“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.”
(Anne Lamott)
In a sense, the social media on the
Internet makes for strange bedfellows . . . you never know who will up being
someone you care for . . . someone who touches your life . . . someone who
becomes a relationship in your life . . . people, who, in a million years, you
never imagined would be a part of your existence. As an introvert who appreciates and protects
his privacy zone around his heart, I never imagined that I would be touched by
the life another person who I have never personally met . . . who lives many,
many miles away . . . and, is much older than I am. But, it happens.
It started awhile back when I received
a comment on one of the writings I posted on my blog . . . kind of a humorous,
backhanded compliment . . . a note from another introvert who happened to like
what I wrote. Kind of made me feel good
. . . especially when this individual eventually asked me to “friend” him on Facebook. Suddenly I was wondering if this was one of
those strange stalking types . . . but, it turned out to be a nice old guy in
Michigan with a wickedly dry sense of humor that made me smile (and, at times,
laugh) who had once lived in Montana.
Turns out . . . he wasn’t so bad.
Our relationship as so-called “friends”
was pretty much lived on the pages of social media found on the Internet. If I wrote something that tickled his funny bone
or made him think . . . I got a quick comment and a thumbs up. I looked forward to those moments when they
appeared. I looked forward to seeing his
name or picture show up on either my blog or Facebook page. He made my
day and validated my efforts at either humor or wisdom. Unbeknownest to either of us, we actually
were starting to care for one another even though we had never met
face-to-face. Would this fellow be someone
I ever sought out as a friend? Probably
not . . . but, as I stated, social media on the Internet makes for some strange
bedfellows.
It was not until early this morning
that I came to the knowledge of how much of a relationship there really was
between the two of us. It was just a
quick short note . . . not to anyone in particular, but to all who were his “friends”
on Facebook: “Midge passed away early this morning. There will be no service. That's
not a religious or philosophical statement about anything, just a personal
preference that we agreed on much earlier. And thanks for understanding my
personal need to spend much time alone and quiet.” Words spoken like a true introvert—which my friend
is. My unseen friend had suffered the
death of someone significant in his life . . . his wife. My heart was broken.
Brokenness seems to be a big part of
grief . . . the heart is broken, sometimes shattered, when someone whom we have
greatly loved dies. And, as hard as we
try we can never get the shattered pieces back together again as they once were
. . . no matter how long we try, we can never get our hearts back to what they
once were. There is always a piece
missing . . . especially when that love is deep and long. As a minister I have witnessed this over and
over again when dealing with death with people within the congregations I have
served. As a son who has had both his
parents die . . . I can speak to this.
And, in one of the greatest losses in my life—as silly as it may sound,
when my beloved Boxer died . . . my heart was shattered. The hurt is sharp and it echoes . . . yes,
echoes . . . through the whole body to the root of our souls. Grief is not for the faint-hearted . . . and,
because this is the case, I ached for my friend and the pain he must be
feeling.
Also, as a minister, the expectation
is that I will know what words to say to those who grieve . . . but, in all
honesty, I do not know. It is a crap shoot,
and those who grieve will tell you that sometimes they just wish the minister
would just shut up. So, I have learned
that there is not a whole bunch that needs to be said. Sometimes there are no words that could ever
express the emotions and feelings of someone who has experienced a death in his
or her life. Sometimes the best thing
and only thing that could ever happen is to just be there . . . be there in
silence . . . be there to listen . . . be there to embrace . . . be there to
take the anger and beating . . . to just be there. To be there no matter how long it takes
because it will always be there.
Much
time alone and quiet
. . . again, spoken like the true introvert he is, my friend has shared his
needs. It is not selfish, it is not cold
and aloof . . . it is a time for remembering, for laughter, for tears . . . time
for anger, a time for letting go, a time for healing . . . a time for learning how
to dance with a limp. Life has suddenly
changed for my friend . . . it will never be the same, the love of his life has
died . . . my heart cracked a bit too, for my friend.
These words, as empty as they might be
. . . are all I can offer to my friend.
But, if I were there, I would hug my friend (as much as it would make
him flinch in true introvert fashion), and then just sit with him in the still
quietness of his grief. I would let him
know that I, too, dance with a limp . . . a limp that seems to get more and
more pronounced the older I get. For my
friend who is far, far away . . . known, but unmet . . . I offer you my
prayers, my thoughts, and my presence.
In the end, when you are ready, we will dance with a limp in celebration
of a life well lived and shared. God be
with you, my friend . . . Clif.
