Decades ago, I went grocery shopping after the funeral of a dear friend who had died much too young and way too swiftly. His tragic death left one of my closest friends without a partner and their young children without a father. Arriving home after the funeral, I was anxious, emotionally untethered, and in need of distraction. Grocery shopping seemed a safe option.
While at the store, I did a pretty good job of holding it together, stoically marking items off my list in the snack aisle while successfully keeping grief at bay. Then, two high school-aged girls passed by chatting excitedly about what they might wear to a dance that night.
“Shall I wear the pink or the yellow Abercrombie sweater?” one asked the other with an intensity that assumed world peace depended on her decision.
Something about the banality of the conversation hit a tender spot of irrational offense deep inside. My cart halted as if it had come up against a brick wall. My spirit cried out to God. Didn’t they know the world had changed that day? Children no longer had a father. My friend was a widow. The promising life of a young, vibrant man was over.
The trite conversation of two young girls lodged like a carnival clown in the middle of holy ground. They walked on, grabbing bags of Cheetos and Doritos as their voices faded.
An ache filled my throat as my lungs fought for the air my grief struggled to let in. Tears started to fall.
“God, I miss him. How can the world just go on? How?!”
Reality had shifted. Everyone, including self-focused adolescents, should stop to take notice. It was an absurd thought, and it was real.
Since that day, I have become more familiar with saying goodbye. I am getting to that age, I suppose. Memorial services for parents of childhood friends demand nearly as much time in church as Sunday morning services these days. In the last twelve months, I’ve embraced three close friends as they said goodbye to dear parents. I’ve said farewell to my own beloved sister and my precious dad. I tenderly held my much-loved, blind and toothless 17-year-old pup as he passed.
Here is what I have learned: whether watching a casket lid close over a beloved face, stroking the furry head of a dear pet as they drift off, or hugging your adult child before they climb into a car packed to the gills for a cross-country move; whether walking out from a long-term workplace for the last time or simply blowing kisses to a grandchild through the car window, goodbye is holy ground.
Goodbye is a place where God becomes most real because it is a place where love becomes most real.
After each goodbye, time stands still for a bit. It should. If we live long enough, we learn that the gossamer string that connects us is at the same time fragile and tenuous. While we count on its strength, we cannot control the influences this connection will encounter. We cannot guarantee that the string will be tenacious enough to hold us until the next time. We learn the precariousness of time. We learn the present moment is all we have for certain.
And so, each goodbye prompts a heart to become more unmasked to the treasure of connection. An ache fills our throat and we long to see, to be with, to laugh with, and to touch those we love once again. “God, I miss them already.”
I have learned to note when the ache arises. I have practiced hard resistance to the thieves of connection that sometimes accompany the ache—fear, worry, resentment. Instead, I have learned to invite gratitude into the ache. I invite you to do so as well. When the ache rises, smile if you can, and when you can. Notice the anger or disappointment if it’s there. Let tears fall when they come. Miss your beloved. Worship, if that is your practice. Take off your shoes. Remind yourself that ache of goodbye is holy ground.
And rejoice when you’re able, for this aching holy ground and the slow burn of longing that accompanies it reveals the most sacred of all gifts from a very present God. True love.
Jill English is an avid encourager of people and a lover of words. She is most at home out-of-doors, especially if the out-of-doors involves a beach. Her most magical moments happen as ‘Mimi’ while spending time with her well-loved grandchildren and her adult kids. Jill spends her workdays helping others discern vocational call through theological education. Her favorite conversations involve connecting the sacred dots of everyday life and faith. Jill lives in Grand Rapids, MI with two small, elderly pups.
This is beautiful, Jill. My hope and prayer when someone is grieving is that their sadness for what has been lost will eventually be transformed into gratitude for all that has been.
Thank you, Madeline. What a beautiful prayer for what God can do in the midst of sadness. I join you in it. Grateful for you.
Jill, tears are streaming down my face. I have felt this way for so long. I’m a young “53” and have learned that good-byes are Holy Ground. Last year I was diagnosed with Stage IV rare cancer. Had it been caught early it would not have metastasized to so many places, including my bones. I had said goodbye to a career in education years ago NOT knowing what was truly wrong with my health (mysteries!), I had said goodbye to two sons who joined the Air Force—just two days ago I met a classmate who had lost her son to an overdose (our oldest two were playmates as children). I’ve not said goodbye to my parents; although my 82 year old Father is an overcomer-he’s not in good health. I said goodbye to too many young people gone so young. Like you, why isn’t the world stopping to give honor? I feel like I’ve been living a long good-bye. I know this world is not my home. I got all my affairs in order and then…two weeks ago I found out that the National Cancer Institute has taken me …ME…(middle aged woman from MO?) and will do SURGERY to remove my largest tumors and extend my life. The miracles around me give me hope. I’ve always lived by faith. I feel hard. I love hard. Because of the grace I’ve been given by God, I give out grace like cookies. Your words hit my heart and soul—thank you for sharing your gift with us. Many blessings, Karla 💛
“Because of the grace I’ve been given by God, I give out grace like cookies.” This brought tears to my eyes (and also inspired me.) What a story you have to testify to the goodness of God. Thank you for sharing this with me/us. Please know that my prayers of gratitude and for the extension of your new miracle will follow you, K.L. May the days that lie ahead bring all that you hope for and then some. Many blessings to you,
Jill, thank you so much. It touches my heart my words inspired you, as yours do me. I appreciate and adore the prayers ~I’m so excited to share the miracles ahead. And even better ~the continued glorious glory of our Lord! I’m sending you hugs. I hope you feel them. 💕🙏🏻🤗
Thank you. Touched my soul. I understand the stone of grieving. Your story helped me realize it is the cornerstone for the place where grief resides – holy ground.
I’m grateful that these words found a helpful place with you. May God’s presence accompany you in your grief as you build upon that cornerstone.
Thank you, Jill. You have encapsulated the feelings of ‘don’t they know our world just stopped’? Years ago, when my mother died, I felt like the Victorian Age had it right: when someone died you wore black for a year and were excused from any and all social obligations. They recognized that, in many ways, you can’t fill the hole with being ‘okay’ and just soldiering on. If you have a chance, look up “Four Cabaret Songs for W.H.Auden. Funeral blues is especially apropos:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come……
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
for nothing now can ever come to any good.”
We do know that God wants us to prosper again, we just don’t know right now what that will look like. Every goodbye may be the last: I drove Alia to school on the Wednesday morning before she died on Saturday. Last thing I said to her was “love you, girl!”. That small spot of love brings some comfort.
Oh, Jan. There is loss, and then there is loss. I just listened to ‘Funeral Blues’ and the words are sadly brilliant in describing how it feels. Thank you so much for leaving your comment and for sharing the tender and bittersweet moment you had with your beautiful Alia. I am grateful for the love you shared and for the comfort this profound little interchange brings. I continue to hold you and your precious family before God, especially as you learn how to move forward and prosper. Much love to you all,
Dear Jill, I can always tell it’s you before I’m done reading the first paragraph. 😉 Your words and stories are consistently resonant, and I find myself connecting at a soul level with what you share. This piece is no exception. Grief is hard yet unavoidable, especially as we age. By the time my Grammy died at 99 and 3/4, she had said goodbye to countless loved ones. I don’t know how she endured it, truly. Perhaps she recognized, like you, that goodbyes are indeed holy ground in a broken world. May Jesus continue to meet you in your place of barefoot and longing.
Thank you very much for this post. You put into words what I felt when my father transitioned two years ago. Going through the airport and seeing families going on holiday and some people traveling for business meetings, I just did not understand how they could continue when I had lost my father. Now I recognize that goodbyes are indeed holy ground.