Grief Blog
Only Focusing on the Afterlife
Some mistakes are like gravity. Even experienced caregivers are pulled towards committing these cardinal sins.
In my book How to Talk with Sick, Dying, and Grieving People: When There are No Magic Words to Say, I list them all. Today, let me share just one common mistake that tempts so many of us.
Mistake #3. Only focusing on the afterlife
Let me tell you a story.
For several months, our daughter was haunted by night terrors.
Not simply nightmares, but night terrors.
If you have ever seen someone have a night terror, you know the difference. It’s a combination of sleepwalking and a nightmare and multiplied by ten.
Each night, a couple of hours after we put her to bed, she woke up screaming hysterically. She would repeat one or two words, usually “Mommy…” followed by another word or phrase.
At first, we tried to wake her up and tell her everything was ok. Every time she called for us, we asked “What is the matter, sweetie?” Sadly, she could never respond to our attempts to communicate.
We bought a camera for her room so we could see what was causing all the chaos.
The answer? Nothing. There was no cause.
She just woke up with tears flowing, chin quivering and arms flailing.
When we learned about night terrors, we changed our approach.
We no longer tried to dialogue with her. We didn’t get as frustrated with her. We didn’t ask her what was wrong. We just tried to be close to her, give her what she needed, and wait it out. Usually, in about ten minutes she went back to sleep. She never even remembered those events the next morning.
Trying to convince my daughter that ‘everything was okay’ during these episodes is similar to trying to tell a griever that everything is okay because their loved one is in heaven. It might be true, but it’s not effective.
It's not that we can't focus on the afterlife at all, but we can't focus SOLELY on the afterlife.
After all, it's Christmas. Even God was interested in being here, in this place, on earth. Not just in Heaven.
The grievers in your life are thankful for the promise of heaven. But that doesn't erase their sadness.
Third step to support a griever: Sit down
The most ancient part of the Hebrew scripture focuses on death, dying, and grief.
The book of Job (pronounced with a long “o”).
Job’s family and friends all died--in one day. He lost everything except for his wife and a few friends.
Our story picks up when the friends come to visit Job.
They did five things right.
They:
Made a plan
Went to see Job
Sat down
Were silent, and
Wept out loud
In this email, let’s consider their third right move.
They sat down.
In a 2011 study, the University of Kansas Nursing Department discovered the following:
Patients perceived the provider [the doctor] as being present at their bedside longer when he sat. Even though the actual time the physician spent at the bedside did not change significantly whether he sat or stood. Patients with whom the physician sat reported a more positive interaction and a better understanding of their condition.
All of our chaplains visit a lot of patients at our large hospitals. But some time ago, one stood out among the others. He was regularly visiting 80, even 90 patients in an 8-hour shift. To be fair, he usually worked what we call the “rounding shift” where seeing patient after patient is the focus. But no one came close to his numbers.
I became concerned. Success in caring for the spiritual needs of the sick is not measured by the speed at which it is accomplished.
So, I asked him. “John, tell me about your visits when you are on the rounding shift.”
“I go in. I sanitize my hands. I introduce myself. I ask if I can sit down. If they say yes, I pull the chair up close to the side of the bed. I look them in the eyes and listen for a little while. I ask if they need prayer. I wish them well. I sanitize my hands again, and I head to the next room.”
Perfect. Although looking at his numbers, I was concerned, I guarantee the patients didn’t feel rushed when this compassionate, older man sat and looked into their eyes.
And, to be overly practical, it has a lot to do with sitting down.
Eliphaz and Job’s other two friends must have referenced the University of Kansas study. Or else, they must have intuitively been able to feel that since Job was in such rough shape, they needed to sit with him—literally.
So support a griever, sit down with them-literally.
The first step to support a griever: Make a Plan
The most ancient part of the Hebrew scripture focuses on death, dying, and grief.
The book of Job (pronounced with a long “o”).
Job’s family and friends all died--in one day. He lost everything except for his wife and a few friends.
Our story picks up when the friends come to visit Job.
Initially, they did five things right.
They:
Made a plan
Went to see Job
Sat down
Were silent, and
Wept out loud
In this email, let’s consider their first right move.
They made a plan.
The scripture says they set out from their homes and met together by agreement to go and sympathize with Job and comfort him.
The first thing you can do for a griever is to gather a few other friends, meet together, and make an agreement to go and sympathize with them and comfort them.
Simple, yet often we don’t do it. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve done this. But it’s so powerful.
To support a griever, maybe you need to start by gathering a group and making a plan.
This.Is.Hard
I used to say, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Most people are polite when they hear it.
It’s better, I suppose, than never saying anything.
Then one friend said, “I hate that phrase.” Here’s what’s true: this moment is hard. You know that. And more than a vague apology for something that no one could control, you may need someone to acknowledge that this is hard.
Breathing is hard. Thinking is hard. Imagining the next few years is hard. Remembering anything is hard. Being polite is hard.
You can fill in some of your own hard things.
And now isn’t the moment for saying. “But other people have it worse.” Other people have hard things, too. And we can acknowledge that. But their hard moments don’t suddenly make this moment easy for you.
Try something.
Say “THIS is hard.”
Say “This IS hard.”
Say “This is HARD.”
And as you say it, know that I agree with you.
This is hard.
Tip #7: Never assume that you know what God will do
I’ve made this mistake in both directions.
I’ve been sure that a person is at the end of their life and they lived for several more years!
I’ve also been sure that a patient is fine and they have died shortly thereafter.
Let me tell you a story.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was in a hospital room with a family. They were gathered around the patient’s bed. Several children, their spouses, and the patient’s spouse made a semi-circle around her. I stood behind them, handing out tissues. The care team was preparing to remove her ventilator. The family was there to say goodbye.
The pastor from the patient’s church stood in the front of the family, at the foot of her bed. He tried to maintain silence after entering the room, but he didn’t survive five minutes.
He read scripture about not being troubled and how we would all be together again in heaven. He prayed a long prayer about God welcoming her into eternity and rejoicing that she would receive the promise of eternal life that very day. His prayer was a goodbye message.
The problem?
She's still alive. The care team removed the vent just after the pastor’s prayer. The family stood and watched and waited for their mother and wife to enter eternity. But, as I write these words, she is still breathing. Still struggling. Her last breath will likely come soon, but who knows? Only God knows.
That's why I try to never assume I know what God will do.
Never do this when you visit the hospital
Tip #6. Never assume that you understand
Maybe you had an aunt who had cancer.
That does not mean that you understand what every cancer patient feels.
Even more painfully, just because your dad died doesn’t mean that you fully understand when a friend loses her dad.
Never say, “I know how you feel.”
You don’t.
Instead, you could say, “If I were you, I might feel scared.”
That communicates that you are trying to put yourself in their shoes, not just giving advice you think they need.
Never assume that you understand.
Never do this when you visit a hospital
Tip #2 Never be afraid to cry.
When people hear what chaplains do, they ask some common questions.
One question is, “Do you ever cry when you are serving a family whose loved one just died?”
The answer, of course, is yes.
The day that violence, sickness, cancer, miscarriage, stillbirth, strokes, heart attacks, and death can no longer bring tears to our eyes is the day we should quit being hospital chaplains.
While it is important that I don’t make the situation about myself and my own sadness, shedding some tears with the family can build a meaningful bridge.
I no longer apologize for crying, and neither should you.
Never be afraid to cry.
Always do this when you visit the hospital
Tip #5: Just Listen (Shut up, please)
Being silent in the presence of another is a skill you must develop.
It’s quite difficult. But like other difficult skills, it can be learned.
After you’ve greeted the patient, you will feel the urge to say something.
To make sense of the situation.
To ask questions.
To remind them of the promises of God.
Remaining silent can feel like drowning.
Your brain twitches, “I’ve got to say...something!”
If you feel you need to say something, try this:
Count slowly from ten to one.
Take a deep breath.
Then do it again.
Pray a silent prayer. Be mindful. Be present.
The patient might be in pain, on medication, or just in deep thought about their situation.
Blurting a few words that make you feel better and rushing out the door won’t help.
Always practice silence and listening when you visit the hospital.
If you fail at holding silence, forgive yourself and try again.
If I had to sum up how to talk about death, dying, and grief in two words, they would be:
Listen well.
Always do this when you visit the hospital
3. Sanitize Your Hands
Nurses and other health care workers sanitize their hands dozens of times a shift.
You should be no different.
This is the most basic aspect of good health care.
While I know that “wash your hands” sounds more like a grandmother’s advice than it does good care for the sick, dying, and grieving, good hand hygiene does more than prevent disease.
It communicates respect.
It says to the person, “I value you enough to be sure I am not bringing in anything that could harm you further.”
I spray the sanitizing foam onto my hands as I walk into a patient room. Then, I make sure I am still rubbing the solution through my fingers when I approach the patient.
After all, I will certainly want to clean my hands on the way out.
If the patient sees me using the sanitizer only when I walk out, what am I communicating to her?
She may feel that I value my own health more than I value hers.
Health care has a saying: “Clean hands in, clean hands out.”
You should always do the same.
What NOT to say to a griever (Tip #2)
2. God needed another angel in heaven
First of all, there isn't any evidence in the Hebrew or Christian scriptures that this actually happens.
People don't become angels.
And being an angel isn't better than being a person.
Being a human being is the best it gets unless you are God.
Besides that, while the image of a placid-faced winged cherub invisibly fluttering around you with the spirit of your dead loved one is comforting to some, it is not comforting to all.
Finally, what kind of God needs to kill people or let them die?
Remember, it’s better to be quiet than to brush off the situation with a cliche.
What TO Say (Tip #8)
#8. Say, "I have time."
If you support a person in grief, they might be scared to burden you with their thoughts and feelings.
I didn’t do it on purpose, but earlier this week, I told three people in one day that if they wanted to talk that I had time.
One was saying goodbye to his mother in an ICU room.
Another was in a surgery waiting area for his spouse.
And the third was just having a down morning.
One of the three took me up on the offer. When we talked on the phone later about another topic, I circled back around and asked how he was doing.
Because I said "I have time", he shared more than he would have otherwise.
Obviously, you have to mean it.
You have to actually have time or be willing to make the time.
If you can’t, that’s ok. In that case, try, “This is really important. I really want to hear about how you are doing. Can we talk on Tuesday afternoon? I’ll clear my schedule and make sure I give you all the time you need to talk about Stephen.”
Some of the phrases in the first list of what NOT to say roll off the tongue more easily than the phrases in the second list.
They are, after all, clichés.
That means that we need to practice more helpful phrases. Please do that now.
I’m sorry Stephen died
I don’t fully understand, but I think God does
This feels wrong because it is wrong
What you are feeling is normal
This person will always be a part of your life
I’m with you
You have options
I have time
These will become more natural for you as time goes on, and you will become more helpful to a grieving friend.
What TO Say to a Grieving Person (Tip #4)
4. What you are feeling is normal
Kristen and I led a live online event around the topic of miscarriage and stillbirth. I asked participants to type in the chat emotions that a mom might feel when losing a baby. They listed emotions like:
Sadness
Embarrassment
Confusion
Anger
Guilt
Lostness
Envy
Unbelief
“It’s not fair,” and
Gratitude
All of those feelings are normal.
And we can affirm all those feelings in a grieving person.
No feeling should be considered wrong or discouraged.
It might make me more comfortable if the person is sad instead of angry; grateful instead of envious.
But it’s not about me.
If the person feels anything short of suicidal (a different topic altogether), we can affirm those feelings as normal. Do NOT try to talk them out of their feelings.
"What you are feeling is normal."
What to say to a Griever
Tip #1
1. Say "I’m sorry Stephen died."
This short statement has three positives.
1. It acknowledges what happened. It wasn’t just a “loss” or “hard time.” Someone died. And nothing compares to that.
2. This phrase names the deceased. When a person dies, their name vacates our vocabulary. Never again will we say, “Stephen called yesterday,” or “I’m making dinner when Stephen gets home,” or “Stephen, can you please take your laundry upstairs.” Because of this, people who loved Stephen feel an ache.
Their hearts can feel the discontinued use of his name.
When you say their name out loud in this phrase, “I’m sorry died”, you honor their life.
3. This phrase communicates that you are also sad this happened. Not in the same way as those closest to him, but in a parallel way.
It communicates that you wish he hadn’t died.
That wish is at the core of their experience of grief, and they will appreciate hearing you identify it.
Say, “I’m sorry died.”
What NOT to say to a griever (Tip #1)
What is the most common hurtful cliche said to people in grief? So famous that Kate Bowler wrote a book about it?
“Everything Happens for a Reason”
Now, I’ve said it before, too.
Don’t feel ashamed.
But put yourself in their shoes.
If a woman’s baby just died, how is she supposed to respond if you walk in, smile, and say “I know this is hard, but it’ll be okay. After all, everything happens for a reason”?
You are saying “There’s a good reason for your baby’s death.”
That belittles her sense of loss.
Even if you believe this, STOP saying it today!
In fact, you should say the opposite.
This doesn’t make any sense, I am so sorry.
I sure wish this hadn’t happened to you.
You don’t deserve this.
Stop saying Everything Happens for a Reason.
Some things are senseless and unREASONable.
And it’s okay to admit that, especially when you are talking with a person in grief.
Lazarus is Dead
I am a positive person. Really, I am.
I smile often. I am not depressed currently. The heavy-hooded cloak of depression rested briefly on my shoulders once. Its impression lingers, but I am cloak-free today.
And before you ask… yes, I am okay. Observe the horizontal laugh lines radiating from the outside edges of my eyes. Joy is my friend. I need you to know that before you read on. If you’re not convinced yet, can I play a video for you (pulling out my phone)? The video is my sons’ rugby match from last week. You can hear me losing my mind with joy as our club puts up 50 points on their rival. “Ohhhhh yeeeeesssss!” I shriek.
Maybe now you will believe that I’m not always morbid. If I can’t convince you, the following paragraphs may be too dark, heavy, and honest for you to bear.
I am a positive person, really.
Fred Rogers (another positive, yet honest person) said, “Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting, and less scary.”
So let’s talk about the most taboo topic imaginable. Not politics. Not religion. Not current news.
Let’s talk about the topic that is so taboo that I swell with gratitude that Parkview allowed me to write about it.
Let’s talk about death.
Because, as one of our chaplains likes to say, “The mortality rate is still hovering right around 100%.”
Right now, everyone seems to want to draw lines of distinction with permanent markers. We fly flags telling the world which candidate we think is wrong. We affix bumper stickers that swiftly judge “those people.” We fight on social media and listen to news that fuels our separation and anger.
But I know one thing we can all agree on.
We. Will. All. Die. (At this point in the article, please remember that I am a positive person, really. I love rugby.)
I have a problem (that may be an understatement). One of my problems (and one of God’s biggest blessings in my life) is that I cannot forget that we all die.
Rereading my journals, I have always thought I would die young. I am afraid time is running out for me to die very young. Though I may still die fairly young. What is more, one of the departments I lead is our chaplaincy department. And chaplains sail the seven seas of death notices, traumas, disease, vent withdrawals, grief, miscarriage, and stillbirth.
You see, as many as 80% of deaths nationally occur in healthcare facilities. Locally, that means if a mom miscarries, or a grandpa dies in hospice, or a young person succombs to injuries after a car accident, a Parkview chaplain is likely involved.
You’ve walked this far in the dark with me. Now, let’s descend deeper into the cave.
My friend died. Not even two months ago. She was a bright light by all accounts and one of my favorite people in the world. My wife, Kristen, and I had just returned from a vacation in Puerto Rico. Two hours later, at 1:00am, I was in our ICU. My friend just delivered her first baby. A perfect infant. But then my friend’s heart stopped. After many hours of heroic care, she died. It was (is) the saddest I’ve been in a long time, not to mention the sadness of her young husband, her mother, brothers and sister, and many others, including Parkview coworkers.
Her story, prior to her sudden death, was one of those stories that gives hope in dark times. Her love story was born during a season of suffering. It proved that lights shine in the dark. Her story showed that hope can be born in the middle of sadness.
Since we are friends, can I open my broken heart to you a little more? I’ve been struggling with that last part. A person whose life demonstrated the goodness of God in our brokenness… is now dead. Sad is a desperately inadequate expression of how that feels.
I admitted these feelings to my friend and colleague Jon Swanson. He listened. He cried. Then he said, “Lazarus is dead.”
“What?” I asked. I know the story but wasn’t sure what he meant.
“For a long time, Jesus raising Lazurus from the dead was a good story, a hopeful story. But his story ended the same way every story ends. He died. Your friend’s story was a good story, a hopeful story. But her story ended the way every story must end.” Jon said, full of compassion.
Every story ends this way. I know it. I don’t like it, but I know it.
Every story ends this way. You know it. You don’t like it, but you know it.
I can hear sisters and brothers from diverse corners of Christianity shouting, “Wait, Rev. Riecke, there’s one story that doesn’t end in death. Jesus rose again!” Yes he did, my Easter-Oriented friend. But first… he died.
We avoid talking about death.
But historic spiritual leaders did not.
Jesus did not. He talked about his own death on nearly every page of the Christian testament.
A quote attributed to the Budha says, "You too shall pass away. Knowing this, how can you quarrel?”
The Quran reminds its readers that “Every self will be tasting of death.” (Quran 21:35)
Judaism has lived with the knowledge of the death of all people since ancient times. Their holy book lists one generation after another, recalling deaths without hesitation in long genealogies.
The Hebrew Bible confronts us with our certain fate:
“Surely the fate of human beings is like that of the animals; the same fate awaits them both: As one dies, so dies the other.” (Ecclesiastes 3:19)
Lazarus is dead.
My son, Stephen, is dead.
My friend whose perfect baby and precious husband I talk with daily, she’s dead.
Maybe someone in your life has died, too. What’s her name? His name? Say it out loud.
Each of these deaths confronts me with my own mortality.
After all, every story ends the same way.
However, there is a twist. Although we avoid the topic, prolong the inevitable, and cringe at funerals, death is giving us a gift, right now.
Knowing we will die is a gift. That knowledge can give each day purpose.
Make no mistake, death is not a gift. But knowing we will die can be a gift.
The fly in my bedroom yesterday was loud and clumsy. He bounced off windows, walls, and mirrors, not knowing that he was disturbing my nap time. He also didn’t know that he was about to die. Had he known, what would he have done? Would he have found Mrs. Fly and the rest of the Fly family and friends and said his heartfelt goodbye? Would he have made sure his affairs were in order? Would he have left mementos to those he left behind? Forgiven the moth that wronged him? Or even just spent a moment in quiet reflection?
Animals and insects die, just like us.
They never see it coming. Flamingo, fly, or fox, they cannot reflect on the meaning of their limited lives. But we can. How can we not?
You will die.
That is certain.
I will die.
That is certain.
How then shall I live, knowing this information?
Life can give us a lot of time. Maybe a whole century in exceptional cases. But it’s never unlimited free refills like Diet Coke at McDonald’s. Eventually, we come to the bottom of the cup, at least in this life.
I’m a positive person, really. And my positivity often flows from making the most of each moment. After all, in my line of work, I cannot pretend that death isn’t coming for each of us. So, I will kiss my wife every day. I will hug my kids. I will scream at rugby matches. I will invest in my colleagues with abandon. I will write blogs that might be uncomfortable. I will speak my truth for fear it might be my last chance. I will say the words I think I am here to say.
Because, after all, Lazarus is dead.
But I’m smiling, my laugh lines creasing ever so slightly.
Resources for really living:
Parkview Center for Healthy Living
Henri Nouwen, Befriending Death
Patrick Riecke, How to Find Meaning in Your Life Before it Ends