Tag: Grief

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A Grief Observed

I like many of you am grieving these days. I will not speak directly to it here, but I think you know why I am grieving.

I don’t do grief well. But I have learned to study it in others and thus find my way.

My father died more than 10 years ago, and except for essential papers related to his estate, I simply boxed up most of his papers and stored them in the attic of my rectory for future attention. At long last I am sorting through those boxes. Among his effects were also many papers of my mother’s, who died about two years before he passed away.

I discovered many things that moved me. As I read through the various papers, I was reminded that many of us never really know the pain and grief that others bear. In particular, I was struck by the poignant file that was simply labeled, “Mary Anne.” (A photo of my father and sister is at right).

My sister Mary Anne was tragically afflicted with mental illness from her earliest days. My parents knew there was trouble early on when she did not speak a word until she was well past two, and even then only at home. She had a pathological shyness that led her to shut down in the presence of others outside the home. The counselor at her elementary school spoke of Mary Anne as “disturbed” and insisted on psychiatric care for her by the time she was six.

Discretion and brevity limit what I intend to share here, but Mary Anne was deeply troubled. By age 13, she had to be hospitalized and spent the remainder of her life in 15 different mental hospitals and 6 different group homes. She was often able to visit with us and even stay over on weekend passes. She had stretches during which she was stable, but soon “the voices” would return, as would the dreams that afflicted her. Her psychotic episodes often led to running away, outbursts of violence, and attempts at suicide.

Through all of this, my parents fought very hard for her, and to be sure she got the care she needed. This often led them to various courts and generated much correspondence with insurance companies, state mental health officials, and private hospitals where she was confined. Indeed, during her lifetime my parents made many sacrifices for Mary Anne, both financial and personal, to ensure her care. At one point in the early 1970s, aware that Mary Anne felt isolated in the house with three brothers and desperately wanted a sister, my parents even went so far as to seek to adopt a baby girl.  They filed paperwork and came very close, but the plan ultimately fell through. The baby sister we never had …

Maryanne died in a fire in the winter of 1991 at the age of 30. She likely had a hand in that fire; she had set fires before when the “voices” told her to. I could see the pain on her face as her body lay in the casket and I wept when I saw her. The funeral director explained that there was little he could do since her skin had been singed in the fire. She had clearly been crying when she died—a grief observed.

My father wrote this on the frontispiece of her file:

Mary Anne Pope was our first child.
She led a tortured existence during a short life
and fought hard against great odds.
We remember her for her courage.

And as I read my own parents’ touching recollections of Mary Anne, I could not help but moved, too, by their own pain. Such a heavy grief punctuates each page. I give them great credit for the fact that they insulated the rest of us, their three sons, from the most of the dreadful details of poor Mary Anne’s struggle. They kept their pain largely to themselves and stayed available to us. It is true that there were episodes we had to know about, but as a young boy and teenager I saw in my parents only strength and stability when it came to this matter. I saw my father’s grief and pain for the first time as he wept, standing there at the funeral home looking at my sister—It was a grief observed.

After my sister’s death, my mother’s grief grew steadily worse, causing her struggle with alcohol to worsen as well; she became increasingly incapacitated. Her life ended tragically and suddenly on a cold February day. My father had looked away for only a brief moment, going into the kitchen to make a sandwich, and mom wandered out into a snowstorm. Incapacitated by alcohol and disoriented, she died of hypothermia. We found her body only after three days of searching, when the snow melted a bit. She had died almost a mile away, near the edge of the woods—In her death it was another a grief observed, it was her grief.

My father never quite forgave himself for letting her slip away. The open front door, a first sign of trouble; the searching on a dark, frigid, and stormy night; the steady awareness, “She’s gone.” Those memories haunted him. In the months that followed, he often wondered how he could go on when half of him was gone. He, too, was gone within two years. His congestive heart failure worsened and he died in 2007, literally and figuratively of a broken heart—a grief observed.

All these thoughts swept over me as I looked through this file labeled simply, “Mary Anne.” I too am grieving

There is an old spiritual that says, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus.” And it is a mighty good thing that he does know. Sometimes the grief is too heavy even to share, even to put into words. But Jesus knows all about our troubles. There is a beautiful line in the Book of Revelation that refers to those who have died in the Lord: He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” (Rev 21:4-5)

For my brave parents and courageous sister, who all died in the Lord but who died with grief, I pray that this text has already been fulfilled, and that they now enjoy that everything is new—a grief observed no longer.

Requiescant in pace

I made this video on what would have been my parents 50th anniversary. I picked the song “Cold enough to snow,” since it spoke to my Father’s grief in losing mom on that snowy night.

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Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen, Nobody Knows but Jesus: A Meditation on a Grief Observed

052115As a follow-up to the recent post on comforting the sorrowful, I was led to consider the grief of my parents and the difficulties they faced in raising a daughter with serious mental illness.

My father died eight years ago, and except for essential papers related to his estate, I simply boxed up most of his papers and stored them in the attic of my rectory for future attention. At long last I am sorting through those boxes. Among his effects were also many papers of my mother’s, who died about two years before he passed away.

I discovered many things that moved me. As I read through the various papers, I was reminded that many of us never really know the pain and grief that others bear. In particular, I was struck by the poignant file that was simply labeled, “Mary Anne.” (A photo of my father and sister is at right.)

My sister Mary Anne was tragically afflicted with mental illness from her earliest days. My parents knew there was trouble early on when she did not speak a word until she was well past two, and even then only at home. She had a pathological shyness that led her to shut down in the presence of others outside the home. The counselor at her elementary school spoke of Mary Anne as “disturbed” and insisted on psychiatric care for her by the time she was six.

Discretion and brevity limit what I intend to share here, but Mary Anne was deeply troubled. By age 13, she had to be hospitalized and spent the remainder of her life in 15 different mental hospitals and 6 different group homes. She was often able to visit with us and even stay over on weekend passes. She had stretches during which she was stable, but soon “the voices” would return, as would the dreams that afflicted her. Her psychotic episodes often led to running away, outbursts of violence, and attempts at suicide.

Through all of this, my parents fought very hard for her, and to be sure she got the care she needed. This often led them to various courts and generated much correspondence with insurance companies, state mental health officials, and private hospitals where she was confined. Indeed, during her lifetime my parents made many sacrifices for Mary Anne, both financial and personal, to ensure her care. At one point in the early 1970s, aware that Mary Anne felt isolated in the house with three brothers and desperately wanted a sister, my parents even went so far as to seek to adopt a baby girl.  They filed paperwork and came very close, but the plan ultimately fell through. The baby sister we never had …

Maryanne died in a fire in the winter of 1991 at the age of 30. She likely had a hand in that fire; she had set fires before when the “voices” told her to. I could see the pain on her face as her body lay in the casket and I wept when I saw her. The funeral director explained that there was little he could do since her skin had been singed in the fire. She had clearly been crying when she died—a grief observed.

My father wrote this on the frontispiece of her file:

Mary Anne Pope was our first child.
She led a tortured existence during a short life
and fought hard against great odds.
We remember her for her courage.

And as I read my own parents’ touching recollections of Mary Anne, I could not help but moved, too, by their own pain. Such a heavy grief punctuates each page. I give them great credit for the fact that they insulated the rest of us, their three sons, from the most of the dreadful details of poor Mary Anne’s struggle. They kept their pain largely to themselves and stayed available to us. It is true that there were episodes we had to know about, but as a young boy and teenager I saw in my parents only strength and stability when it came to this matter. I saw my father’s grief and pain for the first time as he wept, standing there at the funeral home looking at my sister—a grief observed.

After my sister’s death, my mother’s grief grew steadily worse, causing her struggle with alcohol to worsen as well; she became increasingly incapacitated. Her life ended tragically and suddenly on a cold February day. My father had looked away for only a brief moment, going into the kitchen to make a sandwich, and mom wandered out into a snowstorm. Incapacitated by alcohol and disoriented, she died of hypothermia. We found her body only after three days of searching, when the snow melted a bit. She had died almost a mile away, near the edge of the woods—a grief observed.

My father never quite forgave himself for letting her slip away. The open front door, a first sign of trouble; the searching on a dark, frigid, and stormy night; the steady awareness, “She’s gone.” Those memories haunted him. In the months that followed, he often wondered how he could go on when half of him was gone. He, too, was gone within two years. His congestive heart failure worsened and he died in 2007, literally and figuratively of a broken heart—a grief observed.

All these thoughts sweep over me as I look through this file labeled simply, “Mary Anne.” I pray, dear reader, that I have not lingered too long for you on these personal matters. But the truth is, all of us carry grief, and perhaps this story will help you with your own, which I pray is not too heavy.

There is an old spiritual that says, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus.” And it is a mighty good thing that he does know. Sometimes the grief is too heavy even to share, even to put into words. But Jesus knows all about our troubles. There is a beautiful line in the Book of Revelation that refers to those who have died in the Lord: He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” (Rev 21:4-5)

For my brave parents and courageous sister, who all died in the Lord but who died with grief, I pray that this text has already been fulfilled, and that they now enjoy that everything is new—a grief observed no longer.

Requiescant in pace


This second video I made on what would have been my parents 50th anniversary. I picked the song “Cold enough to snow,” since it spoke to my Father’s grief in losing mom on that snowy night.

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A Brother’s Reflection on the Struggle of the Mentally Ill, in the wake of a great tragedy.

I had no idea, on Thursday night, when I posted on my sister Mary Anne, on her struggle with mental illness, and also that of my parents to speak to her dignity, and her needs, that a terrible act of violence would unfold on Friday morning (see that post HERE). And while all the facts are not before us, it would seem that, mental illness, and how we as a society deal with the mentally ill, is central to the tragedy that unfolded in Connecticut.

I want to speak to you, in a personal way, as someone who has experienced in his own family the devastating impact of mental illness. I want to write of the struggle to deal with it in a way that respects the dignity of the mentally ill and also the need to protect the common good.

As for my sister Mary Anne and of her 30 year struggle with mental illness, I wrote last week. She had moments of great lucidity, and peace. But these moments were often punctuated by deep troubles, wherein she heard “the voices” who instructed her to do terrible things, acts of violence, acts that harmed her and others. In these, “dark moments” she perpetrated acts of violence, breaking into stores, engaging, not only in shoplifting, but also, it attempted armed robbery, breaking and entering, and other, almost pointless destruction of property. Many times she turned on herself, several times slashing her wrists, taking overdoses, trying to jump to her death. Once, she accosted my mother with a long carving knife. Another time, she successfully stabbed my mother, wounding her seriously in the middle of the night, while she slept. My sister also, set fires, and would ultimately die in a fire that she kindled.

And yet in all of this, my sister Mary Anne, had many lucid moments, wherein she was gentle, kind, helpful and deeply concerned for the well-being of all of us. She was a beautiful human being who struggled mightily to keep her mental health, in the face of a horrible affliction that often overtook her. She loved God, and like all of us, sought his face and the serenity and healing that only God can give.

In all of this, my parents too were engaged in a great battle. It was not a battle that was not easily defined. It was a battle that sought to protect my sisters rights, and her dignity. But it was also a battle that sought to protect the common good, which my parents rightly thought was threatened by my sister’s instability.

Early in my sister’s struggle with mental illness, she was confined to the rather protected environment of mental hospitals. That said, men of these places were not pleasant. And my parents, expended many personal resources, and money to ensure that my sister was in the best of possible environments. But honestly, the protected environment of a mental hospital was best for her, that is where she an others were best protected.

Somewhere, in the late 1970s, as I recall, the ACLU, and other interest groups, sued the federal government, claiming that many were being unjustly detained in mental hospitals. Having lost a series of suits, the government largely emptied the mental hospitals, resulting in a great exodus of the seriously mentally ill into our streets.

As most of you know, the “homelessness” problem, in our large cities, was deeply rooted in mental illness. Who of us have encountered homeless persons have seen the depths of their pain and understand that they struggle with mental illness, and also addiction. I know the mental hospitals prior to 1975 were not wonderful, or well-run, but I have grave concerns that we overreacted and severed many people from the necessary, and protected environment that they most needed.

My sister, was among those who were ushered out of mental hospitals, and placed into group homes settings and other less protected environments. Ultimately, this led to the death of my sister, and of great pain for many others.

In the years following her dismissal from the mental hospital system, my sister bounced back and forth through many different group homes. She often ran off, and in her difficult moments and became involved in many incidents that harmed her and others.

In all this, my parents engaged in an ongoing battle, to have her reconsidered for commitment to the more protected environment of the secured mental hospital. Repeatedly, they were denied. Frankly, with the jurisprudence of the time, these mental health officials had little to go on. The emphasis was on the rights of the mentally ill to be emancipated, and their own safety, and the safety of the community seemed to be quite secondary.

Having proved incapable of stably navigating the group home system my sister was NOT placed back into the mental hospital system, but in fact, was further disconnected from mental health services. She was assigned “Section 8 housing,” and merely given access to daycare facilities.

My parents protested this low level of care, indicating her history of violence and other antisocial acts when she went into crisis. But my sister was a 30-year-old woman, and the state mental health officials indicated that she had rights. And while my parents concerned were legitimate, the officials indicated there was little they could do.

Having been assigned a Section 8 apartment, my sister would be dead within one month. Sure enough, without careful supervision she went off her medicines. She began to act out, breaking into a local convenience store, and committing various other acts of vandalism. The neighbors spoke of her as “strange” and of standing out on her porch late at night speaking out an singing odd songs. Having been arrested on several occasions she was returned to her apartment.

My parents requested her immediate committal, but she protested, and the police indicated that court procedures would have to be followed. A final brief conference with my parents, the police, and my sister ended with a very unreasonable solution: an unstable and very angry young woman was left alone in her own apartment, insisting that police and parents leave her alone. In all this there was no legal recourse. And so my parents, and the police left.

With in one hour, a fire erupted in my sister’s apartment, a fire the investigators had be set, and in which she tragically died. Mary Anne had a history of setting fires when she heard the voices. Twenty-five other families were left without a home that night and many lives were altered.

Please understand, mental illness is a complicated. It remains true that the mentally ill, and mentally incompetent do not lose their rights or dignity. But among those rights and dignities are the need for them to be protected. Many of them struggle with very fragile mental health. The distinction between lucidity and insanity are very fine lines. Simply missing a dose of medicine, or lacking a basic support structure can send them over the edge.

I still weep for my sister, even now as I write this. She was a good woman, a woman who loved God, a woman who loved us, but a woman who struggled mightily to keep her sanity. She was a woman who heard voices, who was a assailed  with demonic oppression. She wanted to be well. She deserved better than to die in an apartment alone, surrounded by flames. She died weeping. Many others also suffered that night, those who lost their homes, and my parents who lost their only daughter. Yes, so many suffered.

Could this have been prevented? I think so.

As we grieve the loss of so many in Connecticut, we do not know all the details. But it seems increasingly clear  that Adam, who committed these acts, was a deeply troubled young man. It is perhaps easy for us to think of him only as “a monster.” But perhaps the reality is more complex than that. I will not say more of the Connecticut case, we do not know the details. I ask only your prayers for those who have suffered, including Adam and his family.

Among the things that we need to consider as we assess this terrible tragedy, is how we deal with the mentally ill. In saying this, I do not deny that there are legitimate concerns related to guns, violent video games, and other deep wounds in our families, including divorce and a culture gone awry.  But among the reflections should be a consideration of mental illness, and the mentally ill. They are not unambiguously evil people. They, like my sister, struggle to find moments of sanity in a mental landscape often assailed by voices, and innumerable psychopathic episodes that disconnect them chronically or episodically from that precious thing we call reality, and good mental health.

People suffer from, and even die from mental illness daily. Finding a way to balance their civil rights, and their need to live in contact with others, must be balanced with the common good, with the need for all of us to live safely. I know, that we did not get the balance right with my sister, Mary Anne. She deserved better than to die alone in an apartment surrounded by flames. And the twenty-five other families, who lost a home that night, also deserved better.

We need to pray and work consistently for a proper solutions for the mentally ill, a solution that respects their individual rights, needs, and dignity and balances these with the needs of the common good, and wider society. May all who suffer from mental illness, and all who suffer with the mentally ill, be blessed encouraged by our God who alone can wipe every tear from our eyes.

Here is a video on the pain of loss:

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Where is God At Times Like These? A meditation in the wake of a violent atrocity.

One of the great mysteries to to believer and non-believer alike is the mystery of evil and suffering.  If there is a God who is omnipotent and omniscient how can he tolerate evil, injustice, and suffering of the innocent? Where was God yesterday when the shootings in Connecticut occurred?  Where is God when a young girl is raped, when genocide is committed, when evil men hatch their plots? Why Did God even conceive the evil ones, and let them be born?

The problem of evil cannot be simply answered. It is a mystery. It’s purpose and why God permits it are caught up in our limited vision and understanding. The scriptures say how “all things work together for the good of those who love and trust the Lord and are called according to his purposes.” But how this is so is difficult for us to see in many circumstances.

Anyone who have ever suffered tragic and senseless loss or observed the disproportionate suffering that some must endure cannot help but ask, why? And the answers aren’t all that satisfying to many for suffering is ultimately mysterious in many ways.

I have some respect for those who struggle to believe in the wake of tragedy. I do not share their struggle but I understand and respect its depths and the dignity of the question. At the end of the trail of questions, often asked in anguish, is God who has not chosen to supply simple answers. Perhaps if he were our simple minds could not comprehend them anyway. We are left simply to decide, often in the face of great evil and puzzling suffering, that God exists or not.

As in the days of Job, we cry out for answers but little is forthcoming. In the Book of Job, God speaks from a whirlwind and He questions Job’s ability to even ask the right questions, let alone venture and answer to the problem and presence of evil and suffering. If He were to explain, it seems all that we would hear would be thunder. In the end he is God and we are not. This must be enough and we must look to the reward that awaits the faithful with trust.

Perhaps the most perplexing aspect of suffering is its uneven distribution. In America we suffer little in comparison to many other parts of the world. Further, even here, some skate through life strong and sleek, wealthy and well fed. Others endure suffering, crippling disease, inexplicable and sudden losses, financial setbacks, and burdens.

It is a true fact that a lot of our suffering comes from bad choices, substance abuse and lack of self-control. But some suffering seems unrelated to any of this.

And the most difficult suffering to accept is that caused on the innocent by third parties who seem to suffer no penalty. Parents who mistreat or neglect their children, the poor who are exploited and used, caught in schemes others have made, perhaps it is corrupt governments, perhaps unscrupulous industries, or crazed killers.

Suffering is hard to explain or accept simply. I think this just has to be admitted. Simple slogans and quick answers are seldom sufficient in the face of great evil and suffering. Perhaps when interacting with an atheist of this third kind, sympathy, understanding and a call to humility goes farther than forceful rebuttal.

A respectful exposition of the Christian understanding of evil might include some of the following points. Note, these are not explanations per se (for suffering is a great mystery) and they are humble for they admit of their own limits.

  1. The Scriptures teach that God created a world that was as a paradise. Though we only get a brief glimpse of it, it seems clear that death and suffering were not part of the garden.
  2. But even there the serpent coiled from the branch of a tree called the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and EVIL. So even in paradise the mystery of evil lurked in minimal form.
  3. In a way the tree and the serpent had to be there. For we were made to love. And love requires freedom and freedom requires choices. The Yes of love must permit of the No of sin. In our rebellious “no” both we and the world unraveled, death and chaos entered in. Paradise was lost and a far more hostile and unpredictable world remained. From this fact came all of the suffering and evil we endure. Our sins alone cause an enormous amount of suffering on this earth, by my reckoning that vast majority of it. Of the suffering caused by natural phenomenon this too is linked to sin, Original Sin, wherein we preferred to reign in a hellish imitation rather than serve in the real paradise.
  4. This link of evil and suffering to human freedom also explains God’s usual non-intervention in evil matters. Were God to do so routinely, it would  make an abstraction of human freedom and thus removes a central pillar of love. But here too there is mystery for the scriptures frequently recount how God does intervene to put an end to evil plots, to turn back wars, shorten famines and plagues. Why does he sometimes intervene and sometimes not? Why do prayers of deliverance sometimes get answered and sometimes not? Here too there is a mystery of providence.
  5. The lengthiest Biblical treatise on suffering is the Book of Job and there God shows an almost shocking lack of sympathy for Job’s questions and sets a lengthy foundation for the conclusion that the mind of man is simply incapable of seeing into the depths of this problem. God saw fit that Job’s faith be tested and strengthened. But in the end Job is restored and re-established with even greater blessings in a kind of foretaste of what is meant by heaven.
  6. The First Letter of Peter also explains suffering in this way: In this you rejoice, although now for a little while you may have to suffer through various trials, so that the genuineness of your faith, more precious than gold that is perishable even though tested by fire, may prove to be for praise, glory, and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ (1 Peter 1:6-7) In other words, our sufferings purify and prepare us to meet God.
  7. Does this mean that those who suffer more need more purification? Not necessarily. It could also mean that a greater glory is waiting for them. For the Scriptures teach Therefore, we are not discouraged; rather, although our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this momentary light affliction is producing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison(2 Cor 4:16-17) Hence suffering “produces” glory in the world to come. With this insight, those who suffer more, but with faith, will have greater glory in the world to come.
  8. Regarding the apparent injustice of uneven suffering it will be noted that the Scriptures teach of a great reversal wherein many who are last shall be first (Mat 20:16), where the mighty will be cast down and the lowly exulted, where the rich will go away empty and poor be filled. (Luke 1:52-53) In this sense it is not necessarily an blessing to rich and well fed, unaccustomed to any suffering. For in the great reversal the first will be last. The only chance the rich and well healed have to avoid this is to be generous and kind to the poor and those who suffer (1 Tim:6:17-18).
  9. Finally, as to God’s apparent insensitivity to suffering, we can only point to Christ who did not exempt himself from the suffering we chose by leaving Eden. He suffered mightily and unjustly but also showed that this would be a way home to paradise.

To these points I am sure you will add. But be careful with the problem of evil and suffering. It has mysterious dimensions which must be respected. Simple answers may not help those who struggle with the problem of suffering and evil. Understanding and an exposition that shows forth the Christian struggle to come to grips with this may be the best way. The “answer” of scripture requires faith but the answer appeals to reason,  and calls us to humility before a great mystery of which we see only a little. The appeal to humility before a mystery may command greater respect from an atheist of this sort than pat answers which may tend to alienate.

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Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen, Nobody but Jesus. A meditation on a grief observed.

My Father died a little over five years ago, and except for essential papers related to his estate, I simply boxed up most of his papers and stored them in the attic of my rectory for future attention. At long last I am sorting through those papers. Among his effects were also many papers of my mother, who died some seven years ago.

I must say that there are many moving things I discovered, as I read through their papers and I was reminded that many of us never really know the pain and grief that some others bear. I particular I was struck at the poignant file that was simply labeled, “Mary Anne.” (Picture of all of them at right)

My sister Mary Anne was tragically afflicted with mental illness from her earliest days. My parents knew there was trouble early on when she did not speak a word till she was well past two, and then only at home. She had a pathological shyness that led her to shut down in the presence of others outside the home. By six years of age, the counselor at her elementary school spoke of her as “disturbed” and insisted on psychiatric care.

Discretion and brevity limit what I intend to share. But she was deeply troubled, by age 13 she had to be hospitalized and spent the remainder of her life in 15 different mental hospitals and 6 different group homes. She was often able to visit with us, and even stay over on weekend passes. She had stretches where she was stable. But soon “the voices” returned, as did the dreams that afflicted her. Her psychotic episodes often led to running away, outbursts of violence, and suicidal attempts.

Through all of this my parents fought very hard for her, and to be sure she go the care she needed. This often led them to various courts and generated quite a correspondence with insurance companies and mental health officials of the State and private hospitals where she was confined. Indeed, in her life my parents made many sacrifices for Mary Anne, financial and personal, to ensure her care. At one point in the early 1970s, aware that Mary Anne felt isolated in the house with three brothers and wanted a sister, they went so far as to seek to adopt a baby girl, filing papers and coming very close, but the plan fell through. The baby sister we never had.

Maryanne died in a fire in the winter of 1991 at the age of 30. She likely had a hand in that fire, and had often set fires before when the voices told her to. I could see the pain on her face as her body lay in the casket. And I wept when I saw her. The funeral director explained there was little he could do since her skin had been singed in the fire. She had clearly been crying when she died. A grief observed.

Of her, my father wrote this on the frontispiece of her file that I discovered:

Mary Anne Pope was our first child.
She led a tortured existence during a short life
and fought hard against great odds.
We remember her for her courage.

And as I read my own parents’ touching recollections of Mary Anne I could not help but moved too by their own pain. Such a heavy grief punctuates each page. I give them great credit for the fact that they insulated the rest of us, their three boys, from most of the dreadful details of poor Mary Anne’s struggle. They kept their pain largely to themselves and stayed available to us. It is true their were episodes we had to know about, but as a young boy and teenager I saw in my parents only strength and stability when it came to this matter. I saw my father’s grief and pain for the first time, as he wept, standing there at the funeral home looking at my sister. A grief observed.

After my sister’s death, my mother’s grief grew steadily worse and it caused her struggle with alcohol to worsen as well, to the point that she became increasingly incapacitated. Her life ended tragically and suddenly on a cold February day. My father had looked away only for a moment, gone to the kitchen to make a sandwich, and mom wandered out into a snowstorm. Incapacitated by alcohol, and disoriented, she died of hypothermia. We found her body only after three days of searching when the snow melted a bit. She had died almost a mile away, near the edge of the woods. A grief observed.

My father never quite forgave himself for letting her slip away. The open front door, a first sign of trouble. The searching on a dark frigid and stormy night, and the steady awareness, “She’s gone.” Those memories haunted him. In the months that followed he often wondered how he could go on when half of him was gone. He too was gone within two years. His congestive heart failure worsened and he died of a literal broken heart, and a figurative one as well in 2007.  A grief observed.

All these thoughts sweep over me as I look through this file “Mary Anne.” I pray, dear reader, that I have not lingered too long for you on these personal matters. But the truth is, all of us carry grief, and perhaps this story will help you with your own, which I pray is not too heavy.

There is an old spiritual that says, Nobody knows the trouble I seen….Nobody but Jesus. And it is a mighty good thing that he does know. Sometimes the grief is too heavy even to share, even to put into words. But Jesus knows all about our trouble. There is a beautiful line in the Book of Revelation which refers to those who have died in the Lord and says of Jesus and them He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away. He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” (Rev 21:4-5)

And for my brave parents and courageous sister, who all died in the Lord, but who died with grief, I pray this text has already been fulfilled, and they enjoy now that everything is new. A grief observed no longer.

Requiescant in pace


This second video I made on what would have been my parents 50th anniversary. I picked the song “Cold enough to snow,” since it spoke to my Father’s grief in losing mom on that snowy night.

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Good Grief: A Meditation of How Grief can be a Gift in Strange Package

As a priest I walk with a lot of people in their grief. It’s a regular part of priesthood. I remember back in 2007 how tough it was for me:

  • The Deacon of my parish, Nerus, like a father to me, died after a long battle with cancer. His final words to me were, “I’m not so good right now, but I’ll be better soon.”
  • My administrative and pastoral assistant, Catherine, like a mother to me, developed a rapid form of Alzheimer’s and within that year went from being at the top of her game to no longer recognizing anyone, within a year she was gone.
  • My Parish bookkeeper, Shirley, also like a mother or an aunt, died suddenly.
  • I was transferred from a parish I loved. This too was like a death, death by a thousand cuts.
  • My father died shortly thereafter, after a long illness.
  • A new parishioner lost her 4 year old nephew when, climbing on a dresser, it fell over on him and he was killed
  • Another parishioner lost her 25 year old son, know well to us all, when he was shot to death.

All in a year. I remember telling God it was too much. And though I got no answer, I haven’t had a year like that since.

Grief just has a life of its own. I often tell people that you can’t get around grief you just have to go through it and experience it to its top. It seldom lets us off the hook. It has something to say to us, something to give us.

I have often thought the gift that grief gives us is love. Many years ago Simon and Garfunkel sang the song “I am a Rock, I am an Island.” The song celebrated a loveless solitude and declared “If I never loved I never would have cried.” The final line of the song said, “And a rock feels no pain, and an Island never cries.” Perhaps they do not. But we who love do cry and grieve. And it is precisely the grief that can deepen our love.

Many years ago (1990) my sister died in a fire. She had been mentally ill all her life and I struggled to relate to her. In many ways I feared her. When I first got news she had died in the fire I just went numb. We in the family wondered if we might be able to view her body or not. The funeral director told us we could view her privately but since her skin has been singed in the fire it was too delicate to touch her. Further, because of this, he had not been able to adjust her face in any way. Nevertheless he thought she was presentable enough for the family to have a private viewing. We I looked upon my sister and saw her face it was very clear that she was crying when she died. For the first time in my life I wept for my sister and lamented the awful mental illness that had caused her such hardship. For the first time I understood her dignity. I guess I am sorry that it took her death for me to come to that appreciation and love of her. But that was the gift that my grief gave me, it intensified my love for my sister. I still cry from time to time when I think of that moment. It was painful but it was a gift and it remains so.

If we let it, our grief will bring us gifts in strange packages. Because of it our love and respect for those we have lost is intensified. Our longing for union with them one day again is deepened and our memories of them become more precious. It is true that the intensity of grief may lessen over the years but most of us know it never completely departs. Why should it? If we love there should always be a part of us that cannot bear to be apart from those we love. We grieve because we love and thank God we love, thank God we love.

Nothing can fill the gap when we are away from those we love, and it would be wrong to try and find anything. We must simply hold out and win through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, since leaving the gap unfilled preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap. God does not fill it, but keeps it empty so that our communion with each other may be kept alive, even at the cost of pain. Dietrich Bonhoeffer – Letters from Prison

Here is a video that depicts grief. I hope you’ll listen closely to the words of the song for they eloquently describe grief. The video portion shows a young woman lamenting the loss of her boyfriend. She struggles to be free of her grief even to the point of tearing up one of his letters. But the problem is not on the paper, it is in her heart. The only way to respect her grief and be free of its strongest shackles is to accept the gift it brings, love undying.


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Good Grief

As a priest I walk with a lot of people in their grief. It’s a regular part of priesthood but lately it’s been hard and heavy:

  • A parishioner lost her 4 year old nephew when, climbing on a dresser, it fell over on him and he was killed
  • Another parishioner lost her 25 year old son, know well to us all, when he was shot to death.
  • Our beloved receptionist at the parish went home last Friday, apparently healthy,  and died in her sleep.
  • The mother of our previous pastor, known and loved by all in this parish died last week after a long illness.

Grief is one of the most painful and terrible emotions we can experience. It can crush us like a ton of bricks or loom over us like a dark cloud. Sometimes in sudden loss we just go numb only to discover that numbness is not a lack of feeling at all. It is a feeling, a kind of general malaise lurking in us like a low grade depression. Grief sometimes comes in cycles. One day we think we are finally getting better and suddenly we’re back in the soup, for no particular reason we can discern and we wonder what we did wrong.

Grief just has a life of its own. I often tell people that you can’t get around grief you just have to go through it and experience it to its top. It seldom lets us off the hook. It has something to say to us, something to give us.

I have often thought the gift that grief gives us is love. Many years ago Simon and Garfunkel sang the song “I am a Rock, I am an Island.” The song celebrated a loveless solitude and declared “If I never loved I never would have cried.” The final line of the song said, “And a rock feels no pain, and an Island never cries.”  Perhaps they do not. But we who love do cry and grieve. And it is precisely the grief that can deepen our love.

Many years ago (1990) my sister died in a fire. She had been mentally ill all her life and I struggled to relate to her. In many ways I feared her. When I first got news she had died in the fire I just went numb. We in the family wondered if we might be able to view her body or not. The funeral director told us we could view her privately but since her skin has been singed in the fire it was too delicate to touch her. Further, because of this,  he had not been able to adjust her face in any way. Nevertheless he thought she was presentable enough for the family to have a private viewing. We I looked upon my sister and saw her face it was very clear that she was crying when she died. For the first time in my life I wept for my sister and lamented the awful mental illness that had caused her such hardship. For the first time I understood her dignity. I guess I am sorry that it took her death for me to come to that appreciation and love of her. But that was the gift that my grief gave me, it intensified my love for my sister. I still cry from time to time when I think of that moment. It was painful but it was a gift and it remains so.

If we let it, our grief will bring us gifts in strange packages. Because of it our love and respect for those we have lost is intensified. Our longing for union with them one day again is deepened and our memories of them become more precious. It is true that the intensity of grief may lessen over the years but most of us know it never completely departs. Why should it? If we love there should always be a part of us that cannot bear to be apart from those we love. We grieve because we love and thank God we love, thank God we love.

Nothing can fill the gap when we are away from those we love, and it would be wrong to try and find anything. We must simply hold out and win through. That sounds very hard at first, but at the same time it is a great consolation, since leaving the gap unfilled preserves the bonds between us. It is nonsense to say that God fills the gap. God does not fill it, but keeps it empty so that our communion with each other may be kept alive, even at the cost of pain. Dietrich Bonhoeffer  – Letters from Prison

Here is a video that depicts grief. I hope you’ll listen closely to the words of the song for they eloquently describe grief. The video portion shows a young woman lamenting the loss of her boyfriend. She struggles to be free of her grief even to the point of tearing up one of his letters. But the problem is not on the paper, it is in her heart. The only way to respect her grief and be free of its strongest shakles is to accept the gift it brings, love undying.

I’m in the Holy Land this week until November 8th. I have scheduled blogs that will appear each day while I’m away so stay tuned! My participation in the comments however may be a little light since my time with the internet will be sporadic. Comments will be moderated by someone else on the team and I’ll participate when I can. – Msgr Pope.