In one of the Anne of Green Gables books, there is a scene where Anne visits a frightened and dying woman. She later observes that the woman must have been afraid to go to Heaven because she had no treasures there.
This story forms the background for me today as I am preparing to acknowledge the tenth anniversary of the untimely death of our younger son, Patrick. I want to write something fitting, something that addresses not only our great loss, and the exceptional person Patrick was, but also the sometimes surprising elements of my own personal grief journey and the solid hope to which I cling even on the worst days of missing him and missing my mother who departed this life last spring.
I have heard it said that a Christian describing the death of a child should never make use of the term, “loss.” Such foolishness! Of course it is a loss. The fact that I know by faith where Patrick resides now and that I will see him again does not lift my daily sadness that he is not here. There is, in fact, a greater loss regarding my son than my mother, although I am definitely still grieving her death.
There is a language of grief that only we in the valley speak. Learning how to talk with those who are suffering and/or in the midst of mind-numbing grief was forced upon me ten years ago. There was much I thought I knew—but did not. And, my experience with friends, family, and strangers addressing our loss taught me many, many things not to say and not to do.
Genuine communication of empathy and love is vitally important. Learning how to be present to someone who is suffering is never a waste of time. I believe listening with an open heart is in danger of disappearing altogether due to the contentious world of social media. While I am no expert in communication and am well aware that I fail too often to listen well, I have to say that the last ten years have taught me to listen better and to judge less.
I would add here that being present to someone suffering in grief never includes talking “at” them or speaking for them. This is why I am so careful to reference our loss as a family, but only my thoughts regarding grief or sorrow. I cannot, will not speak for my husband, my father, my children, my siblings, or anyone else grieving the death of Patrick or of my mother. This is a primary and vitally important lesson I learned the hard way ten years ago. Advice, formulas, or any kind of projection are most unwelcome to the suffering grieving heart.
I now experience moments of joy at a level made so much deeper by my personal suffering. Such moments leave me wanting to be ever kinder and ever more gentle with anyone in my path. And so, over these ten years I have found a new sense of fulfillment when entering into the sorrow of another. Having experienced soul crushing grief enables me to recognize suffering in others and to come alongside them if they wish me to do so.
Back to Patrick: I could write endlessly about who he was, to his family, his friends, his Young Life kids, to the communities where he lived, to his church families, and more. If you knew him, you knew the effervescence of his personality, the strength of his convictions, the power of his love. As well, you knew the feel of his hug, the ring of his laughter and the sharpness of his wit. You knew sarcasm and puns, goofball comedy and deadly serious debate, incessant needling and an ever present loyal heart. And if you loved him, you knew his faults and his creative ability to sometimes work on them but more often to debate them away. You knew his stories, his love of Ray Bans and his infuriating love of argument. And, if you loved him, you mourn him still. I know, dear heart. I know.
If you knew him in young adulthood, you also know that Patrick was way too familiar with the darkness of hopelessness, with self-loathing, with physical and mental pain and anguish. You know that he fought valiantly with the demons of alcohol and drug addiction, undiagnosed epilepsy, severe back pain, anxiety, panic attacks, clinical depression and that the battle inside was enormous. Some knew he was growing quite, quite weary. I do not know nor do I care whether it was intentional or accidental overdose. The outcome is the same. He is gone.
I cannot conclude without addressing both my faith and that of my son as well as the life-long faith of my mother. I am a Christian and so were they. I believe in the reality of Heaven and so did they.
Christians do not receive an exemption in regard to mental illness and addiction anymore than we receive one in regard to cancer or diabetes or Covid 19. In this life we will all experience plenty of sorrow and enormous grief. The grace and love of God neither negates this fact nor justifies it.
Instead, when we are open to Him, God’s grace sanctifies our suffering in such a way that our vision expands and our ability to keep on extending love to others grows as well. As always with God, we have a choice: life or death, hope or despair, sweet or bitter. My choice is this: I will acknowledge the bitter but focus on the sweet.
Thus, on this tenth anniversary, I remain confident and full of hope. What is lost will be found, “for nothing good is ever lost.” (Rosamunde Pilcher) There really is a happily ever after. I know this. I live in the light of this truth. It is who I am. And indeed, it is who my son—and my mother are today. To God be the glory.
