Grief and Joy Side by Side: Lessons from My Husband’s Funeral

The week my husband was murdered is a blend of memories for me. Some moments are branded on my brain and in my heart. Others are lost to the blender of chaos, time, and trauma. One of the memories I carry with me felt cruel - and when I am not at my strongest even now, almost 20 years later- still does. But it holds a precious lesson.

It is difficult to convey the enormity of new grief to someone who has not experienced it. If you think kidney stones and childbirth top those pain charts, you have clearly not experienced that level of grief that comes with losing someone you love with every fiber of your being.

Yet.

Pain, fear, anger, and suicidal thoughts rode beside me in that car as we approached the cemetery and prepared to bury my husband. My four sweet little boys, ages 6,5, 3, and 1 rode in the car behind me. I couldn’t decide where I hoped their attention was drawn: was it “better” for them to notice the enormous American flag hanging from whatever it was that held it as high and as tall as the trees, as well as the rows of uniformed soldiers awaiting on our side of the street, or was it “better'“ for them to notice the other side of the street- the park that we used to play in with their dad, where other kids played right that very moment with their dads as Little League games went on?

The awful, cruel insanity of what my kids lost slammed into me with fresh malice just then. I wanted to scream with rage.

I saw the games halt for a moment as we neared. Fathers and mothers smacked hats off their kids’ heads and stood together in a show of respect. It was moving at first. But then they returned to their games. For them it was a momentary distraction, a pang of sympathy. But there were fries in the concession stand and memories to be made. And they went back to it.

How could the sky be so blue, the sun be so warm, and life go on so happily just feet from where our lives were being torn apart? Why did those kids get to be playing with their dads today, while my kids would never play with their dad again? Why did it all have to be like this?

In the full grip of my pain, I thought the whole world should stop. In the months and even years after, while I attended family events or watched other people raising their kids together or going to concerts on the anniversary of Lou’s death, I remind myself of the lesson that moment taught me.

Life is for the living.

Not a moment passes where someone isn’t suffering in this world. We all live one phone call, one doorbell, one diagnosis or one heartbeat away from life ending as we know it.

We should absolutely notice the struggles and suffering of others. We should pray for them, offer comfort and support as we can. And then we should move through our days with a refreshed perspective of how precious our days are.

All of them.

This perspective is readily available to all of us. My Facebook feed, for instance, is a perfect example. Within 90 seconds I see updates from people celebrating pregnancies, birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, new jobs, amazing achievements, and sunsets. within those same 90 seconds, I see updates from the bedsides of Loved One’s last moments, terrifying diagnoses, devastating natural disasters, homes lost, dreams dying, and sheer misery.

There but for the grace of God go we today.

There with the grace of God go we all one day.