Grief, One Year Later

It has been a year since our family experienced a life-changing loss. My 28 year old daughter, Chasity, died from a heroin overdose on January 28, 2017. The opioid epidemic brought with it this reoccurring nightmare for tens of thousands of families in our country. Over 42,000 Americans died from drug overdose in 2016. The official numbers for last year are not available yet, but everyone knows they are not trending down. This is tragic, heart wrenching and sickening.

My daughter's death, as well as her struggle with drug addiction, has given me a different lens through which I can view others. My propensity to criticize and evaluate is being nudged out of the way by compassion. The "log in my eye" is not completely gone, but I feel differently about the speck in your eye. I have addictions too, ones that are not likely to cause my sudden death, but still they reveal my desperate need to rest in the love and grace of God. Perhaps more honesty about this sort of thing would be helpful in our culture, in our congregations. I believe many American churches have a long way to go before drug addicts feel safe entering the building without condescending glances. Will they hear a gospel shared with authentic love, untainted by judgement? I hope my church is moving in that direction.

One year removed from the shock and pain of overdose death in my immediate family, I'm not completely sure how I'm supposed to be feeling, what I'm supposed to be doing. Before you jump to conclusions (like I often do), let me clarify. I am aware that there is no "right" way to grieve. But I still can't help but sense that I've missed something and I should be ______ (fill in the blank). A wise and dear friend told me it is never helpful to "should" on yourself or others. Still, I'm wondering about this difficult process. It is a process.

After the death of a loved one I have heard others say, "I think about them every day." Well, the plain truth is, some days pass and I don't think about Chasity. I want to be okay with that. The loss doesn't change because it is not front and center in my thinking. My love for her is not diminished. Day by day, moment by moment I have been living my life for the past year, in the shadow that has been cast by her death. I have laughed. I have cried. I have struggled. I have trusted. I have loved. I have been angry. I have been sad. I have been ashamed. I have talked. I have been silent. I have preached. I have whined. I am human. Life does indeed go on, until it doesn't.

The death of my oldest daughter has caused me to look at my other two daughters differently. I occasionally feel fearful around the thought that I will lose them too. I'm not sure they realize, but I have tried to hug them more. I suspect that many parents have a fear of losing a child. Prior to Chasity's death I also had that fear, but it was more theoretical. Experiencing reality has a way of raising awareness and bringing truth into perspective.

This life is short. We will experience loss. There is not really a way to fully prepare for walking that particular road. The presence of trusted friends and family have aided me. My faith and hope in Christ has been extremely helpful. But with humanity comes a frailty that impacts even God-given faith. Although mixed with fear and doubt at times, my faith is still present and powerful. We must live with this delicate tension, embracing our humanity as well as the Divine.

I can not go back. I can not undo or unsay anything. I have no idea what will come across my path tomorrow. I only have this moment, to live and love and also at times to grieve. Although during the last year our family has experienced pain and loss, there is much for which I am thankful. It is a very helpful thing to consider grief, and at the same time, gratitude. That is a place where I am certain we will also discover the boundless reservoir of God's grace.

[For those interested, I wrote about these circumstances and their impact last year here and here.]