Sherry L. Hoppe's Blog

What does the face of grief look like? I pondered this question one day as I walked a stretch of sand along the Atlantic Ocean, scanning the faces I passed, wondering if I could detect the vacant look of loss. Was grief lurking, hidden by a bright smile? Or would it scream at me with a silent look of sorrow, staring into nothingness despite the sea of humanity stretched in front of it? And then, in the stark sunlight, the epiphany almost blinded me. Every person within my view had walked grief’s pathway or would walk it at an unknown point in the future. No one is immune. No one can escape the slings of sorrow unless one refuses to love, unless one refuses to care about another person. Ten years ago, ten days ago, or tomorrow, all of us don the face of grief. How deeply its arrows injure us, how long it takes to recover, or how we look after the broken pieces of our lives are mended into a changed being is individual and personal. But we all travel the journey, and we are transformed by it.

As the sun began to set on my walk, casting shadows on the sand, a second wave of insight washed over me. Every person within my sight would someday die. Untold numbers of beach walkers who had touched the grains of sand under my feet had died. And all those who would sink their feet into sea-softened sand tomorrow, ten days from now, and ten years from now, would share the same fate. We are all sojourners on earth; all of us are just passing through this life.

Profound thoughts? No. But they helped me put in perspective my own sorrow and the sorrow of the 20+ people I interviewed for FACES OF GRIEF. Hearing their tragic stories of loss saddened me, and I wondered how I would ever convey them in a way that lifted readers up instead of dragging them into deeper despair over their own losses. I knew I had to communicate more than the strength and courage with which those who had shared their stories had faced their grief, so I was seeking not only solace but also wisdom that day as I focused on the faces I passed. With the mindfulness of the transience of life came a more important reminder: Life doesn’t end on earth. When our loved ones—and we ourselves—take our last breath of earthly air, we are transformed for a new life. As Elizabeth Kubler-Ross once wrote, “Death is simply a shedding of the physical body like the butterfly shedding its cocoon.”

Yesterday was my birthday—the fourth since Bobby died. I wonder if I will ever think of any special day or event without somehow tying it to his absence. More than three years since his death, I still feel a gaping hole in my life. The pain is finally less intense and all-consuming, but it still comes in waves, often when I least expect it. I’m learning to live with the ebb and flow of grief, accepting that life will never be the same. When a wave threatens, I’ve discovered the best way to wait it out is to focus on my blessings, not what I no longer have.

...I am thankful for 37 years of marriage, knowing that many couples find their time cut short in far less time.

...I am thankful for wonderful memories we shared—trips across the U.S. and abroad; ocean sunrises and sunset; laughter as we watched our sheepdogs run like deer, circling our yard; sitting on our dock, dangling our feet in Watts Bar Lake; having a chilled glass of Reisling in the cool of the evening, talking about the day just ending; and on and on.

...I am thankful our love grew stronger over the years, through good times and bad.

...I am thankful for the little rituals we shared—like our words of love at bedtime and the singsong chant we said together when we heard a train whistle.

...I am thankful I felt secure in Bobby’s love, knowing he believed in me and supported me without question or condition.

In the words of our favorite song, I’ll love Bobby "‘til the twelfth of never, and that’s a long, long time." I wish we had had more time together here, but I find comfort in the hope of being reunited with him when my life on this earth ends.

“In my confusion, I choose hope over despair, believing that someday, from another dimension, I will look back and see the time apart was short. With that conviction, all shall be well.” These were the words I wrote for the final page of SIPS OF SUSTENANCE, Grieving the Loss of Your Spouse. With them, I also end this series of blogs about that book.

(My next series of blogs will focus on stories from my latest book, FACES OF GRIEF, released July 12 by Wakestone Press.)

Somewhere along our journey through grief after the death of a spouse, a newly bloomed jonquil, a playful song on the radio, or perhaps a child’s laughter as he jumps gleefully into a mud puddle will bring a smile to our face. But just as suddenly, we may stop the wave of joy, feeling guilty that we could possibly be happy when our beloved is gone, unable to enjoy the scene that produced the smile. Irrationally, we think we owe it to our spouse to be sad, afraid we would be betraying the love we shared if we found joy again. At such times, we would be wise to recall the wisdom of Rose Kennedy, who had ample cause to succumb to life’s tragedies, when she posed this question: “Birds sing after a storm—why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever remains to them?”

Life goes on. Not the life we had anticipated, but surely our spouse would not have wanted us to shield ourselves from happiness, to shy away from joy. Yes, we will miss our spouse until the day we die, but we should not deny ourselves the opportunity to love life again. In SIPS OF SUSTENANCE, I ask, “What does it take from us to love life again?” My response is that we have to open our hearts to share love—with someone who is ill, with a lonely child, with another grieving person; in short, with anyone who needs love. In sharing love, we can find the rainbow that follows the storm that threatened to destroy our lives.

Shared love forms the core of any strong marriage, and when a spouse dies, we may think the love has been snuffed out, like a candle extinguished by a fierce wind. But what if we could harness that same wind to fan the fire of love within our heart? If we but think differently, we can.

Unquestionably, physical love no longer exists—we can’t share a warm embrace, enjoy a tender kiss, or exchange an adoring look. Those tangible ways of expressing love have been eclipsed by death. But love is so much more than physical—it is the intangible sense of a soul mate who shares a bond deep in our being. That connection cannot be severed by death.

How, then do we keep love alive? We can relive happy memories, we can touch loving notes and special gifts, and we can talk with our loved one. We can be thankful that we were blessed with such special love, even if our time together was far shorter than we imagined or wanted. As Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, “What ere befall, ‘tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” We can forever treasure the time we had, having no doubt that the love we held dear was worth the pain now threatening to engulf us.

Life is a canvas, and the vibrant paint strokes of remembered joy and love can overshadow the dark hues of our loss if we refuse to let death dominate the picture of our remaining days on this earth. We can keep love in the present, not letting it die with the past, for love is reflected in the mirror of our souls, not in the changed landscape of our lives.

MORE THOUGHTS FROM SIPS OF SUSTENANCE

When a husband or wife dies, people trying to comfort the surviving spouse often struggle with what to say. In an effort to help, they sometimes offer platitudes like, “He’s in a better place,” “You’ll see her again someday,” or “It’s God’s will.” While all of these may be true, they can come across as trite, even to a Christian. Until someone has walked in your shoes—lost a spouse—he or she doesn’t realize that when your whole world has stopped spinning, you may not be ready to accept words that brush aside the present sense of aloneness and abandonment. It’s not that you have lost your faith; it’s that you are hurting so deeply you can’t see beyond today. Being comforted with a future reunion or with the belief that your beloved no longer suffers doesn’t silence the yearning to hold your husband or wife in your arms once more—now.

In another effort to help, family and friends often avoid saying your spouse’s name. They call to ask how you are doing, they invite you to dinner, or sit with you at church—but they act as if your spouse never existed. Fearful that saying his or her name will remind you of your loss and open a wellspring of tears, they choose their words carefully. What they don’t understand is that you want to hear your spouse’s name. You want to hear people talk about him or her, remembering good times shared and enjoyed. Yes, such discussions may bring tears, but they are thoughtful reminders that your spouse was a part of your life and theirs—and that he or she has not been forgotten.

In addition to talking about the deceased person, many times the best way to help a grieving spouse is to simply be present—not saying anything but showing you care by just being there. Take your lead from the person in sorrow—listen and respond to what he or she wants to do and say. Only the individual whose heart has been torn apart knows how you can best help him or her get through the grieving process.

Letting go of your spouse isn’t easy, and most of us seek ways to hold on to the person with whom we had planned to spend the rest of our lives. We may thus become vulnerable to signs, messages, and conversations beyond the grave.

I’m about as pragmatic as anyone you will ever meet, and in the past when I read or heard about messages from beyond, I scoffed. But after my husband’s death, desperate to know he had made it safely into the next dimension, I wasn’t quite as prone to skepticism. I became intrigued when I read about an author who interviewed more than 2000 individuals who claimed they had signs from a loved one who had died. With a trembling heart, I decided I would be open to signals Bob was safe and content. What could it hurt? To my amazement, sounds and sights seemingly came from afar.

In SIPS OF SUSTENANCE, I share the two signs I like to think came from Bob. Am I certain they were messages from him? Of course not, but they helped me in my darkest hours to believe in the possibility that he was keeping his promise to let me know he was okay and was watching over me.

Others may see my “signs” as coincidences or nothing out of the ordinary, but they comforted my grieving heart. And, even if they weren’t messages, if they helped me, did it really matter?

Throughout my life and career, I was viewed as a strong person—and, candidly, that’s how I saw myself. I watched both parents die following terrible terminal illnesses; I dealt with myriad difficult issues as a college president; I endured the first degree murder trial of my husband; and, I survived a serious disease and watched my husband struggle through three life-threatening illnesses. During those experiences, I stood strong, trusting God to help me through the dark days of my life. And, during the first few days after my husband’s death, even though I sobbed with abandon when I was alone, I showed strength as I went through the motions of preparing for his memorial service and even held my emotions in check when I stood before his friends and family to deliver a loving tribute. But when the busyness of the first few days ended, my strength evaporated into nothingness.

Suddenly, I felt alone in a way I had never felt before. I couldn’t focus—even when I was among others, I felt like I was enveloped in a bubble. I no longer felt a part of the world that was spinning around me as if nothing had happened. While everyone else went about the routines of their lives, my world stood still. Half of me was gone, never to return. A quote by Mary Todd Lincoln described exactly how I felt: “Tell me, how can I live without my husband any longer? This is my first awakening thought each morning, and as I watch the waves of the turbulent lake under our windows, I sometimes feel I should like to go under them.”

After months of despair, I thought I was condemned to sit and stare vacantly into space until I joined my husband in the next dimension. My faith no longer offered “peace that passeth understanding.” Basic religious tenets that had held me in good stead in the past no longer sufficed. I wanted concrete answers about what happens at the moment of death—I wanted to know exactly what my husband experienced. But then I faced the fact that no one knows—even great theologians haven’t experienced death and returned to tell us what the transition to the next world was like.

After struggling for months, I came to accept that my human mind would never understand infinity--but what I could see with my eyes was a magnificent world design being flawlessly executed in cycles of birth, life, and death.I decided if the creator has a scheme for a tulip, then surely the plan for a human after life on this earth is extinguished must be much more intricate and beautiful. I may not understand how the pieces of the puzzle fit together, but I know they do. And just as a tulip is reborn each spring, my husband has risen to a new life--and someday I will make the same journey and see him once again.

Losing a spouse is tough. Finding words to express the depth of despair isn’t easy. We try words like lost…numb…shocked…desolate…afraid…abandoned, but none is adequate to describe the realization that the person with whom we hoped to spend the rest of our life is gone. It’s the finality that strikes the hardest blow. Gone forever from this life. Never again to hold our hand, kiss us goodnight, or tell us how much we are loved. All of our plans for the future evaporated with the last breath. For the rest of our lives, we will awaken to face the day alone.

Death is not reversible. We cannot turn back the clock for even one moment, because time moves only forward. Wishing won’t help; even praying won’t bring back our loved one. The book of life has closed for our spouse, and with it, a part of us ceases to exist. So much of who we are was tied to our role as a husband or wife that our whole identity changes.

How do we face life without the physical presence of the one we held so dear? The answer differs for each of us, because the person we lost was inimitable. But, for all of us, finding a way for the love to continue beyond the grave can help. Some may choose to continue talking to the spouse, sharing the day’s events or the splendor of a field of wildflowers. Others may find comfort in talking with friends and family members about the deceased. Many who would like to support us think it will deepen our sorrow to hear our spouse’s name, but we want the person to be recalled with love and laughter. Remembering the wonderful times shared keeps love alive.

And then, we have to accept the loss, as much as we would like to deny it. An unknown author once wrote, “There are things that we don’t want to happen but have to accept, things we don’t want to know but have to learn, and people we can’t live without but have to let go.” The letting go part is hard, but in the absence of the physical body, we can hold tight to our love while waiting to be reunited in another dimension.

For some, regrets hit like hailstones immediately after losing a spouse; for others, they fall like a heavy mist after the storm of the first few days has passed, shrouding our sorrow with more pain. Whenever they come, they fill our heads, repeatedly scraping our souls. Words spoken or left unspoken; actions taken or left undone. We thrash ourselves, and guilt adds weight to our already heavy burden.

Sometimes regrets come in the form of “if only’s.” If only I had known he wasn’t taking his medicine…if only I hadn’t made her mad…if only I had stayed at home with him…if only I had noticed she wasn’t feeling well…if only I had gone instead of asking him to go…. We try to silence the words, but they refuse to the shushed.

How can we live with our guilt? If we could only ask our spouse for forgiveness, doubtless we would be absolved. But our spouse is gone, and we can’t ask the question. But wait, perhaps we can. Why not sit by the grave or hold the urn and quietly confess our regrets and ask for pardon? While we may not hear an audible reply, we may feel it in our heart.

We must also forgive ourselves. We are imperfect human beings living in a chaotic world. We all make mistakes, and we need to be cautious about condemning ourselves more severely than we deserve.

And then, we need to adopt Reinhold Niebuhr’s serenity prayer, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” What’s past is past, and we should let go of our regrets and replace them with happier memories—a stroll in a summer shower, the exchange of loving glances, the shared beauty of a field of wildflowers. After all, isn’t that how our spouses would want us to remember them?

After both of my parents died following slow and painful terminal illnesses, I thought losing someone suddenly would be a blessing. How wrong I was. . . . On April 7, 2008, when I found my husband dead on the kitchen floor less than two hours after we had been out to lunch together that bright spring day, the shock of his sudden, unexpected death stunned me. Later, as I grieved, I realized there is no good way to give up someone you dearly love. What I thought would be months of grieving has stretched into three years. While the pain isn’t as raw as it was at the beginning, I still feel part of me is missing. For 37 years, even though I had a successful career as a university president, I was whole only when I was with my husband. Now I am half of the person I was. I miss my husband incredibly, every day, and I don’t think that will ever change.

On my odyssey through grief, I struggled with issues like faith, regret, and purpose. I grappled with countless questions, often finding no answers. What I did find along the way is that every person’s grief is as unique as the person who died. And, in most cases, the intensity of grief is directly related to the intensity of the love that was shared. Despite the uniqueness of the person and the relationship shared, I discovered that many well-known writers had words to express their own grief that echoed how I felt inside.

As I read wisdom from great writers, I felt a kinship and understanding that had been missing from people who extended sympathy and love after my husband’s death. Perhaps it was how the writers conveyed their feelings, but their words touched my heart and soul, giving me solace and hope that even though my life would never be the same again, it could still be good.

Having been touched by the words of wisdom I read, I decided to use those same words to form the basis of a book on grieving the loss of a spouse. This week, that book—SIPS OF SUSTENANCE—was published by Wakestone Press. While I don’t presume to know how any other person feels, I believe this book will provide insight on how to survive sorrow and find life again on the other side of despair. The tips are offered in small sips, because I know that in the early stages of loss when a person’s insides are heaving, a sip of sustenance is all that can be swallowed.

For the next few weeks, I will share a few of the insights from SIPS OF SUSTENANCE in this blog. My wish is that they will bring hope and healing to those who are in the throes of grief.