There is never an easy answer to give to someone who has lost someone they love. Every day, we hear about people who are dealing with the loss of a mother, father, brother, sister, cousin, uncle, aunt, or friend who has passed. You would think that we would find the answers, or know the right words to say. Yet, there is nothing we can say or do that will remove the pain they are experiencing. We recognize that our role is to help families deal with the final arrangements. By serving and guiding during a difficult time. There are resources that can help us gain perspective. One such resource is from a Reddit user called Mr. Snow. He identifies himself as an older man. A man who has loved and lost many times. He responds to someone who lost a child. His heartfelt plea is wise, built from the experience of losing many people. It's quite beautifully written, and you can feel his discomfort, his pain, and his LOVE.
I hope this may help you if you have also experienced a loss and seeking comfort.
“Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and many people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and others. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.
I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that passes.
My scars are a testament to my love and relationship for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.
As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe easier, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, or the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out. Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming; somehow, you don’t want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them, too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have many scars from many loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”
The language of grief is emotional, mental, physical, and, of course, to me, a spiritual language. I can appreciate a message such as this from an 'old man.' I'd call him a wise and gracious man for sharing his experience. We all will have the capacity to understand parts of this story or the entire feeling behind it. It's interesting how many people across all cultures refer to the ocean or lake water waves as the 'waves of grief.'
I lost my mother almost twenty years ago. It's a different experience, but the pain in my heart can be overwhelming at times. It sometimes just appears out of nowhere, and I need to take a moment and be gracious and compassionate enough to let my tears flow. Each tear is love for her.
If you ever feel it's wrong to let those tears go and surrender a bit to the memories, please do. It's cathartic at times, and knowing my mother is at my side, blanketing me with love, I surrender to it. Memories that we cast from our minds are our forever connection, just like the heart. And I know that this wise old man also could understandhelps this.
Was there a specific moment in his message that resonated with you?
Feel free to comment below or share this piece if it helped you.
I hope you're doing okay.
Take good care.
Evidential Medium, Coach, and Writer
www.christieflynn.com
Thank-you ,this was beautiful true & so meaningful , Iam a grieving mother 2 & a half yrs now , its so true @ first we do not believe we can live , then the wave of grief was above our heads then a bit smaller as time goes buy, the tears still flow , they we expect will never stop,& We know thats the price of missing our precious son,& loving him so much & the love he gave to his family & still is we have come to understand In Spirit"Each day now its true we go on missing grieving but knowing we can & have survived this journey because of love!⭐️💖