Tag Archives: death

Today is Julian’s 14th Angelversary. A week from now would have been his 18th birthday, and just a few days after that is his brother’s 21st birthday. This would have been a big milestone year for our household.

Our older son Oscar was just turning seven when his brother died. He always loved sports and video games, and could turn almost anything into a competition. He and Julian had shared a bedroom, so it took a little time for Oscar to get used to sleeping alone.

One night I was tucking him in and checking in with him about how he was doing without his brother. I always tried to keep my expectations low as far as communication went, considering I was talking to a seven-year-old boy, but this night his answer was more wise than most adults. He said:

“I think life is like a video game. We get lots of chances to pass a level, and then when we do, we Level Up. Julian just up-leveled before we did. We’ll see him again.”

Today, that feels exactly right. I agree with Oscar’s point of view. Life is indeed like a video game. We face challenges, we stumble, we celebrate, we gain and lose points as we go. There are many ways to pass each level. And when we do, we bring our knowledge and other resources with us as we ascend to the next Level.

Julian isn’t gone, he just upleveled faster than us. We WILL see him again.

Today is Julian’s 13th Angelversary. Does that make me an expert on grief? Sometimes it sure feels like it. But if you asked me to summarize my experience of grief and what’s important about moving forward after loss, I’d point you to the work of contemporary Scottish poet Donna Ashworth.

Her latest book Wild Hope (buy it!) includes many poems that touch on the painful and hopeful sides of loss, but this one is my favorite. In just one paragraph, she captures so many of the key things I’ve learned about grief in these 13 years:

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LOVE CAME FIRST by Donna Ashworth

You don’t move on after loss, but you must move with. You must shake hands with grief, welcome her in, for she lives with you now. Pull her a chair at the table and offer her comfort. She is not the monster you first thought her to be. She is love. And she will walk with you now, stay with you now, peacefully. If you let her. And on the days when your anger is high, remember why she came, remember who she represents. Remember. Grief came to you, my friend, because love came first. Love came first.

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Sometimes, we need a poet to tell us something as counterintuitive as, “You must shake hands with grief, welcome her in, for she lives with you now. Pull her a chair at the table and offer her comfort.”

We read that, and we want to resist! We think, surely the poet isn’t talking to us, the bereaved? Wait… we’re being asked to offer comfort to our grief?” Yes, says the poet. Yes, says the 13-year-bereaved mom.

Yes, that is what we must do. Not because grief needs our comfort, but because we need to stop fighting it in order to heal. We must acknowledge that grief lives with us now. We can dwell in our sadness, or we can move forward with this loss into a hopeful future. We can wallow in what’s lost, or we can celebrate the love we had.

Sometimes, we need a poet to help us remember what’s most important: we feel grief because we first felt LOVE. “Grief came to you, my friend, because love came first. Love came first.”