The death of a friend

I’ve lost a lot of friends, comrades-in-arms, and acquaintances.  It was never easy to cope with, and sometimes it felt like the yawning, empty ache death leaves behind was about to overwhelm me.  (Not unlike a heart attack, in some ways:  I’ve now experienced the latter twice, so I think I have some basis for comparison.)

Over the weekend, a friend of mine lost a loved one, and turned to me for a shoulder to lean on.  Again, that’s something I’ve done a lot, as a pastor (now retired) and as a friend.  Living in a conflict zone, as I did for the best part of 20 years, makes it an all too familiar need, I’m sorry to say.

This time, I had something else to offer him besides what I normally say.  I’m a man of faith, and respond from that background:  but he isn’t, so it wouldn’t have been appropriate in his case.  However, eight years ago, a poster on Reddit named G. Snow wrote a response to a similar situation.  Here it is.

Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

I think I’ve never read a better modern secular response to death and dying and loss.  The comments from other readers at the link express similar sentiments, and are worth reading in their own right.

You might want to bookmark the link to this article (or that Reddit page), or print a copy of Mr. Snow’s words, in case of future need.



  1. Sorry for your friend's loss, Peter.

    The text you posted and the link are very comforting. I hope he finds comfort, too.

  2. Those are good word.

    The grief from the loss of loved ones, family, and friends is something I struggle with, and everyone who is a human being has to face if they live long enough.

    I extend my condolences to you and your good wife for your loss.

  3. The ignorant may aver that there is no life after death, but for the realized person there is indeed no life after death: with realization comes the awareness that the body mind complex is but an apparition and transient. Their apparent sentience is borrowed from the universal background consciousness, which is itself not apparent in the absence of objects and mechanisms (wetware, hardware) of awareness.

    The space inside a clay pot (pot space) and the space outside the pot (great space) do not have to travel or merge when the pot breaks. With realization one gives up identification with the finite body-mind complex. This appears to be and end to a separate and individual existence: an existence that only appeared to be. Indeed, the greatest obstacle to realization is the dread of such apparent annihilation, failing to recognize that one's only reality is the universal background consciousness.

    The Buddhist term "nirvana" mistranslated as"enlightenment" actually means "extinguishment".

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