“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It’s nice to see you, I just wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
The day of my Grandpa Wood’s funeral, my Grandpa Cooreman fell and had surgery. One week later he passed away. This past weekend I traveled to Indiana for his funeral.
I was able to glean a comedic moment out of the last funeral, but I’m afraid I’m fresh out of funny for today.
Death is strange.
I felt like a little kid again. (There seem to be a lot of situations that make me feel like this.)
Except I felt like I wasn’t alone. We were all children. Children playing make-believe.
Pretending like we all understood this thing called death.
Pretending like we aren’t all confused that this shell we passed in the casket could have ever been a person.
Pretending that we aren’t feeling overwhelmed with all the loss in our lives that this death reminds us of.
There is a death that I am not ready to talk about yet…… soon, perhaps.
For now, I will hold onto the image of Henry Cooreman’s family and friends standing around his grave site. Huddled in the cold, standing in the snow. Then a train sounded and began to pass at the bottom of the hill. I couldn’t help but imagine Grandpa jumping on the train and waving goodbye to all of us.
I smiled, closed my eyes, and dreamed of all the unknown that lies ahead of him…. and of my own unknown.
—————-
Now playing: Glen Hansard & Markéta Irglová – Falling Slowly
via FoxyTunes
15 responses so far ↓
danielle // February 25, 2008 at 2:01 am |
natalie,
you’ve shared some really true, honest thoughts that i think…i don’t know how to word it but this statement struck me “Pretending like we all understood this thing called death.” i’m sorry about your grandpas. i’ve been thinking of you and praying for your family.
and your movie question: you’ll be shocked to know that i’ve not seen any of these movies.
this week, sometime?
Becca // February 25, 2008 at 4:01 am |
Thank you for your honesty.
You make some incredible points. We pretend like we know what it is and how to handle it…
I am really sorry.
“With my hands in my pockets, and my heart in my throat…”
(Caedmon’s Call)
I love you.
Joy Renée // February 25, 2008 at 5:15 am |
This encouraged me.
When I finally post my next blog maybe you’ll understand more of why.
I think you are a wonderfully honest person. That is so refreshing.
I miss you so much. I wish I had my own little Natalie-clone (exactly the same as the original) that I could keep here in Brownwood and spend time with.
Anyway, thanks for posting openly and honestly. I love you.
alece // February 25, 2008 at 11:29 am |
i love you. my words are few…but i did want to say at least that.
Charlene // February 25, 2008 at 12:23 pm |
yes…death is strange and simply doesn’t “make sense”….but lately I have been thinking that most things don’t…however we often pretend that they do and we understand. We do pretend that we understand death…much like we pretend we understand life…I suppose the first move is to admit we really don’t! Love you…
Anonymous // February 25, 2008 at 5:09 pm |
Thank you for putting my thoughts and feelings into words. It is such a strange time. A time to reflect and wonder, when will be the next time I will be standing there next to the grave with my loved ones huddled around. Thank you for time and love. You are a blessing…..
- Areta
Dana // February 25, 2008 at 10:03 pm |
I couldn’t agree more. Death is strange. While our loved ones have gone on to a better Place, the feeling of loss sucks the life out of those who have been left behind, leaving them with only memories to hold on to.
From someone who lost her mother at very early age (and now I am 30 years old and find myself STILL grieving at times) and all of her grandparents during her childhood, I must say I am so sorry, friend! So truly sorry.
You are in my thoughts…and prayers.
d :)
Anonymous // February 25, 2008 at 11:10 pm |
The Trappist monks would often great each with “Remember that you will die.” Many find this morbid. I don’t. Rousseau once said that “I did not truly begin live until I regarded myself as a dead man.” I think he was right. It is unfortunate that the church has surrendered the grace available to us in death. It has covered it up by inadvertently passing over the importance of the cross event and jumping into resurrection. It is true that because of the work of the cross we no longer “fear death,” but we still are those who mourn. We in the West have tried to cheat and nullify death with medical science, consumerism, and vague notions of an afterlife. Yet, the weight of death persists and at each moment insists upon us to reflect on our lives. I call death grace because it is that event which makes possible faith, hope, and love. Without death how could we ever truly love? For love demands sacrifice and without finitude there can be no real sacrifice or self-giving. I show my love to others by giving that which is most limited, time. We mourn the death of those who loved us and to whom we gave our love, but it is the event of their inevitable death that went before us, to implore us to never forget just how precious the giving of a limited self really was and is. Death calls us back, back to forgive and to be forgiven. Death challenges us to hope in the face of annihilation, the annihilation of self in-relation; it challenges us to have faith in the One in whom we hope to eternally participate and once again “live and move and find our being.” At times like this I often go back to the words of one of my favorite theologians, Miroslav Volf, who said, “tombs no longer helped to direct the light of the end on my daily life. But, occasionally my disheveled face, just after awaking from night’s sleep, would look at me from the mirror and greet me: ‘Remember that you will die!’ Next time I hear those words, I’ll make them not so much a challenge to what I do, but to who I am.”
-dan
p.s. This is why I’m not as fun as one might think at parties and 10 year high school reunions ;)
Amy // February 26, 2008 at 2:28 am |
This hit close to home… my dad’s mom died a little over a week ago- and her memorial service is coming up (she was cremated… so it wasn’t done as fast as a typical burial). You’ve given me some things to chew on before I go…
Anonymous // February 26, 2008 at 6:37 am |
Hey Nat – We didn’t know… But you know some of what we’ve experienced these past several years. Losing my Grandpa last January, too.
Ironically I think those we connect most with when we experience losing someone together are the ones we don’t have to say anything to… The ones we can just ride every wave of emotion with – and few words needing to be exchanged.
Words seem like pretty feeble attempts at comfort in these times anyway.
We’re here if you need us.
Danny Z.
annie // February 26, 2008 at 7:40 pm |
I have a few reactions here –
#1 – Way to go Natalie! I see you opening up, being not afraid to be real and deep with people – and in that, look how many people you draw out, and how many people you touch! That’s awesome. We love the real you, not just the funny you. :)
#2 – your thoughts on death are so apt. And I’m so sorry to hear of these losses so close together. I don’t know how close you were with your grandpas, but it is never-the-less a difficult time that stretches anyone. I liked your image of the train. :)
#3 – you’re a fantastic writer. I’m glad you’re doing more of it.
#4 – (which has almost nothing to do with this post) I was reading a fitness magazine and read something that made me instantly think of you. Under the headline ‘Jump-Start Your Creativity’: #4 – Cultivate really unconventional thinking, just for the creativity of it. When traffic snarls, don’t say, “Must be an accident up at the cutoff.” Say: “Martians must have landed and melted the highway with their paritcle cannons.” haha. Makes me laugh right now, just thinking about it.
Mark Keefer // February 26, 2008 at 7:48 pm |
I’m sorry for your losses Natalie.
Awhile back, both of my Granddads passed away exactly two weeks apart. They were put to rest at the same cemetery, about 50 yards apart. Needless to say, I was numb after the second one.
I can also relate to your statements about how we seem to play the part of people who ‘get it’ when it comes to death.
Unfortunately, there is no training ground for this experience other than the real thing, so on we go.
Hope and joy are coming. I promise.
mandy // February 26, 2008 at 8:40 pm |
i can’t imagine what its like for all this to be happening right now – getting slammed with grief. that’s gotta be so tough for your family. gosh.
studying to be a counselor, i learned that grief gets harder with every death. each goodbye is a reliving of all the other goodbyes we’ve been through. compounding. piling on and on and on…
hope your heart heals. well, atleast that it continues to beat and beat in the face of the pain.
blessings,
mandy
Natalie // February 27, 2008 at 4:31 am |
To all: Thank you so much for taking the time to share what spoke to you, and then sharing your hope. Your sincerity is clear, and I have read and reread these comments to soak it up.
Thanks again.
Anonymous // March 4, 2008 at 11:40 pm |
when i was young and invincible, I lost a brother to a war machine. twenty years later my mother fell to cancer in an evening. twenty years later my father was overcome with a virus, and a few days later he was gone. These are only a few of the deaths that have left me a bit lonelier over the years. There will be more to go, including me. When ,or why ,I am not certain. But of one thing I am certain, The God who created me has overcome death, and by that death HE has promised me everlasting life. And the life HE has promised me will be more abundant than I could ever imagine. Herein lies the definition of hope in faith. I do not yet have this new body, nor could I possibly imagine how it will function, but I can believe an Almighty, loving savior, who died for me, just so I could live with Him forever. And I say all this Natalie, so that when my time comes to be with the Father, there will be no need to shed a tear, unless of course it is a tear of joy. Because I could think of no greater achievement in life, than to see Jesus face to face, and live. And I know the loneliness I feel now, will diminish to nothingness when I see them all in glory. dad