Hard Eucharistos

March 29, 2020

Occasionally when officiating at funerals, especially of a child or young person, I’ve asked the parents if they would give up the years they had with their child in exchange for not having the deep grief they were experiencing at the time of their loss. I never had a parent say they were willing to make that trade. The joy of having their child was always worth the pain and heartbreak they were going through. 

I’ve thought about that question recently, and it haunts me. One of the major tasks of grief is learning to live with the memory of the loved one’s presence instead of the reality of it. We wouldn’t want to have lived without the loved one, but we also mourn what we no longer have. Kahlil Gibran spoke eloquently of grief when he said, 

     When you are sorrowful look...in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

     Some of you say, “Joy is greater than sorrow,” and others say, “Nay, sorrow is the greater.”

     But I say unto you, they are inseparable.

     Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

    Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. 

    Only when you are empty are you at a standstill and balanced.

    When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.”

                                                                                 —“The Prophet”

This morning we attended a virtual worship service from Park church. At noon, Linda and I had Sunday dinner with our children and grandchildren present via Zoom. It was good to see and talk with them. I am thankful for the hard work so many are doing to help us keep connected in these times of social-distancing. I am thankful for the technology that gives us some semblance of connection. But I have to say, it’s not the same. We miss the hugs from our grandchildren (Eliza excepted), the laughter around our table, the grandkids popping in for even a few minutes to say hello. We are having to learn the new reality that requires us to be thankful for the memories and for the knowledge that we will be together again. As a dedicated introvert, I never thought I’d see the day when I longed so deeply for the presence and touch of other people. I am more aware than ever how much we need this even physical connection with one another, and how much is lost when we don’t have it. 

Ann Voskamp in her book “1000 Gifts,” speaks of what she calls ‘hard eucharistos,’ those difficult things for which we must learn to give thanks. This social distancing is a hard eucharistos for me, much more than I ever imagined it would be. But I am learning through it how critical it is to be aware of those who are isolated by age, infirmity, of distance, and to be part of the solution instead of part of the problem.