Some Grief’s Observed – Kinda

Tonight (Monday; October 2, 2006) Adam, Joshua and I were meeting at the Napper Tandy for our usual weekly late night talk. Between discussions about each other’s weeks a conversation ensued that sparked somewhat of a deep realization in my mind. I’m not even really sure what Adam and Joshua were talking about, but it was one of those moments where my mind disengaged with the conversation in order to do some newly realized improv introspection.

This past week one of my Truett professors, Dr. Foster, passed away due to cancer. Throughout all my time in seminary it was something she was dealing with, but in the last six months things began to worsen. I had her for one of my first classes at Truett (Intro. to Scriptures), and needless to say she has meant a lot to many people at (and outside) of Truett. I got a call from Kristen on Thursday and she broke the news to me. During the day I got a number of calls from friends letting me know the sad occurance. For me the part that stinks the most about her death is that I am currently in San Francisco and was not in Waco, and cannot be in Waco for the visitation and funeral. I will not be there to be able to grieve with my friends – to be in the community that loved her and that I love as well.

The summer of 2004 was the summer between my first and second year at Truett and I was doing camp in Chicago. I remember going to visit one of my staffers to check up on her day. When I got there she pulled me to the side and said, “Josh, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” (which of course braces you for news you know you are not really ready to hear), “but I just got off the phone with Toph and he told me to tell you that Dr. Conyers died today.” Again, this was not an unexpected happening, I had him for class that spring (and the previous fall) and there were many days that he was not able to make class because of cancer treatment. I spent that day driving around Chicago just thinking and remembering. Later that day I was able to call Ryan (who was also not in Waco at the time) to talk and to grieve. What I hated about that circumstance was that I was not in a place where I could leave and be in Waco. I was not able to be there and grieve with my friends – to be in the community that loved him and that I love as well.

This summer I went to India, and before my fellow travelers and I arrived in India we were in Los Angeles and Hong Kong. Our first day in Hong Kong was such a tiring day. We walked around the whole city in order to get used to the new time zone and to avoid jet lag. That night I was ready for bed and slept incredibly well. The next morning I was awoken by an early knock on my door. Ken got up to answer the door and Dr. Stroope walked in with a telephone in hand. Now, on this trip we all knew that if someone was calling from the states it was probably not good news on the other end – and it was not. Dr. Stroope sat down and said, “This is Rebekah Carter on the phone – one of your friends has died.”

Rebekah was one of my best friends in college (and after) and was also a fraternity sweetheart for the fraternity I was in. I count her, Jon Metts and Pete Marsh as some of my closest friends from college. She and I had not talked in a long time, and the only reason I thought she would be calling me in Hong Kong was to tell me that my best friend from college, Jon, had died. I sat with the phone in my hand for a second preparing to hear her voice and her news. It was not her on the other line. Instead it was Janalee who said hello. It took me a second to realize that it was not Rebekah, but I soon did when Janalee said, “Josh, I have some terrible news. Rebekah died in a car wreak yesterday.” Janalee gave me some details and stated how sorry she was about the whole situation. She was able to give Jon the number in Hong Kong and a few minutes later I was on the phone with him. He gave me some more details about the incident, we shared some old stories, and shared a mutual shock. He asked if I could make it back for the visitation and funeral – I had to say that I could not.

That morning I walked to a spot overlooking a part of Hong Kong. There is a huge cross that sits on this mountain which can be seen from the city below. I’ve never really been a fan of these types of these religious monuments in the U.S., but I was thankful for this one on that particular day. I sat at the base of that cross to journal, to remember my friend, to cry, to be mad at God, and to grieve. In my mind I thought of all the people who would be at her funeral – people I had not seen in years, and so many of my fraternity brothers. These were people who where my community for a number of years and in a time of great need I was not able to be with them. I was not able to be there and grieve with my old friends – to be in a community that loved her and that I loved as well.

I don’t know why throughout all my time at seminary that when someone whose life has intersected mine in a formational way has died I have been in a place that does not allow me to return. [The death of my pastor almost a year ago is the only instance where I was actually in Waco]

Tonight I do not even remember what Joshua or Adam said, but it made me wonder if I have properly grieved for these losses. I mean, I push them to a proper place in my mind that allows them to be safely overlooked. On top of that I know that I am predominantly an inward processor…especially when it comes to something like death. However, I started to wonder if part of the grieving process is not fully realized until it is done within the community that holds common memories of that person, and the memories that are attached to that person in one’s own mind.

For each person we know there is a context, along with a setting that contains certain characters and props that appear in a person’s story. For Dr. Foster there is a class room, a seminary, a wit, Kentucky paraphernalia, a whip, a thrown tissue box, a heavy coat (because her classrooms were like refrigerators), for me (and some others) a lunch at Red Lobster and On the Border, and a meaningful chat in the hall after Kyle’s death.

I could make a similar list for Dr. Conyers and for Rebekah as well as for anyone in my life that has passed. But within these props are stories, and stories have an enduring and endearing manner about them. They seem to carry on the life of someone who has moved on (living or deceased) – and in some way many of these stories acquire a life of their own. Many of these stories have been heard many times, and still people do not get tired of hearing the account. Sometimes we all get the privilege of hearing the story from someone who tells it best – a “keeper of the story” if you will. Even though there may be a protest to the telling because it has been told and heard many times people still insist, “Tell it anyway.” When the “keeper” shares the story most people know the script, they know the characters, they know the lines and some can even be seen saying the lines silently with the teller. Many even know the cadence of the story and begin to smile before a funny moment is revealed and begin to look sad before a touching line is stated – anyone new to the story need not even hear the story, they could follow the tale by simply watching the listener’s faces. There are moments when the telling is so vivid that the feelings and the smells even seem to reappear and add reality to a memory. At the end of the telling there is a great feeling of shared experience, and a wonderful peace of having a moment in the past reconstructed in the mind so that people can say, “Yes, I was there and I remember…I remember the place, the moment, and the people (even the ones who are no longer with us).”

What is it about story telling that softens grief – or at least helps us deal with it? Is it that in the retelling of the stories we realize that life is good, and on many levels has been good even in the worst of losses? Is it that we realize and remember all the life one life has brought into the world? Or is it that in our remembering we are reminded what we love about life and about others?

Storytelling is a communal affair – there is only so much that one can remember on one’s own. This may be one of the reasons grieving alone sucks – there are no stories to tell with people who do not share the same characters and setting that you have. The stories can be told, but the appreciation is not there (and that is not their fault). So, as a community I love grieves today know that I would love to be there – and share, share stories, a means that draws us together and is one of our eternal links to the past