Embracing a Life of Grief

What a life full of funerals really indicates

I will always welcome rain at a funeral.

We sat around in my uncle’s kitchen the day after Jup died, and at times you would have known you were in a group of mourners. We cried, we wept, we tried not to get snot on each other’s shoulders as we embraced. There were a lot of tears.

But there were other things, too, surprising things for those of us who haven’t spent a lot of time in the company of grief. Laughter, for example. We laughed a lot, remembering funny things Jup said or did. Or even things completely unrelated to him. We laughed much more than I expected, and when we laughed some of us looked awkwardly at each other, as if checking to see if it was allowed.

We also spent a lot of time remembering, or trying to remember.

“Now, Nicki, what year did your mom die?”

“What year did Justin and Cindy get married?”

“What was your grandpa like on your mom’s side?”

And we looked at pictures, trying to figure out who was who, something that can be a bit of a challenge when the people in the photos are 40 or 50 or 60 years older.

Names! We tried to remember the names of grandfathers and grandmothers, great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, lost uncles and the children of cousins twice-removed.

Stories! We retold stories I’ve heard literally fifty times, stories of accidents and near-misses, stories of victories and disappointments. Stories we all knew couldn’t possibly have happened, at least not in the way we keep telling them, and yet there was something about the retelling of these family stories that reinforced who we were, reinforced our existence and our common love for Jup.

And then we cried again.

There are 31 cousins on the two sides of my family, probably around 50 if we count the spouses they’ve married. There are 20 aunts and uncles, with their spouses. This means that in the next 40 years, if I am blessed to live that long, I will be going to a lot of funerals.

A lot.

This is not meant to be depressing—this is simply a fact of life for those of us who do the stubborn work of continuing to live, despite what sometimes feels like the world’s best intentions otherwise.

At first the thought was overwhelming, though, as I talked with one of my cousins on the phone. He turns 50 this year, and after he pointed out how many funerals we have in our future, the two of us sat there on the phone quietly, not saying anything.

“I don’t know if I can do it, man,” he said.

After the call, I continued thinking about this coming tidal wave of grief, all the sadness in store for my family. But then a thought came through my mind…would I want the opposite? Would I want a life where I cared for no one, knew no one, remained isolated from love so that I wouldn't ever have to lose someone dear to me?

My mind began to shift. A life full of funerals is the natural result of a life of love and friendship. Maybe I need to sidle up alongside grief and welcome it as a companion on this journey for the second half of my life, because its presence is actually an indicator of a life full of good things and wonderful people and cherished memories.

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