bereavement

'Does it ever get any easier?'

It was Nessie who asked the question, as she came around the tables here today and served us all our lunch.

It wasn't her waitressing skills the lady was talking about. Rather, the pains and the void of bereavement. Nessie's husband died a few months back and it's still sore.

She loves coming round on a Wednesday here, to help out with the crowds who come for lunch. She's great with them all. And I think it helps her, too. Gets her out. That sort of thing.

I fear I said 'No' just a little too clearly and fast.

But I don't think it does get easier really, no matter the time that goes by.

There are times when the void of my Dad not being there is as deep as it ever was. I still miss him loads.

And that's now almost quarter of a century ago he died.

My Mum, as well, of course. A matter of a mere five months since she's no longer been there: and the void is just as fresh and real and deep as first it was.

So, no, I don't for a moment believe that the grief in bereavement will ease. I think it's more a case we learn how best to cope with it.

I was chatting with folk at lunch today, in the aftermath of Nessie's question as she served. Most of the folk were widows themselves. Like Nessie, now, as well. They all said the same.

There are phases, of course, milestones along all the journey bereavement involves which mark out the stages of grief. But does it get easier? Not really.

That's one of the many good things about these midweek lunchtime services we hold. There's always this chance to chat round the table with all sorts of different folk.

And as we chatted on today they turned the whole thing round on me and asked me if it wasn't quite depressing for me when I visited the dying and bereaved.

'Draining', I said. But really not depressing much. There's always such a sense of God being very present and of his being much at work.

I find that really quite exciting, a humbling, privileged window that I'm given which enables me to see the Lord at work. Turning all the formlessness and darkness and the voids into a whole new situation he creates.

Draining, for sure, but not depressing at all.

But even that doesn't make it easier. I find it always hard.

Hard to go in to the hospital ward - as I did again this afternoon - and see a dear friend slowly sort of slipping out of life.

The longer I'm here, the harder it gets. Not least because these folk that I am seeing have become across the years a sort of family.

Betty's a case in point. I thought, some two or three years back, when she'd been in the hospital - I'd thought back then that that was maybe it. But no, she'd rallied quite remarkably and got back home and been her usual bright and cheery self.

I can't see that being how things work out for her now. I think she's slowly slipping from this world and in perhaps a day or two at most will quietly sleep and slip away.

I called in yesterday as well to see her in the ward. She was sleeping, and peaceful, with the hint of the smile she always seems to have upon her face. I sat with her and read a bit and prayed a bit.

As much, I have to say, to mark the presence of the Lord beside this saint, as for herself. I'm not sure she'd have heard a word herself.

Today I was in again. She's in a side-room now. Poorer and weaker. But still so very much at peace. And again, I read the scriptures at her side and prayed. Strange, the Lord gave me a Scripture (not one I'm that familiar with), as I sat there at her side.

As if he said, "That's for her. That's all you need to know."

Again, I didn't stay all that long. Twenty minutes or so. I find it hard.

How many times have I called on folk like that across the years? Who knows. And does it ever get easier? The answer's always No.

Betty's a friend. Up in her eighties now, I guess, so a generation on from me. But still a friend.

I realise how quickly down the years all the little cameos there are of who she was and how she looked and what she did, that sort of thing - all these little cameos combine to fashion bonds of love and friendship with such folk.

She didn't mind what other people thought of her. She knew the Lord had loved her and I think for her that that was all that mattered.

She used to sing her heart out in our worship here on Sundays, with a huge, big massive smile across her face.

And after worship, as she passed me at the door, she'd always take my hand in hers and bow to give my hand a kiss. I fear I was a little bit embarassed by it all at first (too much exposure to all the little 'Child Protection' rules, I guess). But now I'm kind of used to it, I miss it at the door when she's not there.

She never bothered one small jot what others might have thought. She was glad to show her gratitude and love for one who was a brother in the Lord.

I think that's why I answered Nessie's question just as quickly as I did this afternoon and said, No, it doesn't get easier at all.

For myself, it only gets harder, this business of saying 'goodbye'.

I know it's not the end. And yet, so far as this life goes, of course, it is.

And, as I said, it's not a thing which leaves me all depressed. Just drained. Sometimes desperately drained.

When I call on in and see the likes of Betty there in hospital: when I sit around around the table with these folk at lunch-times such as this today - I think I start to understand the better just what Jesus meant, when saying to those people who had gathered round himself to share the journey with him, that they were, indeed, his family.

It often feels exactly like that here. It's great! It really is.

But it also makes it hard.