Say what?

Have you ever thought about why we say, or, rather, don't say, what needs to be said, or what we want to say? That is very clear, right? I am sure you already see where I am going with this. But, humor me. I am a little slow in translating and understanding my own thoughts.

For instance, my grandfather, my dad's dad, is still alive. My dad died 4 weeks ago, as of yesterday. He was 63 years old. My Grandpa is like, 200 years old, or maybe 95 years old. There was a great deal of discussion amongst the family about whether to tell my grandpa about my dad's death. He lives in a nursing home near my uncle, his son. Grandpa raised his family in Indianapolis, as did my dad. He moved to live near my uncle when my mom and dad moved to Florida, about 7 years ago. My dad visited my grandfather every day for years before he moved. They didn't talk much, but my dad always showed up. So, back to the dilemma.

When my dad died, the discussion about whether or not to tell his dad, my grandfather, was the only source of confusion or contention. I talked to my Aunt, my cousins, my sister, brothers, and my mom. The fear was that it might break my grandfather's heart. Or, maybe he wouldn't understand. Or, maybe he would forget. But, the point I most related to, sympathized with, was that he would have no response at all. Can you imagine? As a parent, I would want to know. I imagine I might feel it in the very depth of my soul if something happened to my child. No matter how old I become, I feel like I would recognize, sense, and feel the loss somewhere deep down inside of me.

But, what if I didn't. What if time, circumstances, ordeals, tragedies, dilemmas, disputes, heartbreak and brokenness kept me from feeling? What if those things didn't keep me from feeling, but rather made me incapable of responding or communicating the pain? Or, what if, the painful path of life made him unable to empathize with his two living children? Can you imagine? My aunt and uncle would have to tell their father that their brother, his son had passed away. Their own hearts broken, having seen their youngest brother wither before their eyes; they would stand before their father sharing the grief and loss of losing their brother. Seeking the love and compassion of their father, they may receive nothing, no response.

I am not sure my aunt, uncle, cousins, brothers, sister or mother thought about this point, this lack of response when they debated whether or not to tell my grandfather about the death of his son. I think we all thought about what my dad would want. He would not want to put his sister or brother, or his wife or children to have to share the news of his passing. He would not want his father to feel the pain in the depth of his soul of losing his child before he got to go to heaven to be with his wife. My dad would not want his father to know about his death. Right or wrong, we all knew this is where my father stood.

(I pause here to wonder if my dad would want to know if one of his children passed. That is the inner struggle I had with this decision. What kind of premise is set by deciding not to tell my grandfather about my dad's death? Does that not speak to lack of trust, confidence, and faith? Is the truth the truth, even when it is not spoken? Yes, my dad is gone. That is true, even if his dad doesn't know it. I can argue both sides with this statement. Whether or not my grandfather knew about my dad, the truth is the truth. My dad is gone. But, I didn't want any of my family to think it was ok to not share the truth. Even the painful, broken, and unspeakable truth of death is meant to be shared with family. I want my children to know they can tell me anything. I know...I know...they won't tell me everything. But, I don't want to set a presidence for not telling me the truth by modeling avoidance or denial. This will be out of my control, I am aware.)

My family decided not to tell my grandfather about my dad's passing. My uncle spoke fervently before and after my dad's death that his dad was not aware of all that was going on around him. Three weeks before my dad's death, my dad, his sister and brother, visited my grandfather. My grandfather seemed oblivious to the fact that my dad was sick, that he weighed slightly more than 90 pounds and could not stand up on his own. There was no question, no comment, no acknowledgement by my grandfather that his son was struggling to breathe. So, what good would telling him that his son died serve? The truth for the truth's sake seems hardly justifiable for provoking unnecessary suffering and pain. But, who would have suffered the pain?

I submit that the my aunt, uncle, mother, siblings, or myself would have suffered the greatest injustice. Not because my grandfather is cold, bitter, or unfeeling (though this may be very true and understandable realizing that he watched his wife suffer for years with alzheimers and then had to let her go and live the rest of his life without his love), but because all of us would have suffered the rejection of comfort and compassion in our moments of greatest pain. Again, I know that my grandfather is not to blame. He did the very best he could do in this long journey of his. He suffered and has admittedly given up living; wanting to go to be with his wife, my grandmother.

How many times do we, each and every one of us, refuse to speak the truth to those we love because we are afraid? I know I don't say all that I think or feel because I am afraid. But, what I am realizing is, I am not so much afraid of saying it, but afraid I may not be heard and responded to in such away that comforts or supports me in the way I need or want. As I write this, I wonder if it comes across as selfish as it seems to me coming off of my fingertips. It sounds so selfish to say that I have an expectation that somebody respond a certain way when I share information. But, in reality, that is where I am. Recently, I was asked to clarify my lack of effort or desire to do something. Today I realized why. The fear of not getting the response I expect or need keeps me from wanting to be vulnerable and open. Sharing the intimate feelings regarding love, death, fear, and joy implies risk. When we agree to risk something, we want to have some reassurance that there will be a comforting, accepting, and loving response from the recipient. Or, I suppose, there are times when we want a response of frustration, anger, or disgust, depending on what is shared. But, we want a response. Apathy is not the response we can easily accept when we risk being vulnerable.

So, when I considered the expectation for comfort, compassion, and nurture needed from my grandfather with the risk that my family would extend in sharing this sad news of my dad's loss, I understood why my dad, aunt, and uncle would not want to put themselves in this position. The facts are really very sad; not just for my family, but for all of us. We are a people afraid of risking our hearts because we have learned to quickly and painfully that our expectations can not always be met. But, my fear subsides when I realize that the truth is the truth, and that my Father knows each and every pain, risk, and expectation that each of His children have. We do not have to live in fear because we are human and fail one another on a regular basis. We can live with hope that reconciliation and joy awaits each of us who love Him and know the truth that He is fully capable, ultimately forgiving, and unimaginably generous.