is what matters most. (Remember: a funeral isn’t a popularity contest.) If you have a large number of guests, you’ll want to be able to fit everyone in the space. On the other hand, if there will be only a handful of guests, you’ll want to choose a smaller venue and create an intimate environment where everyone is comfortable.
So whether you choose a funeral home chapel, a church, mosque, or even your own living room, consider the number of people who will be in attendance, and think about where you’d be most comfortable remembering your loved one.
3. Music
When my father died in the prime of his life, my family and I were beyond distraught. But I didn’t want my dad’s funeral to be overwhelmingly morbid. Rather than concentrate on my family’s loss, I focused on making the event a celebration of my father’s incredible life. And one of the ways I made sure the funeral was a celebration was through music.
We had jazz playing as the guests entered. I chose songs that dad always played at home, and I was comforted listening to Miles Davis and feeling like he was there. At the end of the service, guests were caught off guard when Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” come blasting out of the speakers. By the time the Rolling Stones came on, everyone was dancing in the aisles as they wiped the tears from their eyes. Dad would have loved this!
Having a pianist or organ would not have been appropriate for my dad; he just wasn’t that kind of guy. But that doesn’t mean that it wouldn’t be perfect for your loved one. To figure out the right music for your situation, ask yourself: What were his or her favorite songs? What songs do you associate with him or her? What songs do you think he or she would like people to hear as they say goodbye? By choosing meaningful music you’ll feel like you are giving them a fitting sendoff—and it’s likely that the songs will elicit warm memories, too.
4. Speeches, Eulogies, and Readings
At my dad’s funeral, I selected speakers who knew my dad from different walks of life. My brother and I were the first speakers, and we shared our heartfelt and entertaining memories of our father. Dad’s cousin spoke about growing up with my dad; his, business partner spoke about what an amazing attorney and colleague my dad was; and a couple of friends also spoke about who he was as a man and a friend. By having all the speakers from different times and areas of his life, they were able to jointly create the most beautiful and complete image of my dad.
If possible, I would try to replicate have people deliver that same variety of speeches on a variety of topics. In addition, No matter how entertaining the deceased was, repetitive stories are never fun! Also, it can be nice to consider incorporating readings into the service. These can range from religious passages, hymns, and to poems from either the reader or the deceased favorite poets.
5. Flowers
I knew when I planned my dad’s funeral that flower choice was crucial. My dad was not particularly passionate about flowers—but flowers are so important to my mother, and I knew that she would be consoled by seeing flowers ones flowers that reminded her of dad. So I opted for peonies, the flowers he always brought home to my mom.
Moreover, I opted to cover dad’s casket in a blanket of flowers. I knew it would be too difficult for my mom to walk in and see a casket at the front of the room; this way she was distracted and only saw her favorite flowers.
Flowers can remind us of the person we loved or distract us from our pain. Flowers can be in the colors of the person’s favorite sports team or in the shape of a heart, a cross, or even a golf club. They help set the mood, and they help make a funeral feel like a celebration.
These are my broad guidelines for creating a meaningful funeral. But please, get creative! Have a memorial service on a golf course or in a restaurant. Send ashes into outter space or out to sea. The only solid advice I can give is to honor the person who died with a fitting sendoff. I know it made me feel good about the final gift I gave my dad.
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Grieving as an Atheist: A Guest Post
Today’s post is part of the “Death Perspectives” series; a series of guest posts written by those from different faith, or non-faith, persuasions, explaining how they’ve approached death, bereavement and grief.
Today’s guest post is from Willem Dunham. This from Willem: I’m 55, owned and operated by a pit/lab mix and a batshit crazy rat terrier, both rescues. i believe the greatest gift and responsibility is to bear witness to one another’s lives. to that end, i am chasing down my dream; photography. i occasionally write, philosophize frequently, and wish i’d been braver sooner.
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I am an atheist. A man without religion or belief in any gods.
I have two brothers and two sisters. Each of them has a belief in god or a higher power. Each of them worships their beliefs in some fashion.
Both my parents, and their parents, believed in god, although I can’t recall more than a couple of times they went to church.
Almost four years ago, my mom died. I’d spent the last 2-3 years of her life with her, looking after her. Difficult as it was at times, I wouldn’t trade that time for anything in the world. As much as our parents give us from the time we join this world, they’re trying to teach us to be good people. Toward the end of Mom’s life, she showed me who she was, and allowed me the opportunity to show her the kind of man I am. The hardest thing I will ever do was to watch her draw her last breath on this earth.
People try to find the kindest ways they can to express their sympathies and to try to allay fears and soften pain for someone who is going through this loss. Quite honestly, they don’t help much. I don’t want to hear that Mom is in a better place. For my money, being dead and buried is not better than being alive and moving around. Because America is a predominantly Christian country, most people assume that I believe as they do. That is where hearing that she’s “with the angels now”, “god called her home”, “Jesus needed another angel” isn’t very helpful. I realize (intellectually) that these platitudes give comfort to people who believe, who hope for an afterlife, where you don’t really die, after all. For those of us who believe differently, or believe not at all, this isn’t comfort for us…it’s comfort for the speaker.
The question comes around, then, to where does a nonbeliever find comfort and solace in these times? I can speak only for myself, when I say this: I have faith. Faith in the human spirit, in the resilience of the heart, in the ability of the mind to hold fast to dear memories of perished loved ones. I find little ways to keep Mom present in my life.
Her father was a baker, and she naturally had a love of baked goods. While I enjoy cooking, baking has never really been of interest to me. Until, of course, she couldn’t keep regular food down and would ask and ask for a pie, a cake, some cookies. So, I learned to bake for her. And, in doing it for someone I treasured, I learned to love it. Now, each time I get in the kitchen to bake something, it’s as if she’s right there “helping” like she did. It’s silliness and joking. It’s time I got to have with her, where we were just hanging out and talking.
Mom loved to drive. She’d told me stories of growing up, saving money so she could give it to her Mother for gas in the car, so they could “go for a drive”. As she got older, she had to give driving up, as she just didn’t feel she was safe on the road. Coming from two people who loved roadtrips and travel, I have the wanderlust as well. When she could no longer drive, I would take her for a ride. Some nights, it was the only way she could sleep…sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the window. In the last few years of her life, we took roadtrips to places she’d wanted to see. And we loved it. She’d make us sandwiches for the trip, we’d sing to the radio, talk, and ride in comfortable silence.
I have some of her things, the ones that speak to the things she loved to do. I have her oil paints, brushes and canvases. I will learn to paint, to keep her brushes active. I have her sewing machine, and will learn to do a better job of sewing, so I can have an erstwhile hug in the things I learn to make. When I finally settle in someplace, I will grow roses, so I might find the peace in them that she did. I have an old sweater she wore all the time. I have it sealed up in a bag, so it will hold her smell. When I get truly lonely, I can take that out and have her with me.
I have photographs of my mother from different ages in her life. Some are shy and awkward, as teenage girls can be. Some are stunning examples of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever loved. Others show her propensity for silly faces and antics. I am a photographer, and have my own captured moments that I can relive looking at them.
None of these things takes away the pain, the feeling of loss. Time is taking the sharp edges off, but it still remains. I think it will be with me always. I do have small ways to remember, to keep her a part of my world, a part of my life. I still talk to her, ask her opinions, wish she were with me when I travel and see new things.
Rather than rely on religious doctrine and a belief that she’s “up there” waiting for us to be reunited, I take the time to hug babies…they’re squishy and smell funny. Kind of like Mom. I remember. I tell stories, and remember the parts of herself as a person that she trusted with me, trusted to my memory and ideas of her as a person.
In closing, I’d just like to say that, for the people who believe in heaven and the idea of being reunited with all their loved ones… I really hope that’s true for you.
*****
Per the Pew Research Center, the fastest growing religious segment in America are those who claim to be “unaffiliated”, which is comprised mostly of atheists and agnostics. As a Christian myself, I’m frequently disturbed by the false assumptions and harsh judgments that my fellow believers make towards atheists. I’m especially thankful for Willem and his willingness to allow a glimpse into his life and how his beliefs have informed his grief process. It’s particularly valuable for those of us who are religious, as we too can learn something from Willem’s experiences.
12 Things My Father Taught Me about Being a Funeral Director
My dad is on the left, my grandfather is holding my son (four months old at the time of the photo) and myself on the right.
1. Lead by Example.
Like many new fathers, my first born has caused me to re-evaluate myself and my priorities, making me feel nervously unprepared to be the example that I now am.
In many ways, I’ve emulated my father. Though I may not consciously know how to be a great father, there’s a real sense that I can trust the instincts my dad’s instilled.
2. Being Caleb is better than being Superman.
My son – if he so chooses – will be the 7th generation of Wilde funeral directors. Not only am I the 6th generation funeral director on my paternal side, but I would have been the 5th generation on my maternal side had my mom decided to join her father’s funeral business. I’m a thoroughbred funeral director.
After 11 generations of my progenitors breathing formalin fumes, I have yet to develop a superpower. And even though I’ve wanted to be in the linage of Superman since I saw Christopher Reeves don blue tights, I’m content just being Caleb. After all, it’s Caleb that my dad has always loved.
3. Presence is better than Presents.
The greatest gift my dad ever game me was his time. As a funeral director and a new father, I realize how hard it was for him to make time for me. He could have worked harder, made more money and given me cooler things, better cars, etc. Instead, he worked less, made less money and gave me himself.
4. Service over Business.
People are an end in and of themselves. Money is a means. This I know, for my father showed me so.
5. Respect Your Elders.
My grandfather was born on the second floor of the funeral home and was embalming bodies by the age of fourteen (so he says). For dramatic effect, Pop-Pop secretly hopes he’ll die while embalming a body.
Upon starting at the funeral home nearly a decade ago, I’ve studied my grandfather like a text book and, as a result, I think I could pass the “Good Funeral Director” test. Oddly enough, it’s by respecting my elders that I’ve been prepared for the future.
6. Smile. Look people in the eye and shake their hand.
It’s a lost art. But, it’s an art that I’ve regularly seen my dad practice.
7. Everyone Has a Story.
My dad is one of the most tolerant people I know – partially because he has an understanding personality and partially because the funeral business makes tolerance a necessity. While others pigeon hole certain groups that are “different,” I listen to their story. I want to hear their story because I’ve always seen my dad be more interested in people than kowtowing to the interests of his tribe.
8. “If you did something wrong, it’d be in the newspaper the day before you did it.”
At first, I wasn’t a fan of having a legacy I didn’t create. Everybody knows that I’m a Wilde. And everybody has an expectation that I SHOULD be just like the rest of my family. When I was younger, the “Wilde” name was a restraint, now I wear it – not as a burden – but as a badge.
9. Integrity.
Integrity is what you do when nobody is looking. In funeral service, there’s many times when “nobody is looking”. And every time I’ve secretly watched my dad, I’ve seen him doing right … whether at home or at the funeral home.
10. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
How many times has my present strength been arrested by worrying about what’s ahead? Be present … we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
11. Laugh as often as you can.
Whether it was watching The Three Stooges, Monty Python or his propensity to flatulate, my dad always found a way to make me laugh.
12. “Not everybody is as lucky as you are.”
Fathers are rarely neutral figures. They’ve either been monumental failures or, well, father figures. I’m lucky. And while not everyone is as lucky as I am, everyone has the opportunity to be the best they can be and make their son or daughter as lucky as I was. And my hope for this my first Father’s Day is that my son will one day be counted among the lucky.
A Death I Don’t Understand
A friend of mine disappeared. I mean, left with only the clothes on his back. Borrowed clothes, at that. He left his phone. His wallet. Everything. And he just went away.
Several days passed. Then weeks. Months. Nothing. No word. A friend of ours traveled on foot, looking for him. Others pressed the police. The media. Anyone. To pay attention.
We’d have to wait for the snow to melt. Then he might be found. That’s what they were told.
The snow melted. Heavy rain fell. The city flooded.
A week later someone found him. Sixty miles or so away. His body had traveled all that way. In the river.
Too many details muddy my mind. I don’t want to think about the way they found him. How I was told he looked. That his own father couldn’t identify him.
His death. Announced on the six o’clock news. His Facebook account. Posts deleted until the day before he vanished. Went missing. Even his last two posts deleted. His cries out to us. Cries that most of us didn’t even hear. See. Know.
I’ll die and no one will care. He’d said. No one will come to my funeral.
His ashes spread. A few friends gathered for a quiet memorial. Invitation only.
I couldn’t go.
I tried to honor him by listening to a few songs he liked. By reading his poems. Looking through our messages about religion and art and literature.
But I didn’t get to say good-bye. Haven’t been able to mourn.
Somewhere. Maybe in my heart. Or soul. I don’t really believe he’s gone. I know he is. But I am having a hard time accepting it.
I see a tall guy with black hair. Smoking outside a coffee shop. Walking down the sidewalk with a hood up. I think it might be him until I remember. No. It isn’t him. He’s gone. Dead. Found floating.
I get sick to my stomach.
Wish that I could go back to thinking that he left. Started over. Got himself over to Japan. Reached his dream. With headphones on his ears and new poetry streaming from his mouth.
And. And I wish he knew. I wish he knew that he was loved.
That he knew how broken my heart is.
And how I can’t cry. As much as I want to. I can’t.
And I don’t understand it.
A friend of mine disappeared. He died. And I don’t know how to grieve.
I can’t figure out how to mourn a death I can’t realize.
A death I don’t understand.
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Today’s guest post was written by Susie Finkbeiner. Susie is a novelist and short story writer from West Michigan. Her first novel “Paint Chips” released in 2013 and she is currently working on her second novel and a collection of short stories. When Susie isn’t writing, she is busy as the fiction editor for Burnside Writers Collective as well as Unbound Magazine. Susie is a wife, mother of three, and avid reader. She enjoys time with her family, coffee dates with good friends, and quiet moments to read and write. Website:www.susiefinkbeiner.
23 Spiritualized Comfort Cliches to Avoid When a Child Dies
The following post was originally a guest post on Michelle Van Loon’s blog, “Pilgrim’s Road Trip.”
The author of the post, who wishes to remain anonymous, wrote the following message to me via facebook:
Last June we accepted a foster placement of twin girls who were four months old. We’ve been foster parents for almost 7 years, but nothing prepared us for the sudden death of one of the twins, Ellie, at almost seven months. She went to bed a happy and healthy baby and when I reached into her crib in the morning I pulled out a corpse instead.
I am traumatized. I am an emergency nurse and not unfamiliar with death. I did CPR on Ellie out of reflex but with the full knowledge that she was gone and I couldn’t fix it. I can still taste the breath that I pushed out of her lungs. I’m never going to be the same…and I know it.
I am also a Christian. I think. In fact my husband is a church leader, making me the wife of a spiritual leader.
She then gave me the link to her post at “Pilgrim’s Road Trip.” I asked if I could also post it on my blog and she gave me permission. This post is immensely challenging, and will beg you to vicariously see the grief of a bereaved mother. This isn’t an easy read, but it’s one that will help you understand the grief of a parent who has lost a child. It’s written from the perspective of Holy Saturday … where doubt and silence are the only forms of faith.
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Please stop attempting to spiritualize the death of my child. Assigning some thoughtless Christian platitude only serves to deepen my anger and further question my beliefs. If you don’t know what to say, a simple, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say,” would be far better than these actual attempts at comfort that I’ve received:
1. “God has a plan.”
Really? You serve a God with a plan that involves killing babies? Or at least standing by and allowing the baby to die when you believe that he could have intervened? Because the baby killers I’ve seen get life in prison. And even the convicts know which guy to attack.
2. “Some good will come of this. You’ll see.”
You think that at some point I’m going to see some direct blessing in my life or someone else’s that will make me think, “Aha! Here’s the good that came from my child’s death! I am now so glad that she died so that this could happen!” No! An Almighty God could surely think of some other really creative way to bring about good. Or else I don’t want that “blessing.” I will always wonder why it had to be this way, no matter what good things may come later in my life.
3. “Just think of the ministry you can have someday to parents who have lost children.”
No. At least not the ministry you’re thinking. That would require me to say that God is somehow in this for them and I happen to know that’s not helpful. Plus, I don’t want that ministry. I’ve spent twenty years of my life trying to serve God full time. I’ve put every major decision of my life through “God’s will” as a filter, including setting aside life dreams for myself. All of the big things I’ve tried to do for him have been heartbreak for me. I think I’m done with ministry at this point.
4. “God loves you.”
Imagine If I were married to someone who said, “I love you. I mean, you’re going to get hurt and I won’t stop it. In fact, I might even cause it. But I love you! It’s for your own good! It’s because of my great love for you.” You would encourage me to get to a women’s shelter immediately for my own safety. Where’s the safe place from this kind of “love?”
5. “God’s perfect love casts out fear.”
I’ve been dealing with a moderate amount of anxiety since my baby’s death. I’m not a very anxious person by nature, so I’ve sought some help dealing with the feelings of panic. I struggle with coming home after a night shift and wondering what I might find. I compulsively check on my children at night. Going to the doctor with another child of mine is a trip through some very dark places of fear. I’m constantly wondering which of my family members is next on God’s hit list. The advice that God’s love will fix those fears isn’t really resonating with me right now.
6. “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. Just depend on Him.”
The Christian grief counselor we saw put it this way: “God doesn’t give sorrow to people unless he knows they can handle it.” Really? Well, he was wrong. I can’t handle this. And if he doesn’t give me more than I can handle, why do I need to depend on him? The last time I was depending on him, my child died. So, yeah. That’s not likely to happen again soon.
7. “You’ll see her again someday.”
Is that day today? Then no, this isn’t helpful. It’s minimally hopeful if I can be sure that it’s true, but there’s no Scripture to really support this belief. There’s inference and tradition and conjecture, but there’s no chapter and verse that says, “Infants who die go to heaven.” Besides, If I live an average life expectancy, I will have to live at least another fifty years of missing her. ”Someday” could be a long, long time from now.
8. “Look at all of God’s blessings in this situation already! At least_______”
All of your “at leasts” aren’t blessings to me. Anything you say that starts with “at least” only minimizes my feelings.
9. “Just read [insert Bible verses here] and you’ll feel better.”
Passages that have been suggested to me include verses about God’s judgment, the story of Jesus bringing Lazarus back to life, a passage instructing me that my heart is deceitful and wicked, and other similarly “helpful” Scriptures. This advice also assumes that I know no Scripture to which I can turn. You know which verse has been ever on my mind ever since the day my child died? “My God, my God. Why have you forsaken me?” I’ve been reading the Bible for almost thirty years. I know where to find verses. Not too many of them are helpful right now. Bludgeoning me with Romans 8:28 is especially painful.
10. ”Just trust God. He is in control.”
I was trusting God at the time my baby died. She still died. If God is in control, that assumes that he killed my baby. My sweet, smiling, dimpled baby. If he didn’t kill her, he stood by while she died and didn’t stop it. Still guilty. I’d much rather believe that fate or chance had a hand in her death. I’m a lot more likely to have a continued relationship with someone who didn’t cause my baby’s death, either directly or indirectly.<
11. “This happened for God’s glory. Maybe someone might even get saved!”
This has been said to me with much excitement and expectation. You mean to tell me that God couldn’t have orchestrated some other way to get glory or reveal himself to someone? Or that some person out there is going to say, “Oh! God allowed ‘T’s’ baby to die. I should start a relationship with him and trust him with MY life!” Doubt it. And even if that actually did happen, should I then feel that this was all worth it?
12. “This world is not our home. She’s in a better place now.”
Yeah? Well, I live here right now, so it’s my home. If you actually believe this, why haven’t you committed suicide yet? As for me, I’d finally be in a better place if I died, too? And no, I’m not at all suicidal. I’m just saying that no matter where she is, I’m in a really painful place right now.
13. “Just imagine what tragedy or heartbreak God saw in your baby’s future that he decided to save her from.”By killing her? I’m sure there was another possible work-around or two. For that matter, this has been a devastating tragedy and heartbreak for me. Why didn’t I die as an infant so I wouldn’t have to go through this now?
14. “God will carry you through.”
If this is the kind of thing God is going to carry me through, I’d like him to please put me down.
15. ”Be thankful for what you have.”
The assumption here is that I wasn’t thankful before (I was), that I’m not thankful now (I am), and further minimizes the loss I feel. How do you suggest that I answer even the simplest question of how many children I have? I’m thankful for what I have AND for what I no longer have. It’s impossible to answer this question correctly now. Similar, but even more guilt-producing is “You have your husband and children to think about now.” Thank you for the suggestion that my grief and pain are invalid by comparison and should be left unmanaged for the good of my family. See? There. I was thankful.
16. “Things will get better.”
When? How do you know? Because for me, bad things just keep happening. It can get worse and I can name at least fifty ways it could get worse right now. So don’t say that things will get better. It could go either way.
17. “Maybe God is trying to teach you something.”Well, maybe he could have just texted me the instructions instead. Seriously. All I’m learning is that God can do whatever he wants and that’s not necessarily a good thing. A similar platitude, “Maybe God is trying to draw you closer to himself”, is equally insulting. Can’t he see the future? Didn’t he know that using an infant’s death to deepen our relationship might backfire? Please don’t presume to know the mind of God or impart your opinion of it to me.
18. “She’s with the Lord now.”
She wasn’t before? How about the rest of my family? I’m not with the Lord? Well, I’m glad he’s with someone, I guess.
19. “I know how you feel. I felt exactly that way when my grandparent/great Aunt Lucy/Fluffy died or when my child was sick, but then got better. But I just prayed and kept my eyes on God and he got me through. He’ll get you through, too.”
You have no idea how I feel. I wouldn’t wish how I feel on anyone. And what will he get me through TO? Can you guarantee that whatever is on the other side of this trench in life is something less painful? Because whatever it is, it will be a life missing my child and all the things that loss means.
20. “I was so devastated when your child died that I couldn’t go to work that week/I’m still struggling a month later.”
Both of these are actual things said to me by people who had seen my baby fewer than six times in her whole life. Other ways people who barely knew her have tried to be a part of the drama and somehow connect themselves to this tragedy include Facebook statuses or tweets with her name as a hash tag, prayer requests without my permission or in inappropriate places, and most difficult: “How are you doing? Because I’m so sad that ____.” There was an expectation that I should comfort THEM. Exhausting.
21. “You should_____.”
Don’t tell me what to do. I don’t want to exercise more, eat better, read that great book about God, go to a grief support group, focus on God, get involved more at church, get alone with God, go away for a weekend without my kids, take sleeping pills, talk about it more, or think about it less. I can’t afford to take any more time off work. I can’t concentrate enough to do much of anything right now, honestly. And a bigger list of things I “should” be doing right now is simply not helpful.
22. “If you need anything, let me know. I’m here for you.”
No. I’m here. Alone. It’s not possible for you to be here for me or I’d gladly give it to you. I’m glad you want to help, and I don’t doubt your sincerity. But this comment is a substitute for any kind of real help. You’ve absolved yourself of actually helping me in any tangible or intangible way and placed the onus on me to come up with some idea of what I need. You know what I need? I need my child. Alive and giggling. I need the image of her lifeless in her crib out of my mind and the taste of her dead skin out of my mouth. I need her siblings to grow up with her. I need for my husband to have never experienced this depth of pain. If you can’t give me any of these things, you’re kind of on your own with suggestions for helping me. Maybe send a sympathy card. It will make you feel better.
23. “Well, I’ll pray for you.”
Aside from the doubt that exists over whether you’ll actually do it or not, how is this helpful? Who knows better than God what I need and why hasn’t he already given it to me? Your asking for it will make it magically appear? The worst part about this statement is that it usually comes at the end of your listening to me or grieving with me. As in, “You’re done now. I’ll pray for you, okay? You’re making me uncomfortable with your intense sadness and hard questions.”
I know that I haven’t left you anything to say. Maybe that’s the point. I also know that, if you’re a typical Christian, you’re defensive and even deeply wounded by what I’ve said here. You’re thinking, “But remember, here’s what God is REALLY like and here’s where you’re wrong. Here’s where you need to adjust your theology and get your heart right with God.”
Whether you like it or not, no matter how uncomfortable this makes you feel, no matter what you believe or even what I believe, these things you’ve said are not helpful to me. In fact, many of them are so hurtful that I’ve been awake more than one night trying to work through them.
Maybe someday I’ll be ready to accept my child’s death with a little more grace. But for now, I’m afraid you’ll have to stick with, “This sucks,” or a simple, “I’m sorry.” You know what’s even better? The sound you make when you stay quiet.
