On Sunday, Ed begs off his usual ushering job, saying he’s under the weather. The truth is that his dog recently died and tears are still uncomfortably close.
Rosalee is a visitor who’s been coming regularly. She enjoys worship and the warm welcome she’s received but dreads the questions well-meaning strangers ask: “Do you have children? How many?” She has a preschooler and a grade schooler, but she also has three babies who never made it into this world.
This week Mark’s doctor told him he’ll never be able to play golf again. His lungs are too bad now. He feels guilty for the news hitting him so hard when other people have “real” problems. But he’s loved the game for 50 years. Mostly he loved the hours of unhurried time it gave him with his friends. His best conversations happened on the golf course.
Eloise is glad to have the holidays behind her. Her family fractured this year, and she’s not really sure why. She and her husband received a terse note from their son cutting off communication. She used to look forward to all of her children coming home at Christmas, but now there’s an awkward, painful, empty place. She’s too ashamed to tell most people. What will they think?
Leslie feels a familiar ache as she sees the children gathering down front for the children’s time in worship. It feels like grief, but how can you grieve what you never had? She wonders what it would have been like to have had a safe childhood instead of one filled with trauma and abuse. What might she have been? What would her life have looked like had she not spent so much time hiding it and then healing from it?
All of these people are grieving. On any given Sunday, in any given congregation, people are grieving losses like these.
If you look through the listings of grief support groups in any community, you’ll find many options for people grieving the death of a person. Specific support groups, such as groups for those whose children or spouses have died, can have an important role.
When our public conversation around grief is limited to the death of a person, however, that limited picture becomes the model for what grief is supposed to look like. That leaves these people out and can leave them feeling as if their grief isn’t quite legitimate.
To be clear: The loss of anything that is connected to our hearts matters. We have a right to grieve it.
Several years ago I created a grief small group curriculum for churches, in part because I saw the need for a group for people grieving a variety of losses. Some of the most powerful stories I’ve heard from those groups come from people who show up to mourn a person’s death but find themselves grieving other things; for example, the childhood they never got to have.
From time to time I lead grief seminars and workshops in churches. As part of the conversation I ask the group to help me list kinds of losses on the whiteboard. When I add “family estrangement,” someone always says, “That’s us.” Sometimes they say it to the group; more often they come up to me during a break to tell me in private.
Often people dealing with these sorts of losses are hesitant to label what they’re feeling as grief. Or, if they do recognize they’re grieving, they feel embarrassed because they feel like it’s not a “real loss.” After all, they wouldn’t qualify for the grief support group with this loss.
As a congregational leader, you have an opportunity to make a difference. There is power in the naming of our experiences. Often my clients are surprised when I tell them, “That’s grief, and you have a right to it.” In our prayers, liturgies and sermons in worship, in Bible studies, in discussions and conversations, you have an opportunity to name these neglected losses.
You may not know that someone is out there who is carrying that loss, but they will never forget that you gave them permission to grieve. Sometimes all it takes is saying, “This is a loss that we grieve. This is a real loss.”
When talking with people in transition (job, home, family, health), be curious about what they’re losing and what they miss. Don’t let them get away with minimizing heartfelt losses as silly. Here’s what church can look like when all losses matter:
I went to church one Sunday when my beloved dog was dying. In fact, I knew I’d have to say goodbye to him that evening. I’d been absent from worship during previous weeks to be with him but showed up on this day because I needed to be in that community.
As we began singing a hymn, my tears started leaking out. Very quickly I could no longer pretend that there was something in my eye. They streamed down my cheeks as I wept.
Here’s what happened when I let myself grieve for my dog in the midst of my congregation: As I wept, a friend sitting behind me leaned forward and gently but firmly placed a caring hand on my shoulder. It was a small thing, and it was everything.
People hugged me as I came in with my grief-stricken face and as I left feeling wrecked. Later that afternoon I received texts and emails — but not the kind with glib answers. They simply said, “I saw you come in. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
We talk about and name all kinds of grief in my church. Because of that I could show up without shame and be loved. Months later, I still have no words for the deep grace of it.
