The Myth of Closure

I wrote this as part of a presentation on a weekend retreat in North Carolina in 2009. The context was addressing a group of women from a church, with a theme of "Are We There Yet? Lessons from Life's Journey."

After the horrible events of 9/11, as our nation attempted to recover, one of the predictable reactions was to try to come back to some sort of normalcy. Our eyes were riveted to the TV stories of real people whose lives had been either miraculously spared or tragically ended that day. Gradually the stories of the relatives came before us and the widows and children seemed to especially grip our hearts with sadness. I could identify with those instant widows who were left with children. That sense of panic and incredulity that one’s life could change so dramatically in an instant.

I wished that I could reach through the TV and comfort and reassure, and most of all, offer some insight from my own experience of loss. America hastened to name the terrorists, create a monument at ground zero, and get back to a normal life, all in the name of closure. I believe closure is a western concept, created to avoid or hasten dealing with pain and sadness. Blame, burial, and back-to-work are thought to be antidotes to loss and grief. Speaking from experience, it doesn’t work. It’s not all better. You can’t just move on. When I married Spencer, we became one. How do you become un-one and not have a wound and a subsequent scar? How do children, whose eyes look like their dad’s, whose creative writing skills mirror the writing abilities of their dad, whose fishing skills were gently taught to them from the age of two, whose genetic make up constantly remind me of their father…how do you close that part of their life? of my life? It can’t be done. It shouldn’t be done.

My daughter, April, asked me one day, Mom, will you always be sad? I carefully considered what I wanted to say to her. Yes, sweetie, I will always be sad. I will always miss dad. But I will not always cry when I talk about him. I will not always feel the grief building up in my chest until I can’t breathe and I have to get away to sob and mourn. My raw and pulsing hurt will settle into gentle memories and occasional tears. (Obviously, I didn't say all that to my 5-year old; I gave her an age appropriate version.) Sadness has become part of who I am, part of the fabric that is my life. And it’s not a bad thing. It is a grace and a gift from God. Sadness tempers your need to tear through life, grasping for the next experience and thrill. Sadness offers opportunity to listen and breathe deeply. It makes space for friendship and companionship with fellow travelers. Sadness makes room for reflection and quiet. I love Josh Groban’s song, You Raise Me Up. The first lines to the song go like this: When I am down, and oh, my soul so weary. When troubles come and my heart burdened be. Then I am still and wait here in the silence. Until you come and sit awhile with me. There is something about sadness that opens us up to the voice of God. Fellowship with Him is more poignant. So that even more than 12 years after Spencer’s death, I am so easily moved to tears by verses about God’s compassion and love for me.

Isabel Allende says of the grief following the death of her daughter, “…sadness is never gone; it lives on forever just below the skin…not a paralyzing emotion, but an awareness of the loss that colored my reality.”

This is not a morbid, wallowing in the pain sort of life. It’s conversation and laughter and memories; it’s songs that bring tears, and movies that spark memories; its pictures on the wall and books that inspire. It’s reassurance that Dad would be proud, that he would approve. It even offers the possibility that one day you may need someone to help you figure out all that this particular loss means in your life. It acknowledges that learning to drive, graduating from high school and college, learning to play the piano…are bittersweet without Dad’s affirmation…but they are good all the same.

Just a word here about remarriage after the loss of a spouse. While I am definitely not opposed to surviving men and women finding love again, I feel that many adults hurry into the next relationship, thinking that it will somehow end the pain of their loss. That it will bring closure, or that it will help them move on. (I hate that expression.) My children were violently opposed to the idea of me dating or going out. And while I never promised them that I would not remarry, I had no interest initially in adding to the hard realities that they were already dealing with in regards to the loss of their dad. I have had women tell me that “you have to think of yourself,” “your children will adjust,” you have to move on.” While I try not to center my life around my children, I do believe that they are a gift to me, to bring to adulthood with the most wisdom and strength I can muster, and my pursuits and wants are secondary to what is, in the long run, healthy for us all.

For me personally, I was 31 when I got married. When I met and married Spencer, he was truly my best friend and confidante. We liked being together more than anything. We never ran out of things to talk about. Spencer introduced me to another culture and another way of looking at life. He was a gift to me, that was short lived, but worth it all. If I am to have another husband, God will have to bring him to me and let me know in very plain terms—this one’s for you.

So while grief work is hard and sometimes so lonely, it can result in a deeper and more genuine journey later on. A journey that is enhanced for having endured the necessary pain. Some of our most memorable and poignant times as a family, are those evenings when we linger at the dinner table, talking about, "remember when..." To me, that’s way more healthy and life-giving than never mentioning it again, and even pretending like it never happened.

Outdoor Cathedral

Outdoor Cathedral

The giant oaks like saintly icons

line the path as I proceed

down the aisle

toward the house

where I will break bread

with other pilgrims.

Nancy Perkins

9/9 Jesuit Center

Respite

As Spring nears, my thoughts have been turning to a place that is very close to my heart--The Jesuit Monastery in the countryside of Wernersville, Pennsylvania. For the past decade, I've been taking a weekend once a year to spend in silence in that place. It's hard to describe my feelings as I pass through the great iron gates that are wide open, inviting entrance into the monastery grounds. I am often accompanied by my sister, and we together breathe a prayer that God will remove any expectations, except that of meeting Him there. I can almost feel a physical cape of grace, as it were, settling over my shoulders and around my arms, binding me in God's promise of love and mercy.

Entering into the great stone main building, I find myself smiling with remembrance and comfort--almost like coming home--if it's possible to feel that way about a place so infrequently visited. Even the small cell-like room to which I am assigned, feels like a warm and comforting little space, just for me. While the room is small, there is a large window looking out over the grounds, and more closely down onto a small garden of fountains and statues of the saints.

You would think that after spending time at this place year after year, that I would go with the expectation that God was going to meet me there in an amazing way, but each year I am actually surprised at that reality. While the specifics are probably too personal to post, I can say that without exception, each year I have explored a specific facet of my relationship with God in a new and humbling way.

This year my reservation is in for the Fall. My two daughters who are presently living with me, will be leaving for college in August--April to Temple University in Philadelphia, and the Jubilee to Belhaven University in Jackson, Mississippi. I feel certain that my time at the monastery in September will be a time of reflection and insight into the new reality of being an empty-nester. How will that play out for me and what will it mean in terms of my relationship with my heavenly Father? We'll see...

Getting Started

I want to write down my thoughts and reflections in a way that is meaningful to me and perhaps to someone else as well. I'm not sure about the whole thing of putting your personal musings out there in cyberspace, but I've been thinking about doing this for a while. So I'll give it a shot and see how it feels.

I chose An Ordinary Life as my blog name, because while ordinary is not necessarily a definitive word, it really describes how I've felt about my life over the past decade or so. And it's a term I've come to feel at home in, and own.

You could say that much of my life was lived in not-so-ordinary circumstances. I grew up in a mennonite home, the fifth child (fifth daughter) of seven. I spent 2 1/2 years in volunteer service in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. I was married for 14 1/2 years to my true soulmate, and for all but three of those years, we lived in an intentional Christian community in Jackson, Mississippi. I'm white. My husband was black. I have been a widow since 1998, following the sudden death of my husband from a heart attack. I have three amazing and beautiful children.

Since August 1998, I have been living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, being a mom and holding a nine-to-five job. In many ways, my present life seems disconnected to my previous experience, but it is full and it is rich...and it is ordinary.