What’s it like now—over 2 years on from Sam’s death?

Today we are 2 years 3 months and a bunch of days away from the day it all happened. So there is nothing significant about this particular day. 

It’s just one of many that have passed and I have been aware of a gradual shift in how I perceive things and respond. 

There are moments when the reality of our loss runs thru my entire being like a high voltage spike and everything in me feels like it is about to explode. These moments don’t last long at all – maybe 2-3 seconds or thereabouts. 

It’s like my brain then yells, ‘unfixable – move on!’ I realise that’s sharp and blunt, but it feels like that. I can enjoy memories of Sam as they appear from time to time, but anything that catapults me back to March 24 has my heart and mind light up like a pinball machine, shortly before ‘tilt’ appears and the whole experience quickly shorts out.

I get the sense that because I can’t do anything to fix things, or restore him it is easier to think about something else. And it seems that is what happens. I touch the hotplate only to withdraw my hand and then distract myself with something else. 

I don’t know if that is healthy or unhealthy, but it seems to be my practice.

There are times I choose to sit in the sheer darkness of it and to remember the loss, but that really does feel like pulling out your own hair. I don’t want to avoid the horror, but neither do I want to sit in pain that I simply can’t do anything about.

‘Missing him’ is a little different too. There is still the simple missing him from our family – knowing we are one short every time we go somewhere and his presence was always large and loud. There is the missing who he would be now – a qualified physiotherapist, possibly married… so many possibilities that we will never see eventuate. 

I shared some of our journey through this at a men’s camp a couple of weekends back. I hadn’t spoken about him much in that kind of space, so while it ‘went well’, in the sense that it connected, I was very aware of a ‘grief hangover’ the next day. 

If I have learnt anything over this time (and there has been more than one thing), it’s that everyone is carrying something – or going thru some kind of pain – and if they aren’t yet, then it will come. It’s just how life is. And we need ways of processing intense, deep, searing pain. We need to learn how to enter these times with both courage and hope – because these are the marks of a Jesus follower.

Perhaps this is the biggest thing grief has changed in me. I no longer assume suffering belongs to other people. I know now that every one of us lives much closer to catastrophe than we’d like to admit.

Just a few days ago I heard that a surfer/pastor friend, Andy Pitt had died from motor neurone disease. Having watched a brother in law battle this for 9 years, Andy’s 9 months felt incredibly fast. I consciously said ‘goodbye’ to him at the Christian Surfers national gathering in April and it was deeply sad. He was going fast, so it was no surprise to hear the news last week. And yet again, such a good man gone too soon and another family forced into the contortions of grief. 

As I spoke with him during the camp, we discussed the question, ‘why me?’ It was a question people had posed to Andy – why you? It wasn’t a question he posed himself so much, in fact his response to that question was ‘why not me?’ That might sound harsh, but Andy was really acknowledging that in a broken world we are all fair game – no matter how connected to God we are, there are no guarantees – none whatsoever. And as I observed his journey from afar and heard stories from those who were close to him, it seems Andy faced death with all the sadness and sorrow you would expect, but also with the hope and courage that comes from a deep knowledge of who God is and what is to come.

Sam loved Andy ‘Putt’ as he called him, often imitating his Saffa accent. So while I am unsure of exactly ‘what happens next’, I imagine there could be a few laughs happening in ‘heaven’ if they manage to catch up.

It sounds kind of depressing to say ‘if you don’t have pain or suffering yet – don’t worry you will.’ But it’s also reality and it’s worth being prepared. Your son may die, your dad may get MND, your marriage may fail or your business may go bankrupt… But the reality is that pain is coming your way. The other reality is that it doesn’t have to take you out.

I haven’t intentionally formed any strategies for dealing with grief. I have just tried to be myself at each point of the journey and allow it to do whatever it’s going to do – much like getting ragdolled by a massive wave. 

But even in surviving that kind of flogging there is some preparation – the physical and mental training to be able to absorb the hits and rise to the surface again. For me that has taken the form of simply living close to Jesus for long enough that I know a) this isn’t his doing b) he walks with me in the darkness and I will survive. And while it wasn’t conscious preparation for this exact experience – it was just the stuff that was needed to hold fast in the face of the storm.

So, you can take the worst that is thrown at you and you can stand strong during the assault, but it starts by being ready. Being ‘ready’ acknowledges that we are all part of a broken world but it also means we do what we can to become the sort of people who, when suffering arrives, have deep enough roots to remain standing.

Even if you’ve prepared, you’re still never quite ready for actual impact. We have this inbuilt hope and expectation that we will dodge the bullets of life – that we will be the exceptions – so it inevitably catches us off-guard. 

You won’t be the exception.

Consider this your ‘heads up’ that life is coming for you in some shape or form, so be ready, but also be courageous and be hopeful.