A Season of Grief

Fr. Tim Shillcox, O. Praem.

I can happily call to mind the "best days of my life". It’s fun!  But I had never ever thought in terms of the "most horrible day of my life" – not until 18 months ago.
Like every Sunday as a parish priest, I was into the celebration of Mass at Our Lady of Lourdes Parish Family in DePere; good news had just come that our Youth Minister and her husband had given birth to their firstborn.  I was ready with my homily; Mass had begun.
But then, during the first reading, the sacristan came to the chair with a note: "Call your brother-in-law."  I had a feeling it couldn’t wait, so I slipped away, and called the answering service.  It was like slow motion; having elderly parents with health issues, my mind began to race: "It’s Mom.  She’s gone."
Knowing I needed to get back to Mass, I rushed the operator: "Just give me the message!" Then it came: "Your brother-in-law called; your niece has passed away."
I collapsed against the sacristan as a tsunami of shock, grief and disbelief drown me.  Realizing I had to get back to continue Mass, I went into church.  Not able to preach, I shared the news with the Assembly and we prayed. I could see folks’ shock, grief and empathy reaching out to me from their hearts.  They had come to know my 28-year old niece and god-daughter, Nicole, through my preaching references to her, her husband and two daughters, 9 years and 6 months old.  They knew she has been the "apple of her Uncle Tim’s eye", my twin sister’s firstborn, as much a child as I’ll ever have, a beautiful, gentle, strong, young woman; an ‘awesome Mommy’.
I tried to get through Mass; by the Sign of Peace, someone had called another priest to assist me; and another came to take the next Mass so I could go home.  One family even followed me along Highway 41 toward Appleton to make sure I was safe.
Once home - to break the news to Mom & Dad around the kitchen table, to hold on to each other tight and weep in disbelief.   Then head over to Nicole and Eric’s.  To enter into the most horrible loss I have ever known; to kneel over her body with her Dad…to absolve, anoint and commend her to God…all the while thinking: "It can’t be!"
Standing out on the front lawn with her husband and my brother-in-law, eventually the talk turned toward funeral arrangements.  "Can you get one of your buddies to do the funeral, Tim?" someone asked.  "No...no.  I don’t want to have to do it; but if it has to be done, I don’t want anybody else to do it if it’s OK with you."
The days that followed brought our little family deeper and deeper into sadness, and heartbreak. They also revealed to us the beauty of people, their goodness, the power of faith and hope – along with the cruel pain that death inflicts.
I had buried hundreds of folks; I’d consoled families.  Now the question came – "Do you really believe this stuff, Tim?"  From those days, and the 18 months since, I’ve found the following has helped to go forward from that "most horrible day of my life":
* being honest about your feelings and questions.
* having faith in the power of God’s love, and finding a way not to blame God but to trust God hurts in this too and reaches out to us in compassion.  After all, He lost a Son unfairly, cruelly and prematurely! God know how it hurts.
* allowing an obituary, a funeral ritual, a wake, visits, photographs a tombstone all to celebrate a loved one’s life attempt to express hope, thanksgiving and sadness.
* having people who will listen – not so much talk or even respond - just listen and care. At the parish, folks were there – opening our church and ministry to Nicole’s wake, funeral and luncheon.  They were receptive to my sharing, either in the homily or in the bulletin.  One lady, Pat, said to me: "Thanks for sharing your grief, Father Tim." I realized and said to her: "Pat I don’t know what I’d do if you wouldn’t let me!"  But that’s different for everyone; sometimes it’s very, very private too.
* allowing tears to come when they come, and not worrying who sees them.
* knowing people care – maybe because they say so, or just show it in a way you can intuit, and not feeling pressured to ‘get over it’ before you’re ready.  "You get used to it; but you never get over it."
* one person who lost 2 children told me at the time: "You will be sad for a long time."  And I could trust that she knew.  Over a year later, someone else told me: "Father, you might not show as much, but we know you’re still sad; we understand you still struggle with your niece’s death." That helped so much to have a kind of permission.
For sometimes, at the mention of my niece, friends fall silent.  Maybe they don’t want me to be sad? Maybe they’re afraid, or just don’t understand.  Maybe they just don’t want to go there. But every once in a while still, I need to ‘go there’, because it still hurts. 
Recently a friend whose sister died in similar circumstances over 25 years ago "let me talk about it" with him and his wife over a perch plate and a beer; they gave me hope that one’s memory lives on; and the tears welling up in his eyes – for his sister and for my niece - were genuine compassion.
* A friend gave me a little book: Living When Someone You Love Has Died (Earl Grollman).  It’s brief, blunt and insightful.  This rabbi is honest; but also lets you make your choices on how to go on.  It might not help everyone; it helped me.
* Finally, focusing on my niece’s daughters and the rest of our family – this helps me to see her, to experience her still with us!  So do pictures; I made an album of my life with Nicole recently.  I know, it doesn’t bring her back; but it keeps her present in my heart, in my life.
And death looks different now.  Through the power of Jesus – tested himself by cruel death, I know…it’s about a happy reunion with my niece as well as a ‘face-to-face’ with God.  I’m not afraid.