Introit II
I heard a voice say, “Cry!”
I said: “What shall I cry?”
—Isaiah 40:6 (NIV)
“We are summoned to a silent place,” John Bell wrote, “struggling to find some words to fill the space.” But why must we look for words to fill the space? Isn’t silence better? Is anything but silence possible?
In his “Requiem for a Friend,” Rilke looked for words to “set it all in order.” But I wonder what is one to set in order? Death? There is nothing orderly about death; and to make death into something orderly, to domesticate the demonic, is to deny its awful negation of all that is good. Grief, then? Grief is chaos; to set it in order is to try to capture fog with a sieve.
Still, could we not hope, perhaps, to wrest some meaning from death and grief, some why or wherefore—to grasp somehow the terrible mystery of death? But often I can only believe, with Wolterstorff, that “such shattering of love [is] beyond meaning for us, [for death is] the breaking of meaning.” So, the question persists: why? Why words? Why not just allow silence to bind up the pain?
Very often, surely, silence—the aching, silent cry—is all one can manage. Even so, sometimes I found myself seeking out words, or music, or images . . . something to give shape to the grief, even if anything I sought was likely to be inadequate. Might there be some reason to seek out words?
Perhaps, to name. So much of grief is beyond, or beneath, words; ineffable sighs and cries, and pain too deep for words. But, still, we can strive to bring the ineffable, the fleeting, and the chaotic into the human melody of living and loving. Not to deny the demonic awfulness of death, but to deny its claim to dominion.
Perhaps, to honor. Although the why of suffering and death may always elude our grasp, we can try to capture, preserve, and honor the dying, honor a life lived in the face of death, and honor the love that lives on in the grip of grief.
Especially, to remember. We can seek to gather the fragments of love left scattered by the demands of living with illness, to reassemble them and breathe renewed life into them. This remembering is a sacred, sacramental work of love.
Perhaps, through the work of naming, honoring, and remembering, we may be permitted to touch that which is beyond touch, to enter the garden of what T. S. Eliot called “this intersection time.”
Introit III
Does this grieving have a name?
I cannot think of it merely as a process, something to undergo, something that happens to one. I find it even harder to think of it as a process of healing, because grieving is not pathological, although it often brings pathology in its wake. Its cause, rooted in the lifeblood of love, is the most profound treasure of the soul. In the midst of grief, to think of grief’s pain as pathology is impossible. Neither can I think of grieving as a journey. The problem is not merely that we are inclined to call nearly every life process a “journey,” trivializing the term. The problem is that grief is not an adventure. It is not orderly. There are no maps to guide; it has no known destination, no promise of relief or joy upon arrival. So, again, I am left wondering what is grieving’s name?
In Luther’s text, the familiar phrase “blessed are those who mourn” (Matthew 5:4) is rendered, “Selig sind, die da Leid tragen”—“blessed are those who bear grief.” “Bear grief”—that seems right.
Grief is a leaden burden borne on the backs of the living,
bending the bearer unbearably.
Grief is liturgy—
extreme, exhausting, endless labor;
sacred labor: labor set apart, singular, and profound,
soul-engaged, soul-challenging,
assigned and prescribed, like the divine office,
yet unlike it because it is without a script;
To grieve the death of one’s beloved is to live a lament-psalm;
to live, weeping, a contradiction-filled, pain-racked,
musical prayer.
Like a lament-psalm, grieving mixes guilt and grace;
anguish and anger give way suddenly to alleluia;
and alleluia, in a moment, sinks back into sickness of heart.
Occasionally, disorientation modulates to a key of reorientation—
the wounds remain, the pain still stabs, but sometimes
renewed life, scarred and broken joy, seem possible.
Yet the reorientation is momentary—never once and for all:
no feeling is final, no insight stable,
no steps forward without stumbles back,
no relief without relapse;
Grief’s liturgy moves irregularly, in zig-zag patterns.
Day I
Day I: Dawn [Lauds]
I have always known
That at last I would
Take this road, but yesterday
I did not know that it would be today.
—Ariwara no Narihira
Linda, because you departed so suddenly—at least it seemed sudden to me and to your friends who gathered around you that night—you have left to me the task of gathering and reassembling the fragments of our love. Not because our love was broken, although it needed some tender maintenance, and not because it had been neglected, although at times lately we tended to it only as background to other pressing tasks. Rather, the work of gathering must be done now because this love was so rich and generous, so joyous and fruitful, that it scattered seeds liberally and carelessly and now the flowers are growing everywhere. The gathering itself is one of those flowers—love binding up love, love binding together love in the hope of bringing forth love.
I am inadequate to the task, Darling, but I jealously keep it for myself. No one can, no one will, gather our love with as much right or as much care as I shall. Gathering and binding these scattered seeds of our love, not for display on a shelf as a work well done, but as a wondrous living thing that will continue to grow in startling new ways as the years unfold.
My dearworthy darling,
stay close.
I need your hands
to help me gather
and your breath
to inspire.
Day I: Daytime (1)
Even youths will faint and be weary,
and the young will fall exhausted;
but those who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength,
they shall mount up with wings like eagles,
they shall run and not be weary,
they shall walk and not faint.
—Isaiah 40: 30–31 (NRSV)
Linda and I read these words on the morning of that day in late January, 2006, when we met with her oncologist to begin her first clinical trial. It was a regime that brought her life back to nearly normal for several months. We were full of fearful apprehensiveness and uncertainty that Monday morning, but already, even then, Linda’s strength was evident. Her determination to face the reality of her new life directly and with courage could be seen in her eyes. It was a difficult task for her. Yet, for two years her courage, clear-eyed realism, and gentle grace never faltered.
I wish I had her by my side now, helping me through this new trial. I fear I have neither her strength nor her courage. Worse, I don’t have her calming