I’ve been thinking a lot about legacies, probably because last Friday marked the seventeenth year since my dad’s passing. He still means so much to me; I’m still learning from him.
Like all father-and-son relationships, ours was spotted with a few imperfections—but not too many and none that ever drove us apart. My memories of him are 99% positive. Thomas Grissom was a good man.
Some people try to establish their own legacies by putting their names on buildings, scholarship funds, and city parks. There’s nothing wrong with any of those, but in my opinion the truest form of legacy is an extension of the life the person lived, not an addendum to it. It’s a continuation of a reputation earned, not a salvage operation.
So, when I think about Dad’s legacy, it‘s all about how he lived in his small corner of the universe. In his case, it’s pretty basic stuff, really: work hard, live within your means, try fixing it before replacing it, be honest, be helpful, don’t retaliate, and make time for fishing and watching baseball. Quietly strong. Humbly influential.
I loved that man.
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I read a story about a store clerk who was known for being lazy. Whenever there was hard work to be done, he’d conveniently disappear. When a regular customer noticed that the clerk wasn’t there one day, he asked the store owner:
“Where’s Eddie? Is he sick?”
“Nope, he ain’t workin’ here no more.”
“Do you have anyone in mind for the vacancy?”
“Nope. Eddie didn’t leave any vacancy.”
One way that grief serves us well is by putting us in touch with our own mortality. The death of a loved one reminds us that our days will come to an end too, that our lives will become legacies . . . and will hopefully leave vacancies.
It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting,
for this is the end of all mankind,
and the living will lay it to heart.
—Ecclesiastes 7:2
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
“God gives grace for what actually happens to us, not for what we imagine might happen to us.”
I overheard a colleague make that statement years ago, on her first day back to work after giving birth to a stillborn child. Someone had said to her that they couldn’t imagine how they would handle that situation and the grieving mother responded with those insightful words.
As soon as I heard her say it, I thought, I’m going to remember what she said. Someday I’ll need to share it with someone who’s sad and afraid.
That “someone” turned out to be me.
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Imagination is a double-edged sword; it can help us or it can hurt us, it can stir up either fear or faith, it can drive us into dark places or draw us out into the light. Imagination is the genesis of most of the inventions, conveniences, and entertainments we enjoy. But it is also a cold and hostile invasion of our thoughts that convinces us to expect the worst possible outcome.
When it comes to grief, imagination can work against us in a couple of ways. It can:
tempt us to borrow other people’s circumstances, or
shove us too far and too fast into our own circumstances.
When I put my former colleague’s insight about grace alongside the downside of imagination, I came to these conclusions:
We don’t have the grace to face other people’s struggles.
Though we will have grace when it happens (whatever “it” is), we won’t have that grace until it happens.
To be clear, in this context I’m using the word grace to refer to the God-given ability to endure suffering without being overcome by it.
Borrowed Pain
When we watch someone we love suffer, I can’t imagine! is an honest response. Their pain is so disturbing that our minds want to reject it. And as it goes on day after day, month after month, we begin to question whether we would survive if their circumstances became ours.
This can bring about a crisis of belief, a time when we, from the outside looking in, have to dig deep into our own faith even as we wonder what God is doing. Does He see? Does He care? Will He really carry my friend through this? Will He carry me when something like it happens in my life?
Here’s the point: If we truly believe God gives us grace to endure, then the ones who are experiencing the pain have access to a form of grace that those who are only observing their pain don’t. Those on the outside of our circumstances do not fully share our pain, but neither do they fully share our grace.
When it comes to grace for suffering, we get it when we need it.
Not There Yet
One of the toughest battles I fought during my wife’s illness was with my own emotions. Sometimes fear would try to take over.
I worried about how I would take care of her when she could no longer walk, or when she lost the use of her hands and arms. I worried about her breathing and her swallowing. I feared the approach of death.
Niecie always wanted to know how I was dealing with things, so one day we talked about my fears and we realized that I was mostly afraid of things that weren’t yet true. Even though the day would probably come when those things would be true, that day had not yet come. Imagination was tormenting me. I was forfeiting joy, letting tomorrow’s maybes spoil today’s realities.
So I began arguing against imagination with truth—something I picked up from Paul’s instructions on how to think (Philippians 4:8). The first point he made was: think about things that are true (real).
The day did come when Niecie could no longer be left by herself, and many more difficult days followed, each one bringing its own challenges. But facing those days as they came, in the realm of reality, was better than shadowboxing the “what ifs.” Accepting reality brought grace. Grace brought courage. Courage brought peace.
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
I just sat down at my computer to catch up on some editing when a notification popped up on the screen. I had a new email from Monica (not her real name) whose husband had died less than a year before. She had just survived the first cycle of Thanksgiving-Christmas-New Year-Valentine’s Day without him.
She wrote:
February was a rough month for me for some reason. Maybe it was because the year anniversary was coming up or that Valentine’s stuff was everywhere. Man, that was depressing. But I guess what I’ve got to understand is that sometimes there doesn’t have to be an event or reason to get into a blue funk. Being somewhat analytical, that’s hard for me to comprehend. How long will I keep doing this? I know everyone is different but please tell me that one of these days I’m going to quit crying.
That last line got to me, and I shed a few tears on her behalf as I read it. Then I did my best to tap out a comforting response.
Monica was not the first or the last to ask me that question. Seems like everyone wonders when the pain will go away.
A few years ago a church in a nearby town was preparing to launch a grief support ministry and they invited me to speak to their group leaders. I have to say, there’s a dynamic of quick connection that happens among grievers. I had never met anyone in that room, but I knew I was with “my people” almost immediately. We all understood why we were there and what it was that tied our hearts to one another.
When I ended my talk, one of the ladies asked if I would take questions. And then she began to cry. It was obvious that she wasn’t going to ask about leading a grief group; she was looking for help with her own sadness.
This precious lady explained that her daughter had been killed in an accident (I don’t recall how long ago it had happened) and that she couldn’t get through a day without breaking down. “Will this ever go away?” she asked.
There it was again. Different person. Different circumstances. Same question: When will the sadness go away?
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Most of the grievers I’ve met are realists. Their loss has made them so. And witnessing this lady being so gut-level honest in front of her church friends and me, a stranger, I knew that only an honest answer would do. In essence, this is what I said:
Your sadness is not going to go away completely. In time it will come less frequently and with less intensity, but no one can promise it will fly away someday and never return. It's a part of who you are now.
But your soul can multitask. It can feel sadness and hope at the same time. It can grieve and grow at the same time.
You can still love the one who is no longer with you. In fact, I think of grief as posthumous love—as much as we loved someone in life we will grieve them in death.
Maybe not the happiest of answers, but an honest one. And being honest about our here-to-stay sadness will make us better able to endure it. Which brings to mind the Stockdale Paradox.
Admiral Jim Stockdale was a prisoner-of-war for eight years (1965-1973) during the Vietnam War. When Jim Collins was writing the book, Good to Great, he interviewed Stockdale, opening with the question: “Who didn’t make it out (of the prison camp)?”
Stockdale replied, “Oh, that’s easy, the optimists . . . They were the ones who said, ‘We’re going to be out by Christmas.’ And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. Then they’d say, ‘We’re going to be out by Easter.’ And Easter would come, and Easter would go. And then Thanksgiving, and then it would be Christmas again. And they died of a broken heart.”
After a long pause, Stockdale continued, “This is a very important lesson. You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end—which you can never afford to lose—with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your own current reality, whatever that might be.”
My fellow grievers, you and I will do better if we bring that level of realism and grit into the long night of our sadness. Not that we’ll erase the sadness but that by God’s grace we can endure it.
Because morning is coming.
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.