GOOD GRIEF

          by Cheri Roland

GOOD GRIEF, CHARLIE BRO… no, CHERI ROLAND!

This has been my mantra as of late.  Good grief!  Why can’t I get a grip?  Good grief, why can’t I stop wanting to cry?  Good grief, where has my energy gone?  Good grief, why do I still have a head ache?  Good grief, why do I feel tired after seven hours in bed?

I don’t want to write this, but something is nagging at me and that usually means the Lord’s prompting to attend to something I‘ve been avoiding.  Hectic responsibilities and crazy busy days are so useful for covering up emotional stuff.  Being buried in busy-ness is so much easier than facing the messiness of reality; this has been my defence mechanism, my modus operandi, for most of my adult life.  But working at the seminary has afforded both of us the luxury of time and space coupled with a very conducive atmosphere for contemplation, a scary thought for me in all its ramifications.

The “wonderful village called SMMS” has just come through the tragic suicide of our president on May 2^nd, the first day back from a five day holiday break.  “Stunned” doesn’t begin to capture the vibe.  Classes were cancelled as we came together as a village to mourn and cry and shout out our incredulous anger at a God who was supposed to protect us from this travesty.  One lecturer had his class write their personal “cursing psalms” which they shared with everyone.  We just abided in the Chapel of Christ the Servant for an undetermined number of days, while prayers and petitions for grace flew and circled and rose like flocks of doves moaning for peace.  But still there was no peace.

The entire seminary plunged into accepted “comfort the grieving  mode”, walking around the corner to visit wife Shayne and their sons, Peter, seminary student Wesley and pregnant wife Nicole, staff member Jon Mark and girlfriend Rev Diane.  But we all had obligations – to our classes, our studies, our duties, our schedules, our appearances.  The calendar was in stone.  So, we all pitched in to ready the campus to receive hundreds of mourners from all over South Africa on Friday, May 11.  Then we all braced ourselves and the campus to present a brave front at the very first graduation ceremony, Saturday, May 19^th, proceeded by the first Peter Storey Lecture that Friday evening.  As you can imagine, we staff members wore several hats simultaneously, and managed to march through each charade of celebration as time, like an ever-rolling stream, unsuccessfully attempted to sweep all our tears away. 

I’m left with lots of unanswered questions.  And I’m not alone.  Our village’s chief has run away.  He was our leader, visionary, counsellor, teacher, preacher, father, neighbour, boss man all rolled into the most dynamic personality I’ve ever worked with, under, around and through…  But I dealt sufficiently with my issues, emptied my wastebaskets of soggy Kleenex, and was “pastorally” offering my shoulder for others to cry on. Then, at our centering prayer group Wednesday, my smouldering ignored grief spewed out from my paved- over “Ross-volcano”.   Shocking it was, on so many levels!   And why does this bubble up other memories of loss and betrayal and pain?

What can anybody do in the inevitable face of grief? I look back at the sincere words of comfort I’ve dispensed (like pills?) over the years – HA!  So well-meaning and sincere and naïve they are. We physically cling to each other, in our humanness, unwillingly learning more about this foe with each new loss, strung as stepping stones over a rushing river dangerous in depth and intensity and will. But this is not enough.  I need more.  My heart needs surgical repair to seal that hole or I fear my soul will leak out!

I’m drawn back again to the cursing psalms, humanity’s comfort for ages and ages past.  Psalm 22 is most eloquent.  I figure if it was good enough for Jesus…   Here I can cry and rail at the Lord, knowing that He is bigger than my insults.  Since He made me to begin with, He programmed me to react like this until sheer exhaustion finally rules and I’m done wallowing.   I think David had it right when he penned, “ Even though I walk through the valley” of death’s shadow; he points to the sign leading us on a journey with our tumultuous emotions,  even as my heart would prefer to take the detour.   But the response to “even though” is most important.  Even though we are wandering through the black shadow of gut-wrentching feelings, WE ARE NOT ALONE.  God promises to go with us!  The Holy Spirit promises to commune in our stead when we have no more words.

Pilgrim’s Hymn, by Michael Dennis Browne, has stuck in my soul as only a sung truth can be.

“Even before we call on Your name

To ask You, O God ,

 When we seek for the words to glorify You

 You hear our prayer;

 Unceasing Love, O unceasing Love

Surpassing all we know. 

Even with darkness sealing us in

We breathe Your name,

And thru all the days that follow so fast

We trust in You.

Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace

Beyond all mortal dreams.” 

So what have I learned about good grief after putting these thoughts onto paper (or screen)?  I guess I have given myself permission to cry, to question, to wander through “the stages” even though they aren’t following the correct order, for as long as it takes.   But I must trust my head knowledge, and allow that certainly that the Lord is with me and the Lord is with Ross to work on my soul.  Trust will keep a flicker of light alive until it again blazes up in joy.  Trust and grace.

Now come to think about it, this is the advice I’ve given others.