Checklists and grief

On February 22, 2023, my mom’s tax refund from 2020 arrived in the mail. As I looked at the check, which by the way, included interest (thank you), I felt my frustration with the system begin to dissipate and give way to something else. Something a little harder to define, but more informative, or maybe more formative.

I imagined those IRS employees over the course of two whole years examining my mom’s return, scrutinizing numbers and columns and decimal points, checking boxes, and shuffling her file from one cluttered inbox to another, working down their checklists meticulously. I’m a list maker, too. I love those little notepads with boxes printed on them ready to be checked off when the task is complete. Checklists can make even something as simple as making the bed feel satisfying. After my mom passed away, I found myself—as usual—making lists. Plan some kind of simple family memorial (she passed during covid)—check. Sort through her things and clean out her apartment—check. Arrange for donation pick up, write a eulogy, pick up her ashes, cancel subscriptions, close her bank account—check, check, and check. A pretty standard list of tasks to be completed when a loved one passes. But I discovered I also had another list. One I did not have a physical check list for, but a very real list, nonetheless. I had carried my to-do mentality over to my grief process. After I clean out her apartment I can sit down and rest and reflect on her life. When the “business” side of things is complete I can properly grieve her passing. When all those responsibilities and tasks are behind me, I will finish this process of mourning her death and honoring her memory and I will cry and I will smile and I will carry on.

My mom left this earth almost two years after my dad. In some ways, I feel their loss as one long sadness. One long goodbye, leaving me the last one in my original family—a position I was unprepared for. Even though I had been through the loss of a parent not even two years prior, her loss had a more pronounced period on it. The finale.

So, that refund check staring me in the face was the last thing on my list, not just for my mom, but for the whole parental grieving process. They are both gone. My role as caregiver is complete. My responsibilities wrapped up. I can file the papers away in a box in the basement. The last task complete. Check.

But I don’t feel like I think I should. My heart still senses the rustle of paper lists with gaps and blanks, words unsaid, thoughts unformed, feelings unfelt. So, I ask God, why is this?

In the two years following my mom’s death I embarked on a journey of growth and learning and trained to become a spiritual director. (You can explore this process here if you like.) The timing of this opportunity was such a gift, the riches of which would never fit onto one page, and I am inadequate to describe even if they would. But I will share with you three words that took on new meaning for me as they pertain to my life and well-being: invitation, permission, space.

I’ve always known God to be a God of love and grace and mercy. But at the same time, I knew him as a God of rules and regulations, dos and don’ts. I regarded Scripture as a playbook for life, a way to know what to do and how to do it. This way of thinking about God and Scripture is not necessarily incorrect, but it is incomplete and doesn’t begin to touch upon the depths of God’s love and the mysteries of his power and holiness.

What I’ve learned is that the whole of Scripture is an invitation. An invitation to experientially know God and be held in his love. To trust his love with the depths of my heart, with my joys, and my sorrows. To rest in the safety and security of God’s love. To allow him, in his love, to lead me through the valleys of life.

I’ve learned that in God’s love is permission. Permission to feel what I need to feel, how I need to feel it, for as long as I need to feel it. I don’t have to be where I think I need to be, God welcomes my questions, frustrations, and griefs along with the rest of me. He has given me permission to be the me I am at this very moment.

And I’ve learned that space is favor and safety and its own kind of love. In Psalm 18 King David writes of God, “He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me.” Imagine that … a God who delights in his children and offers them space to be free and safe and held. There are people in my life who hold space for me to continue to grieve when and how I might need to, even years later. And there are people in my life for whom I hold that same space.

So, if you are a list maker like me, who loves a good check mark or two, more power to you. But if you are a list maker, like me, who carries those lists and the need for check marks over into your grieving process—no matter who or what you have lost—I invite you to put away the list and the red pen. Give yourself permission to walk through your feelings in a way that works for you. Look for the people in your life who will hold a safe and welcoming space for you, even if you simply sit and say nothing. Listen for God’s invitation to be held in his loving embrace. Your process is yours and is worth so much more than a check mark.

All praise goes to God, Father of our Lord Jesus, the Anointed One. He is the Father of compassion, the God of all comfort. He consoles us as we endure the pain and hardship of life so that we may draw from His comfort and share it with others in their own struggles.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (The Voice)