We had a Relief Society lesson yesterday about the Resurrection of Christ, and the teacher split us into groups to tell each other how the knowledge of how we will all be resurrected helps us in our lives. Then, a spokesperson for each group gave the group's conclusions.
It was pretty obvious what the answer was supposed to be - knowing about the resurrection made the death of loved ones easier. Our group was singular (I think) in that we were the only one that contained members that had had someone very, very close die. For both me and the other sister, our mothers died when we were 20 and 25, respectively.
Knowledge of the resurrection did not help the way most of the other groups said they were sure it would.
I had the interesting experience of saying the "wrong" answer. It clearly wasn't what the teacher was looking for.
It isn't that knowing about the resurrection isn't a good thing. I am glad I get to see my mother again, and I love the resurrection part of the atonement. It means that the Lord cares about all of us, not only each person, all of each person. The experiences we have with our bodies on this earth isn't just a passing experiment, but part and parcel of becoming celestial beings. I am comforted in knowing that all I learn and do and experience in this life has a purpose beyond this life.
But it didn't slacken my grief when my mother died. I think I have figured out why.
The comfort the other girls were reporting that the resurrection would hold is that it isn't the end - that someone seems like they are gone, but they aren't really gone. So, you don't have to learn how to let go.
That's not true.
Sure, things will be better later, after this life, but EVERYTHING will be better later. That doesn't mean we don't have to learn how to be happy during this life.
Both myself and the theoretical Katie who didn't believe in the resurrection had to learn how to live without my mother. The people who are close to us are part of who we are, and in their absense, we must rediscover ourselves. Who am I when I am not a daughter? Theoretical Katie and I both had to find a way to live a life without her, and without someone in the role she played. We both had to deal with feeling abandoned. We both had to deal with Mom not being there, with no mother being there, with what that means and how it feels.
Knowing about and having faith in the resurrection didn't get me out of any of those tasks. Even though I'll see her again after this life, there's no way around the fact that I have 70 more years until then. That may not be forever, but it feels like forever right now. The fact that I will see her again someday, in a life I can barely conceive of, didn't relieve me of the necessity of figuring out how to happily live the life I am in right now.
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I taught a similar lesson several years ago, and I was anxious while preparing my lesson because we had a young widow in our ward, and I was afraid I might offend her.
She expressed very similar sentiments. Yes, she would see her husband again someday, but the lonely years that she was facing seemed like forever to her.
I was speechless then, and I'm not smarter now. I suppose the knowledge that we'll see our loved ones again eventually is better than thinking you never will. But "better" doesn't always mean good.
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I think you've pretty much zeroed in on it. While the ressurection helps us to not fear for the departed, and to be happy for them, it does not help with the loss, which is a temporal effect.
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I don't know, I do understand the pain and suffering that you're feeling in the moment is very difficult - losing my grandfather (in almost every respect my father) was very difficult, at times I felt like I couldn't live through the pain. But the pain was always tempered with hope - and reassurance that I would see him again.
Belief in the resurrection isn't just about knowing I'll see him again - but knowing that he is alive right now. When my cousin was married this weekend, I knew he was able to see and take job in what was going on. I felt a connection to him, that was more than just a memory - I could feel his love for all of us.
Yes, it's hard, it's very painful and difficult - but there is at least the knowledge that the aren't gone to comfort us.
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I remember thinking I must be doing something wrong, or not have enough faith, because the knowledge of the resurrection wasn't really helping. It still sucked, and it seemed like it wasn't supposed to. I've worked that out.
I posted this on Nauvoo, and one of the posters referred to this scripture from the Doctrine and Covenants:
quote:D&C 42: 45 45 Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die, and more especially for those that have not hope of a glorious resurrection.
*hugs her scriptures* It's okay to weep. I'm glad of that.
Tom: What do you mean?
quote:Yes, it's hard, it's very painful and difficult - but there is at least the knowledge that the aren't gone to comfort us.
Belle, this is just what I mean. Yes, they are gone. Not forever, and not completely, but they are actually gone from my experience. I used to have a mother, and now I don't. It may be a temporary situation, but it is the current one.
[ March 21, 2005, 01:41 PM: Message edited by: Lady Jane ]
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"Yes, it's hard, it's very painful and difficult - but there is at least the knowledge that they aren't gone to comfort us."
Assuming of course that everyone involved in the situation is going to the same place.
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Katie, I mean that the conclusion you reached leaves you exactly one logical step (or lack thereof) from my own default religious/philosophical position.
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Tom - that's the beauty of faith and confidence in God's love.
I have every confidence I will see my grandfather again. I am confident because I know the man he was, and he demonstrated his faith in the saving grace of Jesus Christ many, many times to me. And I have faith in that same saving grace for myself.
Katie - of course it's okay to weep. I don't believe that one should be happy that a loved one is gone - you may be happy for that person - especially if they were in pain and were suffering a great deal, but that doesn't mean you sould be happy for yourself. You should definitely mourn the loss that you've experienced - that's perfectly natural and okay. I don't mean to suggest that pain is wrong or that you shouldn't regret the loss of your mom. I know you would prefer that she were still here with you. That just demonstrates how much you loved her. I certainly wish my grandfather were still here.
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Katie, I think the unfortunate part of lessons like that (not that they shouldn't have them, obviously) is that sometime afterward, when the loss of a close loved one happens and they *aren't* particularly comforted by Jesus' resurrection, they may well wonder what's wrong with them, what's wrong with their faith, why don't they get the comfort that they think they should? I like much better teachings that explore what might truly help in grief situations, rather than encourage those of us who don't have those kinds of experiences to say things that will unintentionally hurt a greiving person.
I really liked Philip Yancey's Where is God when it hurts? because that's exactly what he was trying to get to. I got from it that there isn't a heck of a lot we can do to help, really, except be there and try to be as sensitive as possible. And that there is a lot we can do to hurt a grieving person by touting "comforting" scripture, like Romans, where it says that God does all things for the good of those who love them.
Good on you for not just going with the answer you know they were looking for. I bet your input will help the Sisters faced with this in the future.
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posted
There was another friend in our group who asked us what she should say instead. The other girl and I agreed that an agreement that it sucked was actually more comforting. I know assurances that there is an "after" are supposed to help, but they really didn't. Sympathy for and agreement with the pain I was actually in helped much more.
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quote:Katie, I think the unfortunate part of lessons like that (not that they shouldn't have them, obviously) is that sometime afterward, when the loss of a close loved one happens and they *aren't* particularly comforted by Jesus' resurrection, they may well wonder what's wrong with them, what's wrong with their faith, why don't they get the comfort that they think they should?
Yes - I've seen things like this happen, where not only is someone dealing with the loss of a loved one, but are listening to people tell them they are grieving because their faith is weak. Posts: 26071 | Registered: Oct 2003
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I have thankfully not lost a loved one so close yet, but just thinking about losing my wife, my daughter, or my son lets me know that the grief would be intense, regardless of my beliefs in the resurrection. Somehow it's most painful to think about losing my son. Yes, he would be there later, but I would lose the chance to raise him in this life and experience the ups and downs of mortality with him as a father. I can't imagine things being the same in the next life. I would have lived my own life here already, and both of us would have the extra knowledge and experiences that come beyond the veil of death and resurrection. I doubt we could just elect to forget all of that again and return to where we were when he died so we could complete our mortal experience. We would never get that experience back.
However, I imagine that with the greater understanding after death also comes greater comfort and perspective, and that our grief from the mortal world would be behind us, and plenty of new experiences and happiness would be before us. That belief gives me considerable solace.
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Hmm...I think the conflict about what to say to people when they have died is that "mourn with those who mourn" looks like it is at odds with "comfort those who stand in need of comfort."
Assuring someone that faith makes it better doesn't fit the first, but seems like it should fit the second. Maybe that is why there is a distinction made between the two?
[ March 21, 2005, 02:09 PM: Message edited by: Lady Jane ]
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Yeah. My thought is that those who mourn and those who stand in need of comfort are not necessarily at the same point in their grieving. And the scripture is saying that both points are OK, and that affirming those needs in someone is OK and in fact the best thing to do.
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quote:Yes, they are gone. Not forever, and not completely, but they are actually gone from my experience. I used to have a mother, and now I don't. It may be a temporary situation, but it is the current one.
You've hit it on the head. So many people say things that are meant to comfort. Sure we'll be together in Heaven...but I want to be together now.Yes, my lucky child is being cared for by God, but, I honestly think as far as mortals go I do a pretty good job and might call my living children lucky too.
And the 50-60 years until I see him again does seem like an eternity.
quote:Yes, they are gone. Not forever, and not completely, but they are actually gone from my experience. I used to have a mother, and now I don't. It may be a temporary situation, but it is the current one.
When we believe in an afterlife, I think this is what we experience when we grieve at someone's death. We grieve our loss of that someone in our lives. We grieve for our lost interaction with them. We grieve for what might have been. We do not necessarily grieve for them as much as we grieve for us. The hope of an afterlife can't stop this grieving because we still have to come to terms with our loss. It gives us a hope for a future point in time when we will no longer have this loss - that our loss is a temporary one, even if it may not seem that way.
Belief in an afterlife saves us from an added layer of grief - grief that a person we loved and cared about has ceased to be. We have the hope that they didn't cease to exist (something that is personally very comforting), but that their existance continues on, albeit in a different form. We hop for the future time when we can become reaquainted with someone who meant so much to us. It doesn't make the now hurt any less, but it can make the future brighter.
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I also think that there's a difference between the death of someone who has been suffering horribly for a long time, and for whom treatment is not helping, vs. people whose deaths are sudden and unexpected, whether they're old, young, or in-between. When people's lives seem "cut short" it's harder for us to think that "they're in a better place".
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kq, I agree. I work with a guy whose sister died of bone cancer some years ago. He has a genuine gift for hospice...I mean, he is just gifted at being with people who are dying, and being with people who love people who are dying or have just died. He's amazing, really. Anyway, his sister was dying of cancer, so he went to be with her and her husband...took a leave of absense from work, and then when he couldn't afford to do that anymore, we set it up so he could work from her house. Overall, he spent the last several months of her life with her.
We talked about it just a few weeks ago, and he said that when his sister died, all things had been said, nothing was left undone, and he was truly at peace then and now about it. They had the time and he had no regrets. Yes, he missed her then as he does now, but he had the chance to work out his grief with her and had nothing left undone. All that was left was knowing he'd have to wait a while to see her again. Having that time with her made a huge difference.
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quote:I've seen things like this happen, where not only is someone dealing with the loss of a loved one, but are listening to people tell them they are grieving because their faith is weak.
I've heard people say this too. But in condemning those who grieve for weak faith, they also condemn Christ, who wept for the death of His dear friend Lazarus. In that case, Christ knew that Lazarus would be raised from the dead in less than a day (as Christ did the raising!), but He wept anyway.
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When I lost my Grandmother, to whom I was very close, I had no faith (I was years away from conversion). The loss was very significant and very painful. The fact that I converted after experiencing this kind of loss helped me understand how faith in the resurrection can help (well I think I learned something anyways).
Often times it seems that the resurrection turn death into a kind of long-goodbye. Like in you case (Super Kat), you had to say goodbye (figuratively) to your mother, knowing you would not see her again for perhaps 80 years (you're in good shape). And certainly that's a part of it, maybe even most of it, but it's different than if someone you loved left your life for say 60 years and then came to visit when you were both 85, it's more than just a long time apart. Because death means that your experience with this person in mortal probation has stopped permanently. This is the last chance you have to speak within this sphere of understanding. I think that's significant.
Another difference is the certainty of death. When someone's dead you know you wont see them again here on earth, but when someone leaves there's always that hope, maybe they'll come back, maybe they'll be there. Especially when you loose someone early in your life, so many of your major landmarks can no longer be experienced with this person (well maybe they can, but it's doubtful you'd know it), graduation maybe, marriage, children, you're on your own through these changes.
What helped me so much was the knowledge that I didn't have to cut my Grandmother out of my psyche, that someday I'd be able to see her again, I didn't have to plan for a life in which we would never speak, never interact again. In other words, it allowed me to form a life in which could still include her, even if not in this mortal period. It helped.
quote:I had the interesting experience of saying the "wrong" answer. It clearly wasn't what the teacher was looking for.
Relief Society, in general, needs more "wrong" answers. Folks think they know the "right" answer, get complacent, and forget all about seeking yet greater light and knowledge.
quote:The fact that I will see her again someday, in a life I can barely conceive of, didn't relieve me of the necessity of figuring out how to happily live the life I am in right now.
Exactly. Suppose I am experiencing pain -- say, I'm being mauled by wolves. Even though I KNOW that the mauling will stop in twenty minutes and I will instantly recover fully from the mauling and be even better than new... still, while I'm ACTUALLY IN THE MIDST OF HAVING MY FLESH RIPPED AWAY, it hurts like HELL and nothing I think, feel, or know about the future has much effect on the pain.
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You know, I'd never really thought about it before, but why *does* Jesus weep over Lazarus? If someone I loved died, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the next day--not in some distant future, but the very next day--they'd be just fine, I wouldn't grieve for them. That kind of death would be very different than the kind of death we grieve. So...what's up with that?
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Good questions Noeman. Perhaps he weeps for the pain Mary and Martha are experiencing. I know I have many times wept for the pain others are experiencing even if I do not understand it myself. Perhaps he weeps for Lazurus. Death from illness can be a very painful thing. Who is to say that bringing his spirit back into his body won't be an equally painful thing? When Jesus raises him from the dead, he won't necessarily be "just fine". He is not being raised to a glorious immortal body, but is being returned to his previously sick one. Does Jesus heal his sick body? I don't know. Perhaps he weeps because he knows that in the not-too-distant future Mary, Martha, and Lazurus will all weep for him as he is crucified. Will they have a perfect confidence that his death will not be permanent?
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quote:Tom: I know! I'm telling you, that's why I think you are one or two steps away from my position.
I can see that, too. (((katharina)))
Hard stuff, Kat. I think this was actually one of the core things that lead me away from reaffirming my religious faith -- I wanted it so bad, I needed that promise so much, that I was afraid I'd believe anything in order to get that peace. I didn't trust myself to be a believer anymore, not after my father died.
On the other hand, I think doing what is good and right and just is critical to living in any decent and honorable way, so I had to find other ways to ground that part. I'm so glad for my undergraduate philosophy courses and for my mentor there. It helped.
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CT, that's very interesting. You were nineteen when your father died, right? It is very hard to have a major need for for your decided-self at the same time that you are deciding.
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posted
I was seventeen when he died. October 18. It was a very difficult time in all sorts of ways. I had just started taking classes at the local university, and my father's health took a marked downturn right as classes started. He was in and out of it for the few weeks before the end, and we were all pretty frightened.
After his death, my mother went into a pretty deep depression with psychotic features. She would walk around talking to him. At that time I lived alone with her, and she didn't allow anyone but me and my brother into the home. At a regular physical in November (just two weeks after Papa's death), my cardiologist diagnosed my aortic stenosis as having reached a critical level. I was in heart failure, and we had to schedule surgery in the next month. Mother was still out of her mind with grief, and though she held it together as best she could, I think the prospect of losing me weighed very heavy on her, especially so soon after my father's death.
Then surgery went fine, and she stayed with me for two weeks at the hospital in Birmingham. She was so strong and lively, so very strong for me. I didn't realize how hard that was for her until we went back home and she got worse again. I ended up going to the psychiatrist where she worked (at the time, she was still on leave after losing my father), and he helped me understand that my reactions and feelings to all of this were natural and okay. He also encouraged me to find a safe way to get out of the house, so I arranged to transfer my scholarship to Birmingham.
I found a place to work as a live-in housekeeper, although that came with problems of its own. Still, I got down there, put my head down, and tried to barrel through. I knew nothing of life and trusted everyone implicitly. Some hard lessons to learn there, and some very painful. I wanted to be safe again, but everything was in upheaval and there was so much hard stuff all around me. I didn't know who to trust, but I had to trust somebody. I learned pretty quick that it wasn't my family who would help (my mother was so out of it, my brother moved away and in his own pain, everyone else either intimidated by Mother or not wanting to get involved). This was a time in which exploitative cults were in the media, and I knew I was probably pretty vulnerable to believing anything and anyone. I just didn't have the skills and experience to know any better.
It wasn't by seeking out their professions of faith that I found people to trust, but by listening to an inner sense of what was healthy and who was kind and trustworthy. That, as well as the habit of thinking things through as carefully as possible, took some time to develop. Many religious people were quite loving influences in my life, and many of the religious people I knew were not. Same for the non-religious. I did not see any real correlation whatsoever, so I relied on my gut moreso than seeking out people who professed faith.
I wanted it to be easier, though. Even if only for a little bit. I wanted to rest! To put my head down for just a moment, to have everything make sense again, to bury myself into something warm and safe. The Catholic church wasn't helpful, as once I tried that route in the new city, I got hit up for Amway a couple of times. I ended up in some pretty deep waters, and I grabbed at the loveliest long straw you could ever imagine: the white picket fence and promise of apple pies (me in the starring role, of course). I was both scared and cocky, which makes for a dangerous combination. The rest just sort of followed.
I still think about how much safer I felt when I believed in Catholicism, but I also remember that sometimes it made me very scared, too. Even if I could just wish myself back into that conscious state, I don't think I would. But it does tug, sometimes.
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I just reread this and did some editing. Two more things: first, I don't mean to claim that most people who are religious are believers because they want a sense of safety and security. This happens to have been a very peculiar perfect storm of events in my life, and I lost that rudder just as I needed it most. Learning to get by without it changed me, as it would anyone. It's just the sort of experience that shapes one. Other people would have likely been changed in other ways, though, and I don't draw any generalizations from it.
Secondly, sorry for the hijack! *grin
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CT I don't think it's a hijack, I think it is exactly what Kat intended. Oh and I might e-mail you today from my bannaoj e-mail, it's something I'd like you to know about, but no need to respond.
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Perhaps Jesus wept because he knew how important it would be for others to look to that when they weep. I find it reassuring that Christ, with his perfect knowledge, still took the time to weep with those who were hurting. He didn't say, "Hey, don't cry so much. Lazarus will be resurrected" or any other manner of comforting words. He acknowledged their pain as real and wept with them. In essence he is saying that even though we have a knowledge of resurrection its still okay to miss a loved one and cry and even weep.
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quote: 32 Then when Mary was come where Jesus was, and saw him, she fell down at his feet, saying unto him, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. 33 When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also weeping which came with her, he groaned in the spirit, and was troubled, 34 And said, Where have ye laid him? They said unto him, Lord, come and see. 35 Jesus wept. 36 Then said the Jews, Behold how he loved him! 37 And some of them said, Could not this man, which opened the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should not have died? 38 Jesus therefore again groaning in himself cometh to the grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. 39 Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of him that was dead, saith unto him, Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days. 40 Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee, that, if thou wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God? 41 Then they took away the stone from the place where the dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up his eyes, and said, Father, I thank thee that thou hast heard me. 42 And I knew that thou hearest me always: but because of the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that thou hast sent me. 43 And when he thus had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus, come forth. 44 And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.
Maybe he wept because he saw how devastated Mary was.
Maybe he wept because he saw foreshadowings of his own pain and death.
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Hobbes... that makes sense. When my grandfather died, I was thirteen and hadn't really sorted out my beliefs on the afterlife etc. The whole "he's in a better place" thing didn't sit well with me, but I do remember knowing that he wasn't gone from my life completely. It wasn't until a few years later that I realised what that meant... and what it means now is that I often talk to him in my mind and believe that his soul is out there somewhere, listening, and perhaps interceding with Allah for me. Or perhaps not - I have no way of knowing. I felt his presence very strongly, once, long after he died, and that was enough to know he was in some way still looking out for me. It might be all in my mind, but it was a comfort - and still is. I also had an experience years after my aunt died when her daughter was reciting a prayer in the mosque and I distinctly heard my aunt say "That's my daughter, I'm so proud of her." (I was 15 and my cousin 16 at the time - my aunt died when I was 10 and my cousin 11). Again, it might be all in the mind, but it was something to hold on to, for my cousin as much as for me.
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There are also those of us who lack that confidence that our loved ones are in a better place, even though we believe that such a place exists. Tom, while he may have been facetious, had a point.
Several years after my family was torn apart by my parents' divorce, my father's father died. He was a cantankerous old coot, so to speak, and I loved him for it. The trouble was that not long before that I had learned just how seriously he took the custody battles over my sister and I. I had sat in a chair next to his while he threatened to kill my mother and stepfather in a drive-by shooting for (in his view) ruining my life. Since he was dependent on his medication to survive, he said, he had no fear of imprisonment; he would simply stop taking his pills and die.
During a previous hospitalization, he said, he had seen where he was going, and there was nothing he could do about it. I don't think that sounds like the nicer kind of near-death experience. And while I don't give those too much credence, his behavior doesn't suggest a great deal of hope that his was wrong.
Other members of my family, and family friends, have also died--none under quite such unpleasant circumstances, but several that left me doubtful of their well-being. At such times, faith isn't much of a comfort.
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My tug comes during those moments we all have, those "Wow. Everyone dies and neither myself nor any of the people I love are an exception." We all know that logically of course, but I hate those completely visceral moments when you truly realize that death is in the plan eventually.
I have those thoughts, and then I can remember the comfort I felt while still part of the Christian church. At that time I felt I knew what happened after death, and that made death a bit more palatable. I no longer have that comfort, and while I'd like to pretend that after we die we all drift into the great blue ether and are eternally peaceful, I don't *know* that anymore. I don't know anything, and geez can that be scary.
Mabus, the scariest sermon I ever heard (and I went to a pretty mild non-denominational church) was one during which the pastor berated himself for not sharing the word of God with his grandfather, who he knew was burning in hell right now because he didn't accept Jesus. I know that teachings say no one can know the mind of God, but in the denomination I followed it was a given that you weren't gettin' into Heaven if you hadn't accepted Jesus as the son, savior, etc. I've always wondered how people who have that belief deal with the death of a relative who hadn't named Jesus as the savior.
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That's not quite how it works according to my beliefs, but close enough...and I can say, "With difficulty." Sometimes I think that is part of the reason so many of us in churches of Christ seem to cultivate emotional detachment--to make it easier to deal. (Though there are other reasons.)
But in this particular case, my grandfather's behavior would make me doubtful about his eternal destiny regardless of his religious affiliations.
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Most of my family members believe that my grandfather, who did many evil things, is going to heaven simply because he accepted Jesus as his Savior. Grandfather's actions and lack of repentance are irrelevant in their eyes. But they do weep for me, among lectures and name calling and all the rest, because I'm LDS, and therefore, in their eyes, so obviously going to burn in hell, despite anything else.
When I was 23, my best friend, who was 22, married for five months, four months pregnant, died. She was an unusual person - she loved everybody unconditionally. She didn't care about looks or background, nor did she care about popularity or anything else. It didn't matter. What mattered to her was what was in the other person's heart. Because of her ability to love, she brought the best out of everyone she came into contact with. I was lucky enough to be her friend for three and a half years before she died. I was lucky enough to experience, first hand, what love was really about.
I had nightmares for the next year, nightmares that everyone else I loved, and there weren't many, died. I dreamt about being left alone, no one else left to love me. At that point, I had no self-esteem to speak of and not a whole lot of experience in being loved. No one in my family loved me, and my mother had made absolutely certain that I knew exactly how unloveable I was, but my friend proved them wrong. To her, I was absolutely loveable and worthy of love. To lose her was devastating for me.
I still weep over her death. I can't think of her without getting teary and wanting to cry. When I hear the hymn that was played at her funeral, well, I can't sing it. I can't get the words out past the lump in my throat. It's been 14 years. I know I'll see her again, and I believe that she's doing good where she is. I'm not sad for her - I'm sad because I don't get to bask in her goodness anymore. I'm sad because I won't see her again until I die. I'm sad because I miss her. But in all of that, I'm still thankful that I was lucky enough to know her for as long as I did.
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posted
I have a good friend (who is almost exactly like Katharina in many ways. It's spooky really - and her name is Kat) whose brother died suddenly in a car accident his senior year of high school. Her entire family had a really hard time with the grief and drifted away from a lot of church associations.
I spent a lot of time with them at the same time that my parents were getting divorced. Kat and I both encouraged each other in an angry sort of grief. She couldn't understand where the justice in it was and I had nothing to offer her. Some friends of her family gave them a present of a missionary nametag for the deceased son, who would have been old enough to be serving a mission by then. It was intended out of kindness to reassure them that he was a missionary in the spirit world but it made Kat at least (I don't know how her parents responded) furious at the thought that someone else thought it would be at all comforting.
At the same time, I was angry at my own grief and the fact that it wasn't even being acknowledged as such. For me, it would have been easier if my Dad had died, because then I would have known it was not his fault; it was tragic, it was unfair. As it was, he had left us - had betrayed and deserted us and that was like a death that he did on purpose.
I still remember one afternoon when Kat and I were sorting through her endless stacks of papers and magazines that we used for collages when we found a hand-written scripture that her mother had written on a piece of stationary and somehow it had accidentally wound up in Kat's bedroom. It said:
"And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."
We both read it and both burst into tears. We probably cried for 45 minutes without saying anything, because it had meant that much more to us than anyone's reassurances about vague principles that we saw little application for. What we wanted to know was that God cared that we were sad and didn't expect us to get over it. It was OK if we needed to cry, and He would be there, eventually, to wipe away our tears and to bring an end to it all.
I think the most important thing we did for each other as friends was just to sit there and cry with each other. That's what mourning with those who mourn means.
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quid, I know what you mean about still crying. I am much, much more recovered now, but for five years or so after my mom died, all it took was either 1) a memory jigger, or 2) someone being kind to me, and my eyes would fill up with tears.
My Antnie used to worry about me, because he said that even when I was happy and everything was fine, at the softest moment, the saddest look would come into my eyes. It doesn't happen as much or as easily now, I don't know if that ever does go away.
SO: We have those stories too, although with LDS beliefs, it isn't a matter of eternal destination but rather lost opportunity. "I could have had this knowledge and peace during my earthly life, much, much sooner."
[ March 23, 2005, 11:08 AM: Message edited by: Lady Jane ]
Posts: 1163 | Registered: Jan 2005
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posted
One good thing that I now have as a result of loosing my mother... is understanding. The people who came to me, and loved and supported me when I was in so much pain-- especdially those who had lost their moms-- gave me something I have determined to pass along.
If you think you know what it's like to lose a parent but haven't actually lost one... sorry, you just don't. Those who are suffering the loss appreciate your love and support, though.
Anyway, a mom I talk with often at the boy's martial arts class recently lost her mother (the day before her wedding). There was nothing I could say that would really help, so I just patted her arm and said that I'd lost my mom recently, too, and that she'd be in my thoughts.
The real kicker isn't knowing the person is dying, the actual dying, or even the funeral. It's waking up weeks later having had a dream that you know your mom would find amusing, and reaching for the phone before you realize that as long as you live, you can never call her on the phone again. YOu can never call to ask how long to let a certain kind of dough rise, or how much gentian violet is safe to use to treat thrush. Or just, Hey mom! I got an unbelievable deal on a chashmere sweater!
That's what hurts. No "someday I'll see her again" can help with that, and that is the truth of it.
posted
I'm glad it helps you. I'm glad for anyone when it does. It didn't help me, though. It doesn't help for everybody, even when you believe it.
Posts: 1163 | Registered: Jan 2005
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posted
I've seen a theme you've presented a couple of different ways in the last week or so, kat, and I think it applies here. I believe in X not because it will make me feel better, but because I believe it's true. I think this would apply to the afterlife.
It was less than a year after my first child died that someone in a Sunday School lesson shared some anecdote about some church leader being in a meeting and he got a call that his brother died and the church leader purportedly said "Well good for him!" I don't remember how I replied to that, only that I did and what was in my heart was "That's what I hate about Mormons!"
I had a neighbor who was mentally deranged and shot his own children because his marriage was breaking up and he believed that way they would at least go to heaven. He shot himself as well. But it was a sad reflection for me on all the people over the years who congratulated me on my child being assured a spot in heaven.
I don't think Mormon beliefs make people insensitive. People are naturally insensitive. Mormon beliefs are just sharper tools in the hands of someone who may not understand what they are for, and they can become weapons.
It's strange because my own mother lost an infant and I couldn't accept comfort even from her. Even she seemed too insistent that I feel better right away. Well, it took me 8 years. I don't know if I'm just slow or if the pressure made it take longer.
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