Redemptive Grief

The early afternoon meeting was over and the parson headed up the highway toward home after a long day. The highway department had the inside lane of the four lane closed  making his progress slow. As he sat waiting for a traffic light to turn green, his gaze focused out the passenger window across the cemetery lined row upon row with grave markers. At the back of the cemetery a lone figure stood, head bowed staring at a headstone. The parson squinted into the sun. A car horn shouted behind him. Startled, the parson noticed the light was now green. He waved an apology at the person behind and started to move forward. Quickly, he reconsidered and turned sharply through the cemetery gate.

Slowly the parson steered his car down the narrow winding drive. About fifty yards from the solitary figure still standing at the grave, he stopped and exited the car. Quietly the parson made his way to a garden bench under a shade tree. He sat down only ten yards from the woman. The parson was familiar with the emotions that had drawn her to this spot. It was one only understood by those who had experienced the death of a spouse.

Her husband of thirty-five years had died a few months before. The children all lived a far enough distance they did not see their mother except weekends. And as they had adjusted to a world without their father the every weekend trips to be with their grieving mother had taken second seat to the demands of children's soccer games, school activities and such.

She turned from the grave. “Oh, my, how long have you been there, Parson?”

“Just a moment. I wondered if you needed a friend.”

She walked over and, as the parson rose, sat on the bench. The parson resumed his seat  beside her.

“How long will this last?” she asked quietly.

“I can't answer that,” the parson said. “I lost my wife almost six years ago. And still sometimes today I'll remember something and start crying.”

“I don't know if I can stand that, Parson. This is so damn hard.”

“It is. It's the hardest thing you will ever go through.”

She reached down and began to pluck petals from a long stem rose in her left hand. She would pluck one, hold it up and release it to the wind, and then she repeated the process. Halfway through the rose's destruction she spoke in a soft voice.

“This is really silly. I brought this rose to lay on his grave. I started to put it there and then I remembered how much he disliked roses.”

Her giggle was choked by her sob. Her head moved to rest on the parson's shoulder.

“What did you miss most about your wife who died?”

The parson immediately remembered. “You know,” said the parson, “I used to come home from a challenging day at the church and would plop myself in my recliner, click on the news and sip a beer. I told her to just give me thirty minutes to watch the news and then she'd have my undivided attention. But eight days out of ten I'd sit in the recliner and just as I got interested in whatever story was on the news she'd start talking. It drove me crazy. But after she died I would have give anything to hear her interrupting my news program.”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “You know that hedge across the front of our yard? That was supposed to be a privacy hedge. I planted it myself, and that's why I planted it,  but I swear he trimmed that hedge back to its two foot height every other week. Grrrr! But the other day I found myself out there trimming it back to where he had it.”  She took a deep breath whose exhale was accompanied by a half-sob. “Grieving isn't for wimps, Parson.”

“Tell me about it,” responded the parson.

“I cry every day, Parson.”

“I know,” said the parson. “And somewhere down the road you'll end your day with the realization you didn't cry. And then you'll cry because you didn't cry.”

“The kids say I should start facing reality. My daughter told me it was time to get rid of his clothes.”

“It will be time to do it when you decide to do it.”

“I don't have to be in a hurry. Do I?”

“No, you don't. I think folks suggest things like that because they want to help you get to some kind of closure. But there is no closure. He's going to be gone for the rest of your life.”

They sat silently for a long time. She removed the remaining petals from the stem.

Finally she spoke. “Can you tell me when it will become bearable?”

“I can. Are you sure you want to hear it?”

“Yes.”

“It becomes bearable the day you suddenly realize he's dead and you're alive and the only option open is for you to live.”

She looked at the stem of the plucked rose. With a flick of her hand she sent it flying end over end toward a nearby shrub.

“It is the only option,” she said. She rose from the bench. “Thanks for stopping, Parson.”

The parson walked her to her car. After she'd fastened her seatbelt he told her, “Claiming the option won't stop the grieving, but it will bring some redemption to the grieving.”

The parson headed back to his car. As he made his way back to the gates, weaving among the tombstones, he grieved. At the gate he turned toward home and the life he now lived with Ms. Parson.

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Comments

[Songbird]

I remember well that moment coming after the loss of a baby, the day when I realized I hadn't been remembering.

[SingingOwl]

Whew.

[Teri]

yep...you hit it right on, parson.

[Beach Walkin]

May God comfort both of you in your grief. Amen

[Brother Marty]

Touching. Very touching. I often find myself passing a solitary individual at a cemetery and feel the urge to stop and minister to him. I never have done it. Your story today compels me to listen to that voice that says..."Turn around...go back". I believe I will next time.