Someone told me once, “Don’t expect others to grieve with you.” I don’t know that that is necessarily so. I believe people do grieve with you, but just at a different level. We all hurt when someone we love passes away, even if it is just a neighbor.
What I find now, though, is a deeper understanding of this thing called loss. When I go to bed at night, I reach out with my hand in the darkness to his side of the bed and pat an imaginary shoulder, and wish him good night. Every morning, I say hi to his photograph sitting on my nightstand. God forbid it should answer me; I’d have a stroke! Yet I do, and I smile back at his eternal smile and tell him I miss him. It is these things that our friends don’t share with us, and that’s what separates our hurt from the others that comfort us.
We can’t pretend to know exactly how one is handling the loss of their loved one. And we shouldn’t think that we can. It runs too deep; too profound for words, really. The loss smacks us in the face each day, in the strangest ways. Constant daily reminders of the emptiness that once was a person — Head two, on that two-headed monster called you.
But although we can’t profess to truly know another’s loss, we must not stop loving that person, encouraging that person, and letting them know they are not alone. I am so blessed that way. I am truly surrounded by a wonderful army of friends who continue to bolster me up. I am sad for those around us that do not have an army.
One of my blog fans encouraged me to read “90 Minutes in Heaven” by Don Piper. Well, guess what, we’ve now invited about 20 friends to read the book and we’re all going to get together and discuss it over a cup of coffee — at my house on September 29. I’ll serve up some treats and we will solve the mystery of Heaven. This is how my army works. Pretty cool, eh?
Watch for those that need a soldier, and reach out. Heh, if you want, read the book and send me your thoughts, I’ll share them at our Bivouac.