Letters to the Departed

Just last month, I wrote a letter to my best friend, Christina, and tucked it into the casket where her body lay. Along with mine were several others, from her nieces and nephew, some with pictures and kisses. It seems I wasn't alone wanting to write her one last missive. Yet it wasn't the first time I had written a letter to someone I loved who had died, and I'm sure it won't be the last.

I first did this with my dad, when he passed in 2006. He was buried the next day, with a letter of mine tucked into his jacket pocket. It was a turning point for me, not simply because it was the first time I'd left a letter this way, but because it was the first time I truly knew how to grieve...how to begin healing from the stunned silence that has typically marked the realization that a loved one has died, all the way to the acceptance to seeps slowly in over time, bringing peace to mingle with the pain of loss.

In years past, I never really knew how to grieve. I'd always thought I was given one day to cry, and then it was time to move on. When he was alive, my father especially demonstrated this. He cried maybe once or twice in front of us when my mother was ill, and dying. After her death, he went stoically right back to work every day, sometimes 16 hours, drowning himself in a job he resented. But the pain of his unresolved grief and regret sapped his strength, bringing him to his last days much sooner than he would have if he had truly dealt with them.

Grieving Christina's death has been much different, and I suppose in a way my father's passing helped me learn to have the kind of healthy grief that has made that possible. It was the first time I had encountered people who encouraged me to face the possibility of his death before the fact, and who let me cry openly. The floodgates had opened, so when I heard of Christina's passing, I was able to feel the pain immediately, even though her death came as a horrific, unexpected shock.

When the impact faded in the weeks after her service, I was left with an amazing realization. Christina had walked with me through the good times and the bad, loving me and being a friend no matter what. She showed me what true friendship was in everything she did. Even in her passing, she left me a gift: the love that I couldn't seem to feel from others, no matter how hard I tried, finally began to "stick." Childhood development experts would probably say that I had never internalized love. Christina, my friend, did even in her death, what (for reasons I can't completely understand) no one else had been able to do: make me feel truly loved. And I have the hopeful expectation that I will someday see her again and be able to tell her everything on my heart, and how much she meant to me, in a way that a letter could never do.

So, just today, I got the news that another friend has passed. Young, beautiful, intelligent, and passionate. Another beautiful soul, and I can hardly believe it. My mind is still reeling from the news, as I'm sure others are. Loved by so many, and missed...

I'm thinking that I'm not done writing letters to the departed. God willing, and if appropriate, mine will be tucked into Lyndsey's casket, to go with the temple that held her spirit. I don't think mine will be the only one. I'm not entirely sure why I write these letters, but I can hope she will hear from heaven, and know just how beautiful she is, and how much she is loved, until we can tell her face-to-face.