Carlen Maddux and I have forged a friendship as the result of our common experiences in caring for our beloved spouses. I am blessed by Carlen’s insights, wisdom, and support. I am honored that he chose to interview me recently and post this article on his website.
http://www.carlenmaddux.com/blog/emerging-from-a-hard-season-of-dementia-pandemic-and-death?fbclid=IwAR1h-XAXHba5a_oDEju5sxPG-oPL7mgsa34sYEUrcsCilZZHIGnY6jGgapI
As a pastor, I largely overlooked Holy Saturday as an essential part of the divine drama of Holy Week. It was a welcomed day of rest after the intensity of Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday, and Good Friday.
Not this year! This year the silence and darkness between Friday’s crucifixion and Sunday’s resurrection speaks poignantly to where I am.
Within the last six months I’ve lost my wife of 58 years and an older brother, plus a beloved bishop friend, and two colleague/mentors. Treasured voices have been silenced and the places they occupied have become a dark void.
Added to the void is the isolation of a global pandemic. The wait for release from imposed aloneness is more than three days! We don’t know when it will end. When it does end, life will be different; but the shape of that difference remains unknown.
So, I identify more closely with the disciples on that first Holy Saturday. They were locked behind closed doors. Grieving! Afraid! Lonely! Confused! Apprehensive! Waiting!
Death creates silent and dark places for all of us. All losses are accompanied by silence and darkness.
Life itself is filled with unanswered questions, unfulfilled dreams, unwelcomed loneliness.
It is into all those silent and dark places that Christ enters on Holy Saturday. The ancient creed affirms that Jesus “descended to the dead” and “the gospel was proclaimed even to the dead” (1 Peter 4:6).
In the death of Jesus, God has claimed even the silent and dark places as realms of divine love and promise.
On that first Holy Saturday, the disciples were together in their silence and darkness.
We, too, are together emotionally even though physically separated. It is in our togetherness that God comes in our silent and dark places.
The author of 1 Peter offered this word of encouragement as we wait in silence and darkness: “Above all, maintain constant love for one another.”
Love speaks in the silence and shines light in the darkness!
The COVID-19 pandemic compounds and complicates the grief process. It’s as though the whole world is in mourning.
Many are dying alone in hospitals and healthcare facilities cutoff from families. Funeral services and comforting embraces are limited.
There is a solitude inherit in grief itself. Others may empathetically bear some of sorrow’s weight; but the deepest pain is privately borne.
Yet, we need the comfort that comes from physically connecting with one another — warm embraces, a clasp of the hand, a smile on the lips, or tears in the eyes.
Friday will mark six months since Linda’s death. The intensity of the sadness has subsided and the waves of sorrow wash over me less often. Adjusting to life without her presence remains a daily challenge.
The “social distancing” and isolation are having an impact on my own grieving. I grieve for and with those who are infected with the COVID-19 virus and their families. The sheer number of casualties is breathtaking. But they are more than numbers; they are mothers, fathers, spouses, children, friends, colleagues, family.
I feel a certain kinship with them, a solidarity that is deepened by my own loss. There is a strange comfort in such solidarity, a sense of connection with others who grieve. I understand more fully the Beatitude, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
The isolation is forcing me to revisit and work through painful memories. Prior to the onset of the pandemic, my busyness had enabled me to avoid fully coming to grips with some guilt, regrets, and other negative components of grieving.
Now I can’t escape them. The long hours of solitude and silence bring buried thoughts and emotions to the surface. I’m naming them as they arise, reflecting prayerfully, and sharing them in telephone conversations and messages with family and close friends.
Although I am alone most of the time, I’m not really isolated in my grieving. I remain connected in multiple bonds of love and friendship. And, I’ve committed to reaching out to others who are grieving. With the pandemic, “others” includes almost everyone.
A hymn we sing often at Bethany, the memory care facility where I serve as volunteer chaplain, is “Blest be the Tie That Binds.” We always include this verse:
We share each other’s woes,
our mutual burdens bear;
and often for each other flows,
the sympathizing tear.
Let us find ways of sharing our grief even in this time of isolation. In so doing, we may come to know “the peace that passes understanding.”
Shifting Margins 