Loss

I just found out that Sono Harris died yesterday. I never met her, but I have greatly benefitted from the books her children have written over the past decade. Josh Harris wrote I Kissed Dating Goodbye in the late ‘90’s and twins Alex and Brett Harris wrote Do Hard Things just a few years ago. My heart grieves for their family. Please keep them in your prayers.

When I heard the news, it was hard not to reflect on my own experience of losing my mom. There are just some things I've been thinking about lately...

People far too often treat bereavement like it’s a broken leg. Something fixed by a cast, some physical therapy, and time. They expect you to hobble around for a little while, but soon enough, they expect you to be running and playing just like you used to.

But it’s more like having your leg amputated. Sure, the bloody stump will heal, but it’s not growing back. You will forever be crippled. Your task is now to accommodate your new way of life, with the knowledge that for the rest of this life, you will be without.

Does that seem melodramatic? I don’t think it is, though it took a long time to give myself permission to write those words. I have been feeling like I can’t be truly honest about how traumatic my mom’s death was because I don’t want pity, and I don’t want to underemphasize God’s grace. The horror of losing my mom and the peace that God is in control have figured out a way to coexist in my mind, but I struggle with how to communicate that to others.

I have long since passed the timeslot for socially acceptable grieving. And yet, I ache. In some ways, my grief has even intensified. I started to wonder if I was normal and my intellectual interest in death was born. This school year I checked out armloads of books on bereavement and stayed up late reading and researching. I wrote papers, creative sketches, and poems, scribbling notes in composition books about “secondary grief” and “anniversary reactions.” I became an amateur thanatologist, evidenced by the fact that I even know what the word thanatologist means. I think some people started to worry, but it was something I needed to do.

I learned a lot. Unfortunately, part of what I learned is that a great deal of bereavement “help” is nothing but moronic psycho-babble. But I’ve also seen glimpses of truth. Glimpses of myself.

I have always been wary when labeling myself, because it’s so easy to read yourself into vague descriptions. Try reading a newspaper horoscope; chances are that you can find yourself in a Taurus just as well as in a Gemini. That’s why you need to use caution…nobody wants to be the person who reads a book and suddenly sprouts issues like therapists are going out of style.

But it’s an entirely different thing when you know before you read a book that you have issues, and you’re reading the book for guidance. Just because you recognize yourself in the pages of a book doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve fallen into the trap of obsessive self-labeling.

One of the books I read was called Motherless Daughters. I heard about the book shortly after my mom died, but I put off reading it until just a few months ago. Like I said, I wanted to be cautious. I didn’t want my grieving to be dictated by a book.

Motherless Daughters had a lot of liberalism, strong language, and a heavy dose of humanistic bosh. I’m not rushing around buying copies for people. I only recommend it if the title fits you, and you want some reassurance that you’re normal. And from what I know of my blog readership, I don’t think that’s a huge demographic, so anyway...

But the book helped me gain insight into motherless daughters. I realized anew the importance of mothers, and just how much they shape their daughter's life. The mother-daughter relationship is so special...typically the longest-lasting relationship in a daughter's lifetime. In a way that helped to justify my continued grief. I'm realizing that it's okay to still hurt, and I haven't given myself that permission in a long time.

Please understand. I'm not writing this to get attention or pity. I just feel like I needed to say it, because lately, I've met some new people and in the course of conversation, I've had to tell them about my mom. Some of them have been shocked and said things like, "But you're so happy!" I don't want people to get the wrong idea. Yes, I'm happy. God has blessed me greatly. But no...that doesn't mean that I'm "over it." Not at all. This is going to be lifelong journey, and I think I've come to terms with that.