Six weeks ago I went to pick snowdrops. It was early for snowdrops but we 
knew a little valley where thousands grew and we hoped we would find enough early buds open. My father had phoned me a few mornings before at the start of a normal working day. Unsuspecting I had listened as he broke the news that my mother had suddenly died in the night, and later that day we had opened her Will to find that she only wanted wild flowers on her coffin. It was the end of January and the countryside was bleak and grey. Then my father remembered with a gasp that there might be the white hope of snowdrops and the relief gave way to more tears.
Since then, it feels like the world has begun to fall apart and death has become the narrative of our times. The demise of thousands is broadcast, lives that also have come to an untimely and sudden end. And I find myself thinking so much about their families, left with the chasm in their hearts that unexpected loss leaves. Because for so many of them the circumstances still rage; warfare, tremors, radiation, intimidation. My grief was cushioned by family, friends, visits to precious places, old photos and quiet retreat behind drawn curtains. And then there was the service of thanksgiving, a peaceful ceremony where we told stories of love. How do you go on, how do you manage when grief is constantly jarred by gunfire, invaded by strangers, bruised by the cold, starved of food or stoked with fear? Tragic loss taunted by ongoing tragedy. It’s nothing new, but I hadn’t thought about it before.
You do go on. Life continues while you numbly walk, going through the daily necessary motions of eating, working, sleeping or trying to. People walk by and you want to shout ‘Don’t you know? Don’t you understand? My life will never be the same again!’ But what if you are not free to walk or shout? What if along with the life, the mementoes and tokens, the income or dwelling of that life have gone as well? How much more painful is the grief?
I watch the News and as it brings to life the present of course, it has to be new. But I find myself thinking of the recent past and the devastated lives that have loved and lost in such heartbreaking circumstances, countries devastated for different reasons. My loss means I can empathise with some of their misery in a way that I hadn’t before. I watch the TV and hope for peace that will not only allow restoration to begin but will give the bereaved the room to grieve. My grieving goes on. But today would have been my mother’s birthday and we are celebrating her life with a tea party for neighbours while she, I am sure, sings with the angels!
