My Grief Is No Less Because You Think It Should Be
I didn’t ask “why” much as a child. Perhaps it was my “good girl” nature that made asking why feel like a challenge to the person being questioned, and that felt uncomfortable. So instead, I read books, dictionary entries, and encyclopedias for answers to my whys. Those days are behind me, and I’ve started asking “why” more often. Google, Siri, and my social media community are always happy to provide answers or feedback.
As a book coach, I’m trained to ask my authors why a lot—leading (and sometimes pushing) them to elaborate on details they know but the reader wouldn’t without more explanation—either explicitly or through a trail of breadcrumbs in the story.
Recently, my “why” questions have been centered around different aspects of grief.
A friend passed away at the end of October, and as I write that, I feel the need to clarify the “level” of friend. She was really more a friend of my husband’s. While she and I had spent time together alone a few times and exchanged texts a few times a year, we weren’t close. We cared and wanted the best for each other, but neither of us was on the other’s top ten people to call.
Reflecting on her passing, a mutual friend commented, “I don’t want to be all dramatically woe-is-me because I know others had more of a profound loss. I was just a side friend.”
That phrase—a side friend—niggled at me.
That and the question of why grief is sometimes so intense with “side” friends? Why do we feel the need to define our friendship level or the depth of our loss based on how often we communicated or hung out? Why do we feel like we don’t get to experience loss simply because others were closer?
Where did we learn to compete for grief space, as if there’s a limited amount to go around?
I wrote about this friend in early 2024 in a phase of collective grief for her ongoing battle and two others who had passed. While this particular friend was still alive, cancer was kicking her butt, and she was in the hospital again. We had gone to visit her and walked away thinking it was probably the last time we’d see her. Somehow, she fought back from that hurdle and other mountains and valleys over the next 18 months. But each time something came up, it felt like it may well be her last.
We went through this when my father-in-law was dying from glioblastoma, one of the most aggressive and lethal forms of brain cancer. He was diagnosed in April of 2018 and declined rapidly over the next several months. It was a miracle he made it to our wedding that September. We said our goodbyes, thinking each visit might be the last, but he held on for another two months. Living in the in-between space, knowing that nothing had been unsaid and yet wanting to be there for the end, was hard.
When I asked ChatGPT for some insight, this is what it said: “When you repeatedly visit someone with the mindset of ‘goodbye,’ you’re living in a time-space of in-between: between presence and absence. Recognizing that the process is messy, cyclical, and unpredictable can be a bit of a relief (and a freeing permission).”
There is no perfect goodbye.
Sometimes we have time to prepare, and at other times, life ends dramatically without warning. The only thing we can really control is how we live—openly, honestly, and with enough generosity of spirit that if today were someone’s last day, we could feel at peace with our actions.
I’ve always believed our days are numbered—that there’s a larger plan at work, and we don’t leave this world a moment sooner or later than we’re meant to. Still, I find myself wondering why God chose to take our friend on October 28. Was there something that needed to unfold first—in her, in her boys, or in the people who loved her? Or was that simply the last day written for her life?
The tapestry poem by Corrie ten Boom, a Holocaust survivor and author, comes to mind.
Imagine a tapestry where you see only the uneven and ugly threads, seemingly random and messy, without pattern or purpose. But when you turn it over, you discover a weaving of a beautiful picture—something you would have never guessed could come from that messy underside.
One of the things I look forward to in the eternal realm is gaining a deeper understanding of some of life’s whys. Many times, I only see the messy, mismatched, or incomplete threads and would love to understand the whole picture. Why did this happen this way or not happen that way? Was there a purpose related to me, or was I a supporting actor in that drama?
My morning walk further reinforced the tapestry analogy. When I left my house, it was foggy and overcast, but as I headed toward the hill, I could catch glimpses of the sun. By the time I reached the road above, the sun was shining brightly, and I could see my house below, visible through the fog, with the sun above. It was a reminder to trust that I don’t always get to know the answers to the whys of life. I can trust that, although I can’t always see all the elements, I know that something greater is weaving a beautiful picture behind the scenes.
Life is But a Weaving
by Corrie ten Boom
My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.
Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.
Not ‘til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned
He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.
Originally published on my Substack.
