Over the last decade or so (probably longer . . . time doesn’t mean much anymore), I’ve begun to notice a trend. The hurry up and wait trend. It seems we’re constantly in a hurry to finish what we’ve started so we can start something else, to get to where we’re going so we can get back to where we were . . . to move on from the moment at hand with as much haste as humanly possible. Unless we’re scrolling on our phone. (Kindly insert the eye roll emoji here.) And because of that need for speed, we attempt to forcibly rush things that simply refuse to be rushed.
Of course, you know I’m going to apply this to the grieving process. I mean, that’s kinda what I do. In my world, for so very long, everything in Life revolved around Death. Forty-five years of experience can teach you a lot, if you pay attention. And that doesn’t count all the years of supper table conversations with my father the funeral director before I was required to function as an adult. One thing I learned in all those years was that if you don’t deal with Grief, Grief will deal with you. And here I need to insert a disclaimer. That saying didn’t originate with me and I’ve yet to find from whence it did, but truer words have never been spoken. Or, in this instance, typed.
When we aren’t willing to take the time to grieve . . . to properly honor those we’ve lost . . . there’s always a price to pay. Everyone is affected by loss, whether or not they admit it. Some will try to bury that loss in the darkest recesses of their mind—along with the memories they struggle to forget because they hurt too much. The sad truth is you can’t will it into oblivion. You can’t banish it from your life. Grief will always be there, lurking just below the surface, waiting for just the right moment . . .
The good news is, when you deal with Grief you take away a lot of its power. Is it painful? Yes. Will it last forever? Yes. But does it change and grow softer with the passage of time? Also, yes.
I bee-bopped into Williams Engineering last week, more focused on getting into the building than on my surroundings. When I’m on a mission I tend to have a one-track mind. And blinders. But when I came back out and stepped off the curb into the parking lot, something a tad unusual caught my eye.
It was a flower. A lovely little purple petunia that looked remarkably like those someone had planted in the urns to either side of the door. Only this little guy had gone rogue and sprouted from the tiniest crack between the curb and the asphalt. And despite the drought conditions at the time (unless someone was actually watering it), it had managed to thrive and become a beautiful flower. I don’t know how long that seed had lain dormant, waiting for the right time to grow and blossom into what it was always meant to be. But what I do know is this. No one tried to cover it up. No one tried to make it go away when it finally made its presence known. It began in darkness . . . and grew toward the light.
We can do the same; we just have to be willing to take the time. Time to honor those we’ve lost. Time to treasure the memories we made together. Time to grieve.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
