Grief's Ambassador

My siblings like to joke that we "win" when it comes to personal narratives, stories, or experiences. Teachers shed more than a few tears at our stories about losing our dad. We've even had classmates complaint that there's no way anything they come up with could ever compare to what we have. And that's true, to a point. One of my professors asked for a short essay, personal narrative style, that had a distinct theme and point. This is what I  submitted. 

It was always an honor to bring a guest to Sunday school. Guests give a person an air of notoriety, and provide first pickings of the doughnut pile. Yes, Sunday school guests were a treat. That particular Sunday my siblings and I each had several guests to showcase, introduce, and use for selective placing in the doughnut line; it was grand. We needn't have worried, though, no teacher would have dared make us wait, or answer any questions. The younger ones had a grand time, as children always do. They paid no attention to the pale, worried faces of the teachers that were simultaneously oozing with sympathy, and their classmates were too young to understand.

 Unfortunately, as a sophomore in high school, my Sunday school classmates understood. I felt the room hush as I walked in with my entourage of cousins. The adult leaders searched my face, allowing me to take the lead. It was oddly liberating and I had to choke back a slight smile. My heels clicked against the gym floor, and I was keenly aware that I was dressed far too formally for a high school Sunday school in California. My chilled, goose bump-covered legs reminded me that I had won the nylon war with my grandmother that morning. For that, I was thankful. The ever-fantastic refreshment table that morning superseded the church’s typical generous offering.  Steaming platters of aluminum foil held the promise of delicious breakfast burritos. An array of artfully-frosted cupcakes spelled out “Happy 16^th Birthday, Susie” and I heard the wrestlers mumble something about “Susie, birthday, cool”. A wave of adolescent triumph washed over me at the sound of my name being uttered by the cool boys. But of course, everyone would be saying my name today. The female leader tending the refreshment table looked at me painfully, unsure how to arrange her eyes and mouth. A week before, I wouldn’t have known what expression to convey, either. I was the expert now.  I did what I had been doing for the past six day, what I had immediately learned was necessary—I comforted her. “They’re so lovely”, I said softly and wrapped my arms around her in a hug. I’d learned the hug mechanism the second day. Everyone was so overwhelmed by the happening, uncomfortable around me, and afraid of hurting me. I had to show them it was alright; I was alright.

 I led my posse of cousins into the male-populated section of the half circle of folding chairs. No one would question me today, and I had spent two years looking wistfully at this side of the room. The gym quickly filled with high school students, and much to my surprise, most the girls sat in the seats behind me. They sat quietly, not giggling or gossiping—not looking at me either—but sat behind me in feminine solidarity. My younger brother glanced at me from across the room, the male cousins sitting alongside him. I jerked my chin and gave him a quick smile.  “It’ll be fine”, my eyes promised. The normally energetic and vicarious youth pastor walked slowly to the front. His once smiling face was solemn, and his eyes were heavy. Twenty years of coaching and teaching still hadn’t prepared him for his next duty. He glanced around, landing on my face and my brother’s. He saw our faces, comforting, serene, and hiding the pain. “Guys, many of you have probably heard, but for those of you who haven’t—Susie and Ben lost their dad this week.” The pastor’s relief at saying that painful sentence was palpable. Immediately, whispers abounded from the oblivious male section of the room, and I felt the warm hand of an acquaintance on my shoulder.  Everyone, adult and teenager, looked to see if my brother and I were combust into tears at the news. We didn’t, of course. Instead, we kept our neutral faces for the group, and occasionally gave those closest to us slight smiles.

Although we were the ones who had suddenly lost a parent, it was our job to remain calm, and reassure those who were confounded by our loss. Once everyone was assured of our emotional stasis, Sunday school resumed with the typical joking, laughter, and teaching. I left the gym, as I had arrived, head held high, heels clacking, entourage behind me, expression glued into place. And then I broke. I let out a laugh. Something one of my cousins said amused me, and I allowed golden laughter to fill the church parking lot. A few adults scowled at me—until I noticed—and then scowls were quickly replaced with awkward expressions. I forgave them their scowls. Never mind that my sixteenth birthday had been the day before. Never mind that I was young, beautiful, and alive. Never mind that I had to view my dead father’s body that afternoon. Never mind that I was standing outside the church where my father’s funeral would be held. I was not to laugh or cry. My job, as a newly half-orphaned child, was to project calm, gentle emotions to the world. At a day past sixteen, I knew one of those oddest, cruelest axioms of the human experience. Humans struggle with understanding and dealing with other’s grief. Grief is undefinable unless it’s being lived, but so powerful, that those not affected are crushed by its weight. As someone who had just lost a father, I was grief’s ambassador to the rest of the world. It fell to me to show the world that one could survive it, and comfort those who feared it.  Death cannot be mourned unless life is lived. I grieved every minute that Sunday, but as I grieved, I  lived. And as I lived, I comforted those around me.