A Meditation on Grief

A good friend died last Thursday, a profound shock. The days since then have been just that, a daze, filled mostly with thoughts of his absence. If I were a younger man, I doubt I'd be ruminating on the nature of death and loss as much, just one of the many prices we pay for growing older, I suppose. And like so many of life's unplanned moments, death seems to be one of those things that come at us in waves, with long intervals in between where these stinging waters recede and leave us in peace. Of course, these interludes shrink as we get older, perhaps nature's way of steeling us for the coming years that are more filled with sorrow than we could have realistically borne in the sunnier days of our youth.

He was a good man, my friend. Unfailingly generous, quick with a joke and imbued with an unwaveringly positive spirit, he was a tonic to every person who knew him. And now that he is suddenly gone (and far too soon), those he left behind—his family, the love of his life, his many friends—have the heartbreaking task of not only grieving his absence, but of finding a way to make space in their hearts for both their sorrow and their love. 

I have been luckier than most thus far in my life, death has barely brushed by me. Consequently, whatever grief I have experienced has been largely hypothetical, an intellectual problem to ponder but one I never actually had to confront. But now that grief has come, a surprising truth has been revealed: those now gone are the ones who prepared us, the living, for the pain that follows their passing. In life—in how they lived—they laid the groundwork, the footings and foundation, that would help us absorb and work through our grief.  

All of us have known someone who died the way they lived—quietly and largely alone. There is no shame in that—we are, after all, each cast from different molds and are dealt different challenges that shape, for better or worse, who we become. But there is an added level of sadness that accompanies such a passing—the sadness of a life too quickly grieved and too quickly forgotten.  

Thankfully, gratefully, that won't happen to my friend. In the way he lived, he will be long remembered. And eventually those who knew him and loved him will join their tears of sorrow with fresh tears of laughter—laughter at his wide smile, laughter at his unrelenting humor, and laughter that it was our good fortune to have had him in our lives. I can't think of a better parting lesson and gift.