A grief remembered

I've just returned from attending Trevor's funeral. I deliberately chose not to attend the viewing of the body in his home because I knew I wouldn't manage it very well. I was feeling fine as I sat in the pew, until the casket was wheeled in. Then the grief hit me full force.

My first thought was 'my God, he's in that box'. My second thought was 'just like Zoe was in hers', upon which I started crying.

I remember carrying her tiny coffin into the church. I was so blinded by tears I could barely see where to walk.

I stood in the pew and watched Trevor's mother enter behind his casket, supported by her mother (I presume) and sister (again, I presume). I watched this poor, broken woman and my heart broke afresh. I know her pain. I know the hell she is in now. I also know that there is nothing I can say or do that will make it any better for her.

It struck me that his little sister won't remember him - she's only about 3yrs old. While I know that Nellie doesn't remember Zoe actively, I know that she understands, and we still talk about her often - how we wish she were still with us, how we miss her, how we know we'll see her again one day. But Nathan doesn't know any of that yet. I know he doesn't understand. I don't know how to tell him, or when. I guess I'm hoping that as Nellie and I talk about it he will just imbibe the knowledge by diffusion.

I remember sitting in the church, listening to Stephen preaching. I don't remember a word he said. I remember thinking that his words were beautiful, and comforting, but I don't remember a word. I hope Thelma can remember the sermon today - it was perfect. It said all the things that needed to be said, without minimising the tragedy or the grief, but equally without softening the truth in any way.

This grief never leaves you. The pain and suffering never end. You just learn to live around it, or to ignore it for a while. But it never leaves. Give it half a chance, dwell on it for a moment too long, and it's almost as fresh as the day it first entered your life.

I don't know whether I was crying for Trevor, for Thelma, or for myself and Zoe, or both. There were times when I wanted to moan - I know those were mostly for myself and Zoe, but I also know that part of what I was experiencing was a sharing in Thelma's grief. I know her heart continues to break, and I know both the feel and the sound of that tearing of the soul.

In that regard, the preacher was also spot on. He didn't offer platitudes. (Thank God for small mercies! I think I might have had to leave the church to throw up if he had!) He didn't offer false comfort. What he did say, though, is that NOTHING can ever snatch us out of God's hands. That doesn't mean God makes us immune to suffering. Instead, it means that we are never alone, we never die alone, and that God is with us through and in our suffering.

In all likelihood, Trevor died in pain - both from his stab wounds and possibly from being suffocated as he lay bleeding to death. Yet, he did not die alone. He was held in God's hand through it all, and God took him away to a place where there is no more pain, or suffering, or crying. I was oddly comforted by that.

It struck me that although I wasn't aware of exactly when Zoe died, she didn't die unnoticed. God was with her, and God knows the exact moment she crossed over from this life into the next. My baby girl has never known loneliness, because she has always been surrounded by God's hands and his love.

As horrible as Trevor's death was, we do not grieve as those with no hope. He is in a better place now, and we will see him again. I will see my precious Zoe again. Till that day, I know that they are both in a place of peace and love and joy. That is the comfort that God brings.