That’s the Deal: On Grief During the Holidays

I had the great privilege to deliver the homily during the annual Service of Remembrance at St. John’s Lutheran Church today. I offer the following in memory of Virginia Baranick, my grandmother; Reece Jamerson, my father-in-law; Sharon Woodby and Mynor Cabrera, friends and fellow travelers on the cancer road; and Ray Holtz, my dad. 

If you were to peel back the tile on a certain spot in the choir loft at Grace Baptist Church in Karns, you would find the words of Isaiah 43:2 written there”

“When you walk through fire you shall not be burned, nor will the flame kindle upon you.” 

I stood on that spot for a number of years as a member of the choir. When the current sanctuary was built, we prepared the building by literally covering the floor with the Word of God before the carpet and tile were installed. 

Isaiah 43:2 is what you might call my life verse. It speaks to me of the hope of God’s love and care for us, even in the worst of life’s circumstances. 

I had planned to use that verse as the inspiration for the title of a book about surviving an emotionally and verbally abusive father, as well as the difficult work of overcoming the psychological damage of growing up in that environment. I was going to call it, “Walking Through Fire.” 

Then I was diagnosed with cancer, and the story of my difficult childhood became one chapter in a much larger, far more hopeful story that fulfilled the promise of Isaiah 43:5:  “Do not be afraid, for I am with you.” 

I want to start by giving you permission to do two things. 

First, I give you permission to grieve for as long as it takes to adjust to your new normal. It’s not easy. There is no finish line, there are no boxes to check that mark your progress. If you need help, St. John’s offers Stephen Ministry, where well-trained lay caregivers can walk with you, talk with you and, perhaps most importantly, listen to you. 

Second, I give you permission to throat-punch anyone who tells you “everything happens for a reason.” I used to believe that, but I don’t anymore. In fact, I can’t believe it anymore. Kate Bowler writes that “Everything happens. Period.” It’s how we deal with what happens that matters.   

My dad died 28 years ago yesterday. His death was unexpected, and if I close my eyes, I can see every moment of that night as if it all just happened, with my emotions veering from the horror of the reality I was watching to the relief that he was gone. My dad and I had reached a sort of detente two years earlier, when at the age of 46 he underwent sextuple bypass surgery. That near-death experience changed him, and our relationship was just getting off to a new start when he died. 

We celebrated Christmas that year, or at least we attempted to celebrate. It was all so surreal, trying to put on cheerful faces less than two weeks after burying my dad. 

That is what’s expected though, isn’t it? We are supposed to push through life’s difficulties and act as if we’ve crossed some invisible barrier leaving those difficulties far behind us. If we’re lucky, we get the first year to grieve. Everyone understands that all of the firsts will be horrible — the first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first birthday, etc. By the second time around, though, we’re supposed to be over it.

Put on your mask and be cheerful. 

Grief doesn’t work like that. It’s not linear. Some days it circles back, like a boomerang. There are no steps to achieving a grief-free life. It becomes part of who we are, and it takes time.

Anne Lamott writes: 

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

There is no love without grief, and there is no grief without love. Grief and love are the risk of one, and the reward of the other.

We see this in the 1993 movie Shadowlands, which tells the story of the relationship between the great British theologian C.S. Lewis and the American poet Joy Davidman, who died of cancer just four years after they married. There comes a point where Joy is in remission but knows the cancer will return and ultimately take her life. She wants to talk about it, but Lewis resists. He tells Joy he’ll manage somehow after she’s gone and that she shouldn’t worry about that. Joy says: “No…I think it can be better than just managing. What I am trying to say is that the pain then is part of the happiness now. That’s the deal.” 

That’s the deal.

I mentioned earlier that my dad and I were working toward repairing our relationship when he died. One of my favorite memories of that brief period happened just three months before his death. 

I was 21, in my second junior year of college. See, I went to college on the five-year plan, not because I got bad grades (although remedial algebra has forever stained my soul), but because I was working and running one of the school’s newspapers. It took me a little longer is all. 

Anyway, I worked as a waiter to cover the expenses loans and grants didn’t. I had saved for months to get front row tickets to take my parents, my grandparents and my best friend to see the musical Les Miserables at the Milwaukee Performing Arts Center. 

I have loved “Les Miz” since I first heard the opening bars of the score, which I could sing from beginning to end but I’ll spare your ears. My singing voice is not what it used to be, if it ever was something. In addition to absorbing the music, I read Victor Hugo’s masterful book to get deeper insights into the characters portrayed in the show. 

If you’re unfamiliar with the story, let me give you a high-level 15-second synopsis: Jean Valjean is released from prison, changes his identity, becomes a factory owner and mayor of the town, fires a prostitute who dies, rescues her child from the clutches of an evil innkeeper and his wife, hides with the girl to stay out of view of Javert, a police man who hunts Valjean because he doesn’t believe in grace, joins a student uprising against the government when he learns his daughter loves one of movement’s leaders, and, spoiler alert, dies on their wedding day having fulfilled his God-given mission of ensuring the girl is loved and cared for.

The show ends with Valjean being sung off to heaven to join the rest of the characters who died, which is almost all of them. After the curtain dropped, I looked over to see my grandfather and my dad, neither of whom I had ever seen cry, wiping tears from their eyes. My dad, who was just beginning to understand the man I was, got why I loved this show so much.

It’s a show about God — the joy of service to others in God’s name, and the gifts of His grace, peace and love. Sounds downright Advent-y doesn’t it? 

That is still one of my favorite memories of my dad, which helps alleviate some of the more painful memories. 

There’s a new BBC/PBS Masterpiece production of Les Miserables, as non-musical drama, airing in England this month, and in the U.S. early next year. From the reviews I’ve read, the miniseries is very faithful to Victor Hugo’s original text, which means lots of really, really horrible things happen to good people for no reason at all, just like in real life and without any singing. 

A friend who knows how much I love all things “Les Miz,” sent me a link to the trailer. It gave me chills. Beautiful cinematography, a glorious cast and these words: “Where there is love, there is hope.” 

Almost as good as the words Valjean speaks at the end of his life: “To love another person is to see the face of God.” 

And God is with us. Through love and grief, hope and despair. When the waters are rising, when the fire is burning, when grief takes our breath away. God is surely with us. 

Amen