Guest Blogger: Chaplain Mary Beth McSwain
Grief Like A Child
It was Monday at lunch time at the VA hospital in Nashville. I had just gotten out of group supervision time with other chaplains and was given a referral to call a nurse in the MCCU for a woman who they were withdrawing care from and who was in the actively dying process.
There were two adult daughters present and two children who were cousins, a grandson who was 14 and Leah who was 10. I spent the afternoon with them and their dying grandmother. We talked about everything under the sun. Taylor Swift sightings in Nashville. High school homecoming experiences. Pet cats. Books about horses. How much we like the cookies from Subway. As Leah sat next to her grandma, she rubbed her thumb sweetly over her dying hand. Then, she looked directly at me and the questions and honest statements began: “They [the nurses] keep saying that her breathing is more labored. What does that mean?” “Is that better or worse?” “Will she wake up again?” “Why has she become so cold?” and “I won’t have a grandma anymore.”
I suppose up until that point I had used a ministry of diversion. I was simply someone else who provided presence and company to an overtired stressed grief-ridden family. The adult daughters had no questions, but would intermittently and with shaken voices share their feelings and stories about their mom. The 14 year old grandson stayed calm, trying to take a nap yet remained constantly vigilant of his tearful mom. But Leah. She had honest questions and she wanted honest answers. She wanted to be listened to as she worked through this grief.
Once the patient finally died, the family was in tears, but quiet tears. I offered hugs, prayers, and tissues. The adult daughters wanted to get down to business and talk about funeral details, but Leah threw herself over her grandma and took a sobbing moment. I placed my hand on her, rubbing her back as she sobbed loudly for the entire hospital unit to hear.
Leah taught me that having faith like a child entails having grief like a child—sitting on Jesus’ lap and asking questions, allowing yourself to truly burst into tears of grief, throwing yourself over onto loss, onto the shoulder of Christ, rather than immediately moving to the details of organizing what’s next. Leah wasn’t running around, as I had always pictured children when Jesus talks about entrance into the kingdom of heaven. She wasn’t energetic or making messes. And most of all, she wasn’t reckless. She was inquisitive. She was somber. She was still.
As we consider entering the kingdom of heaven, especially as death and loss come our way, let us be like children, sitting on Jesus’ lap, but let’s also be honest. I highly doubt that the doors to the kingdom of heaven say “No honest statements. No sobbing. No questions. It’s awkward.” If anything, they say, “Come as you are. For it is I who created you and call you by name.” I invite you to enter the kingdom of heaven like a child—to run around, jump up and down, and to giggle. But I also invite you to be still. To sob. To ask questions. To make honest statements. For becoming more like a child also entails grieving like a child. Amen.
Beautifully written.
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