The Courage to Grieve

One of my blogging friends wrote something a couple of weeks ago that I have been pondering ever since. She used the words, “the courage to grieve,” and I have not been able to escape their personal implication. I have had some significant losses in my lifetime: a marriage, my parents, a brother, a grandbaby, a husband, some dreams. I think I have grieved appropriately in each case—differently, of course, but even today in ways that are still suited to the loss.

What I have not known until recent months is that there are some “deaths” I have not even recognized, let alone suitably grieved. Doing so takes courage, because I have to admit that parts of me were allowed to “die” when I was very young. That is no one’s fault in particular, certainly not my parents’ since the only way they knew to raise me was the way they had been raised. That was fairly uncomplicated: you fed and clothed the children and kept a roof over their heads, you bandaged them if they were bleeding, you saw to it that they learned to work and to read, and you took them with you to Sunday School and worship.

I am very grateful for all I was given; it is no small thing to have raised a big family during the Depression and war years. Given their economic situation, education, and religious culture, my parents certainly provided us with every advantage they knew how to supply. William Hodding Carter, Jr., a prominent journalist in the twentieth century, said, “There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots; the other, wings.” (Someone has rephrased it a bit to make it memorable as a rhyme: You can give your children but two things, one is roots and the other wings.) My parents gave us impressively strong roots. I felt safe and provided for; we were probably poor, but I didn’t know that! I readily absorbed our cultural and religious values. I learned early to take a lot of responsibility.

While they gave us sturdy roots, they didn’t know anything about giving your children “wings.” I absolutely believe that I was loved, but I never felt that I was valued. I was obedient, smart, and creative, but my mother never said, “I am proud of you.” Photos show a sweet little girl with dark eyes and long curls, but my father never told me, “Honey, you are so pretty.” They did not encourage me to find out how to do what I really love doing. They didn’t help me learn how to make good decisions—and live with the results. They did not give me the freedom to make mistakes or teach me to enjoy my successes.

You must not think this is an indictment against my parents. They did not nurture me well because they did not know how. No one had built self-confidence in them. No one had appreciated and guided them. No one had encouraged them to discover their gifts. No one had helped them find a sense of purpose and a passion for life. I have hesitated a long time to even write these things about them, but I am doing so because there may be some of my readers who will think, “Yes, I know what she’s talking about. I lost something back there too. I am grieving the loss of— “ Maybe innocence. Maybe faith or self-confidence, security or privacy. Maybe enough to eat. Maybe a dozen things. Or only one that really, really matters.

It is not dishonoring to those who brought us up to look honestly at the job they did. Evaluating it does not mean forgetting what we hold precious, but may mean taking a more clear-eyed view. We can be truly thankful (or not) for our heritage, but that does not eliminate the “holes” from those early years—and nearly everybody has them. Few people had a perfect childhood and youth, and so there are many of us who have empty places inside that never were filled up sufficiently. We may try to ignore these places, or scold ourselves for being silly enough to re-visit the distant past. “Those things don’t matter now,” we tell ourselves.

But they do matter. That is one of the reasons why some of us find ourselves so conflicted about who we are presently. We did not know who we were back then. Grieving for something that is missing—either lost or never was—is a way of acknowledging that the long-ago nurture was something valuable and precious to us. That’s why it takes courage to grieve; it says that we are quite vulnerable and not ashamed to admit it. Grieving for these losses in an appropriate way has an amazing power to heal.

So what would be appropriate grieving? Whatever is appropriate for other kinds of losses. Talk to someone. Cry if it makes you feel better. Pound on something (but not people). Keep a journal or write a letter. Read. Rest. Exercise. Sit in the sun. Treat yourself kindly. After awhile my process of grieving has yielded new understanding and new growth toward wholeness. If you need to grieve some early losses, so will yours.

MaryMartha
(All rights reserved)

My thanks to Kimberly George who writes an inter-generational dialogue with another member of the Evangelical and Ecumenical Women’s Caucus, an international organization of women and men who believe that the Bible supports the equality of the sexes. The particular post I refer to is located at: http://eewc.com/72-27/2008/10/15/remembering-grieving-and-the-pursuit-of-wholeness/

Email: mrymrtha@gmail.com