It's been nearly two months since a very good friend lost his valiant battle with brain cancer and ran into the arms of Jesus. I still have his contact information in my phone and I just can't bring myself to delete it! A mutual friend and I met for coffee last week and she was in the same boat. She still has a saved voicemail message from him on her phone. As we shared coffee and talked about our respective churches and ministries we both knew something (actually, someone) was missing. It was a bittersweet meeting, but as we laughed and shared our "Charlie stories," there was a sense of healing. It was a very cathartic moment for both of us. That was Friday.
It's Monday and a morning appointment at the Cancer Center brought it all back. Since we shared the same oncologist, his death came up in conversation because it was the first time I had seen our doctor since Charlie passed. Our doc is one of those rare physicians that oozes empathy and sincerity. His red and moist eyes prompted by that part of our conversation would make me want to have cancer even if I hadn't just to experience such a personable and caring physician. It's why Charlie loved him and I do too. I ran into our infusion nurse before I left and she asked about his family. Each conversation started with a stoic and somber tone of sadness and mourning that eventually gave way to big smiles and laughter. No one can talk about Charlie without smiling or laughing.
As I left the Cancer Center, I couldn't help but think how wonderful it would be after death (by the way we are ALL terminal!) to have people remember us with a smile, or laughter. I think it's the ultimate compliment and commentary on how someone lived. Imagine being remembered with a frown, skepticism, or anger?
In my vocation death and terminal illness are frequent guests. I'm not sure you ever get "used to it," but like police officers dealing with serious crime, you learn to cope with it because you experience it on a regular basis. When your life's work is about showing people that we are
living to die so we can really live, death becomes very natural. It doesn't mean we get a pass on heartache and sadness. For Charlie, death was welcome because of God's promises for those in Christ! I agree with that 100%! But if that's true, why am I still grieving?
This death has been different for me. This was a younger colleague, close friend and fellow cancer warrior who also came to pastoral ministry as a second-career. We had a lot in common. Oddly, cancer (first mine, then his) is what brought us together. We had deep, gut-check conversations that most people tend to avoid, or suppress. Nothing was taboo and nothing was left unsaid. We learned to go deep early in our friendship because time was fleeting. So many people play their lives so "close to the vest," and never let down their emotional guard even with those they love most. They become immune, or even indifferent to deep conversations. Their conversations are always superficial. I've never been wired that way.
As a pastoral counselor and student of griefs stages, I know all the textbook cues, but you still have to face it and walk down the path toward healing. Sometimes you can know too much and you start to self-assess, which actually delays the work of grief. Believe it or not, this melancholy path is not dark and dreary. There is light at the end of the path and grief gives way to an overwhelming sense of gratitude to God for allowing your path's to cross! I believe Jesus walked the path of grief in regard to his friend, Lazarus in
John 11, and that brings me great comfort. Like my doctor, Jesus can empathize with us in losing someone we love.
Survivor guilt is real. Just ask anyone that survived 911, war, or a plane crash. The same is true of cancer. A fellow cancer survivor and physician friend recently reminded me of this when I saw him the day after Charlie's funeral. His counsel still rings in my ears: "As survivors we honor them and God by living every day with a profound sense of gratitude and joy. Our lives are better because of them and we should be grateful for that gift." Nuff said!
Photo of Spring Fern Clyffe Trail by Mike Jewell-Used with Permission
