Bless his soul

Grief is universal

“Can I have a few minutes with her, alone?” I asked.

My mom was in tears. Of course she was. But she nodded and left the room. And as I sat next to my grandmother—my Granny, one of the dearest souls in my life—I put a hand on her forehead and I prayed for her healing. I prayed that God would remove the illness from her body. I prayed that she would open her eyes and look up at me and smile.

She’d gone into a coma after a treatment for Leukemia. All of us in the family rushed to the hospital to see her again. I’d only just been there the day before, and she’d been sitting up in her bed, talking to everyone. When I left, I looked back, and I saw... something. A look in her eyes. A message.

I knew that was the last time. I knew I was leaving and that was goodbye. I didn’t want to know it. But I knew.

Granny and I had a bond. We were alike, in a lot of ways. She supported me and my writing—the very first to do so. And she somehow understood who I was, even when everyone else wondered what I was thinking most of the time.

There in that hospital room, my hand on her forehead, my prayers said through tears and fear and worry, I remembered the goodbye. Not a word spoken. The look said it all.

That evening she was gone. I got the call from my uncle. And I fell to the floor, wailing in grief.

Years later, I’m married. Kara and I each brought a cat into the marriage. Mine was little Mia, my “little girl.” I’d had her for fifteen years by that point. Raised her from a tiny black kitten who had spat and hissed in a tiny voice from the first second I picked her up. She was a fighter.

That night, she kept wandering into cool, dark places. I kept bringing her back to bed. I wanted her with me, like she always was. But then she dropped from the bed and wandered down the hall.

I went to her, found her, put her in my lap. I prayed then, too. Cried. Felt fear and worry. And then, she died in my lap. I watched her go. I wailed like I had lost a child, because I had. She was dear to me. She was of me, just like my Granny had been.

These were hardly the only two deaths I’ve dealt with in my life, but they were easily two of the most painful. Two that scarred me, clung to me, changed me. They still come to me. I still feel them, even after decades. Sometimes I get reminders.

Today, randomly, I came across a video of a koala. He was sitting on the ground next to the body of his female companion. She had just passed. The male sat with his forepaws on her side. He tilted his head upward. And then he leaned forward and laid his body on top of hers. And it broke my heart to see his heart broken.

Grief is universal.

Grief jumps the boundaries of race, culture, even species.

I cried when I saw the scene, because I knew what that little koala was feeling. I knew that he was experiencing a rift and rending of his soul. He might not have the language to describe it, but I do. And my language isn’t enough.

So he and I share something that is beyond language. And you share it, too.

You’ve lost people you love. You’ve felt it. There is the moment when the grief is so strong, it feels like you’ll die with them. You’ll join them. And you want to. You  would give anything to have them back, or to go with them.

But you stay.

I stayed.

Our grief is a bond between us.

I know that some don’t agree with me on this, but I am one who believes that all living things possess a soul. I also believe that somehow, in some way, all our souls are part of a greater whole. I believe God breathed life into all of us, and that breath is himself. So when one of us grieves, we are mourning the loss of a part of ourselves. And so all of us should look at grief and bless the soul.

I prayed to bless the soul of that little koala.

I pray to bless your soul, too.

Grief passes. But it takes some part of us with it. So that one we loved so dearly may no longer be here with us, but we are certainly and always with them.

A Note at the End

I refuse to watch movies where animals are hurt. I’ve been this way all my life. I’ve managed to avoid some true classics because of this. I haven’t even seen “John Wick.” But... I just can’t.

I don’t know why it bothers me so much. There’s this innocence to animals that makes the whole thing break my heart in a profound way. I feel it toward humans, too, but I’ll confess it’s not always as immediate or as poignant. The plight of humans doesn’t move me like it should, and I feel ashamed for that. I want to change it.

I do care. I do hurt and feel mournful. But I want to feel that empathy immediately and completely, automatically. I want to improve on that.

Do you feel like that? Is it easier to feel sad about the hurt or death of an animal than that of a human being? What do you make of that? And how do we overcome it?

God is the only way, as always. That’s my answer. What’s yours?