A Lot Like Anne

Steven Pinker, in his book How the Mind Works, makes this disturbing observation. “No one knows what, if anything, grief is for. Obviously the loss of a loved one is unpleasant, but why should it be devastating? Why the debilitating pain that stops people from eating, sleeping, resisting diseases, and getting on with life?” (How the Mind Works, page 420). Why, indeed? What is the point of all this misery? What, if anything gets accomplished through grieving processes?

Pinker lists some suggestions he has heard. For example these processes may be an enforced interlude for reassessment.” Grief may be a sort of prophylactic against future foolishness. Grieving, some have suggested to Pinker, “also gives people time to contemplate how a lapse of theirs may have allowed the death and how they might be more careful in the future.” Well, there’s a happy thought for me as I already wrestle with what I could have done to stave off Anne’s sudden and catastrophic death!

Pinker, fortunately, is not persuaded by this sadistic argument: “the pain of grief makes planning harder, not easier, and is too extreme and long-lasting to be useful as a strategy session.” Yes, I can testify to that.

The one argument Pinker finds even a little compelling is that grief is the other side of, the necessary shadow side of love. He calls it “an internal doomsday machine, pointless once it goes off, useful only as a deterrent” (page 421). He sees it as a necessary element of our emotional lives that keeps us focused on sustaining the existence of our loved ones lest we suffer this terrible fate. That seems less than compelling to me.

One of the things the pain of grief is for me is a demonstration and reminder of a great love. I give thanks for those reminders in the midst of my days. I went to the funeral home and paid the bills for Anne’s service and related items. On the one hand it was a simple business transaction—read the invoice, write the check, walk out with the receipt. I didn’t weep or sniffle during this activity. I did, however, feel a heaviness in my chest as I walked through the business. Even as I focused on the numbers and thought to myself, “Wow, I better move some money from savings,” my body reminded me of the great love and the great loss that made this whole business necessary. She was magnificent. She made my life complete. Now she’s gone, and I have the receipt to prove it. To love at all is to be vulnerable. To feel the cracks in one’s heart is to remember that love. While I felt that pain, I was also grateful for the reminder.

I find that the grieving reminds me not only of how much I loved Anne but also of how proud I was of her and how privileged I felt to have her in my life. The last Sunday in December 2010 I was worshiping with my brother and his family. The Scripture texts were for the Feast of the Holy Innocents, the first martyrs for the sake of Jesus. The pastor quoted a story from Tony Campolo that I have heard Campolo share a number of times. John was a recovering alcoholic who used his new life to serve others in a rescue mission. He was known for his compassion and unselfish service. During the mandatory altar call before he could get some soup, one of the homeless men came forward to pray. As he knelt at the rail, he prayed, “Maybe I could be more like John.” The pastor leaned over and said, “Don’t you mean, ‘More like Jesus’?” The homeless man was surprised. “Oh, does this Jesus fellow look a lot like John?”

I love that story. When I heard it, I began to weep. I suddenly thought about how my dearest Annie would have fit the story. Many might have said, “Oh, does this Jesus fellow look at lot like Anne?” In my view, the answer is a resounding yes. The tears I offered were tears of gratitude more than tears of grief at that point. But it was the loss of Anne that opened me to such an experience of joy in her life and ministry.