Lingering grief is like a beautiful fragrance, or a stinging stench, memories will linger for years. The intensity is determined by allowing yourself to express your feelings now in order to heal. Grief may be triggered by a song, an object, or flavor, and that is normal. Even sixty years from now. It’s a bittersweet grief that has healed over time and tenderly reminds us of the deep love that endures and is treasured.

In the wake of several infant deaths, we at Locke did our best to care for their mothers and fathers: “What do you write to someone who lost a baby?” I scribbled in my journal, hoping for an answer. Suddenly I was writing a letter to the parents:

Dear Ones, there is nothing I can write. Nothing I can say to you. Except to tell you I am here, and I care. And I am so sorry. You are grieving the loss of a child, and I am at a loss for words. Perhaps that is a blessing, for so many say trite phrases meaning well, but they shoot straight into your heart.

I talked to my mother last week. She is now 91. And I asked her about Martin, the child she carried over sixty years ago with no complications. The son she delivered after full term. The son she held only once. The son who died the next day. Martin Lindley. His name blends the names Austin and Margaret Lindley, his parents.

I was only a child myself, five years old. My sister Teri was three. But I can vividly remember Mom returning from the hospital with empty arms. I can remember her crying. I can remember nothing of my father’s grief as he poured himself into teaching and tutoring at the high school. I cannot know or understand all they felt for I am very sure they hid most of it from us.

Many years later, the whole family gathered for her birthday. The younger sisters never “knew” Martin. They never patted Mommy’s tummy, anticipating their little brother. They never stood at the bedroom door, helplessly watching her sob. They never listened to Mom’s resignation as she tried to comfort herself and us with the belief that Martin was in heaven, and one day she would see him again. They only knew our family without him. But for Mom, Martin was never far away. The memory of him lingered. It still does six decades later.

Mom enjoyed her party, surrounded by her daughters and grandchildren who plied her with questions about her life as a social worker, teacher, massage therapist and world traveler. She entertained us with inspiring and funny stories to the delight of all. She lived through many sorrows, mistakes, and hard things in life along the way. None of her life is suppressed or repressed – but she moved forward through several losses one step at a time, all those decades. She had to.

She had to. She had a home, a husband, children. There were meals to cook, a house to clean, gardens to tend, cakes and cookies to bake, clothes to sew, weight to lose, hands to pray, books to read, daughters to encourage, friends and family to laugh and cry with. A life to live.

“Do you ever think of Martin?” I asked during a recent phone call.

“Every day,” Mom answered. Mom now lives in Assisted Living. She’s survived miscarriages, surgeries, and mini strokes. She fights cancer. The chemo treatments take a toll, but she’s determined and uses her walker. The days seem long.

She anticipates Heaven. Not a death wish, but a clear anticipation of her ultimate destination. Perhaps Jesus will be there with the promised “Well done good and faithful servant.” Mom will relish that. But to tell you the truth? I think she’ll be looking over his shoulder, sorting through the loved ones gathered to welcome her home. Then she’ll find my dad. A smile will pass between them as she sees him holding the hand of their son, her Martin.

And Jesus? He will be forgotten (sorry Jesus) as she runs over to Martin, bear hugs him, delighted in knowing they will have eternity to laugh, sing, talk, listen, and love.

He will know her. She will know him. A son. A mother. Reunited.

You are moving forward with your grief. Talk to trusted friends, even years later. Pull out the pictures and videos; tell their story, your story. Today may you treasure the lingering memories of your loved one, young or old, with the hope of one day being reunited. If you are still struggling, I am glad to help you on your journey.  Please feel free to call me at 319-233-6138.