8 Simple Things That Helped Me Grieve
I’m uncomfortable with death and grief, and I bet you are too.
It’s something no one wants to hear or say, like the word “moist,” for example, but for totally different reasons. Grief is like hearing people chew loudly; it usually annoys you, but sometimes you get used to it. Losing someone to that word suddenly or slowly over time is tricky, and heartache doesn’t play by the rules. Life isn’t fair, and death isn’t fair, but I’ve learned a few simple ways to smooth out the rollercoaster to help lessen the pain.
I grew up in a close-knit family. There were four of us siblings born in five years, which made for some fantastic fights early on and fantastic friendships later in life. At 33, my older brother, Matt Johnson, was an adventurer, so our family didn’t pay much attention when he told us he was going to Japan on business in wintery January and climbing Mt. Fuji. The problem was—he disappeared. For six agonizing months, our family desperately searched across the world for clues to my brother’s whereabouts but found nothing. Deep snow, subzero temperatures, communication challenges, and more stretched us beyond our breaking point. Closure finally began in June when the spring rain revealed my brother’s final resting place.
Holli and Matt at a baseball game,
A year later, with the advice of a counselor, I began to write about my brother’s unbelievable story, helping me heal. The book is currently shopping for publishers, but until then, follow my journey here, and I’ll share a few things that helped me walk through those dark days. I’m far from an expert, but I have walked this frightening road more than once. If my experience can help guide you through yours, then we both benefit. Unfortunately, welcome to the club. This “Grief Club” is only understood by members who’ve experienced loss, and you’re one of them. You’re probably reading this because you’re mourning someone you loved and I’m so very, very sorry. Your loved one meant the world to you, which is why you hurt so deeply. Perhaps the things I learned will help inch you forward in life, and I’ll cheer you on.
First, I lost someone I dearly loved suddenly and over time. Like a cruel joke, my world was thrust into a whirlwind 14 hours into the future, halfway around the world. Our family suddenly stayed up during the night to receive any updates from Japan’s daytime, and every minute was crucial. I was pregnant at the time with my third baby girl and moving homes, so the added stress was almost unbearable. After two weeks of begging God to bring Matt home alive, we realized he was the opposite of alive. We had trouble believing Matt was, you know, dead. The problem was we had no body, and no evidence of Matt’s gear or equipment, so that’s where the longevity of grief began. For six months, my family was forced to wait for closure, one torturous day at a time. Closure for us came with reports of discovering a zombie-like brother with skeletal bones and only patches of hair on his head. He was identified only through dental records.
For my parents, grieving a firstborn son looked different than mourning a sibling. In any language, it is backward to bury a child, no matter how young or old. My parents remember Matt’s first breath, first rocket football game, first skinned knee, and many other “firsts” preserved only for them. My dad coached his baseball teams and taught him how to waterski. Mom helped Matt with homework, clothes, and haircuts.
Naturally, my mom wanted to feel near Matt, even though he was gone. She slept with his t-shirts next to her, put his pictures on her fireplace mantel, and wasn’t afraid to cry or look at her son’s mangled body in the Japanese morgue. As only a mother could, she wanted to see every broken bone and experience his pain. She hugged him one last time, but he didn’t hug back.
On the other hand, my dad was more hands-off. He preferred to remember the good times and minimize the bad. He winced when he saw my brother’s body on the morgue table and looked away, squeezing his eyes shut in horror. As only a father could, and though my sisters and I were adults, my dad recommended that the rest of us refrain from looking at the pictures of Matt’s unrecognizable body. Dad was a doer and preferred to work through his sorrow by helping others. Like ripping off a bandage, Dad was ready to empty my brother’s apartment far before the rest of us. Right away, he wanted to give or throw away most of my brother’s clothes and other household items because Matt no longer needed them. Dad especially hated anything set on his fireplace mantel that looked “like a shrine.” Instead of crying, my dad would soothe his soul by talking to us about the great adventures he thought Matt might be having in heaven.
I landed somewhere in the middle. I was both sensitive to memories of my brother, yet didn’t want to wear his clothes. And though it’s been years, I still haven’t looked at the pictures of my brother’s zombie-like body, yet I often wrote my book while sitting in his office chair. To this day, I carry around Matt’s backpack, which was found in his rental car on Mt. Fuji. I benefited from both counseling services and helping others, often by cooking meals.
My sisters, who lived out of state (and one out of the country) at the time, grieved in ways that required long-distance healing. For example, my sisters didn’t have the chance to begin healing when the rest of us moved Matt’s belongings and subsequent memories out of his apartment one by one. My sisters also didn’t have friends and family walking up to them with hugs and support. One time, a complete stranger shocked me in a parking lot by stopping her car, rolling down her window, and telling me she was praying for me. Like some of you, my sisters didn’t have the luxury of being close by. They didn’t live in our hometown, so when it was time to travel back home to spread Matt’s ashes and have a funeral, the sharp pain impacted my sisters far more.
Grief, I’ve experienced, is not a “one size fits all” solution and doesn’t have an endpoint. Instead, it transforms into various shapes and intensities but never fizzles out. Just when I think I’ve tamed the beast, sorrow shows me a new cavity to explore, whether I want to or not. Then, to add to the complexity and confusion, when another loved one died (and another), I quickly realized that grief wasn’t a learned skill. I was walking two and three separate dirt roads of heartache, not one familiar highway as I had assumed.
I’ve decided that grief is stupid, but loving someone is worth the price. And, I wasn’t sure what mourning was all about until I experienced it over and over.
Here are 8 simple things I learned about grief that helped me and my family keep moving:
Grief will hit like waves. Absorb it, don’t fight it.
At unexpected times, I would spot a car resembling what my brother used to drive, setting off waterworks. It’s ok! Don’t stuff those spontaneous memories because they are a gift. Sometimes, I’ll spot someone who looks like Matt. At first, I used to freak out, but now I smile and try not to appear creepy.
Time and grief are not friends.
In the United States, people often think you should “get over it” and “move on” within a year or two after a loved one dies. That is a lie! Grief is complicated and personal. Do not fit your grief into someone else’s expectations. And, for heaven’s sake, do not tell anyone how you are “getting over” your grief “faster” than others because chances are it’s not true, and you’ll offend someone.
Grief is personal.
It would be a disaster if I grieved exactly like my mom or dad because it would fail. I had to discover my own path, but that didn’t mean their grief road was wrong. Try your best to accept how others grieve compared to how you do. Be ok with someone wanting to keep ashes instead of spreading them, for example. Or be ok with planting a tree in honorarium instead of donating to a cause. Do not think that your way is better than another. Your course is only better for you.
Keep your loved one alive.
Physical mementos are a great way to spark conversation with others about your loved one. My mom wore a necklace and lapel pin to remind her of my brother, and my cousins printed a beautiful photobook of memories for us to cherish. A friend created a scrapbook full of newspaper clippings and old pictures. I managed a social media site of supporters and then turned Matt’s story into a book. Whatever you decide, it should be meaningful to you.
Lighten up.
Flat Matt in Italy
Grief is already messy, so why not laugh through the pain? A verse in the Bible says laughter is the best medicine (Proverbs 17:22), and I prefer to laugh my way through the awkwardness. That’s when “Flat Matt” was born. We were sick of lamenting about Matt not showing up for family events or vacations, and he was supposed to go to the Olympics with my sister, so she came up with a funny idea. She printed a life-sized picture of my brother’s face, cut it out, and glued it to the back of a paint stick! After that, Flat Matt traveled in many suitcases and took pictures with us everywhere.
Stir up your emotions.
Listening to music lifts my mood, and I still play songs that are meaningful and powerful memories of my brother. I usually play songs about how God helped us, like Avril Lavigne’s “Head Above Water” or Matt Redman’s “Never Once.” I also have small, wooden signs in my home reminding me of peace, and another has a verse in the Bible from Daniel 3:18 saying, “and if not, He is still good.” Sometimes, I show my kids the t-shirt my brother used to wear. It says, “It’s tough being the World’s Greatest Uncle.” It brings me joy to share stories about Uncle Matt with my girls. So go ahead and try it. Stir up some memories of the good times. Don’t let the unexpected waves of grief be the only thing that brings you healing because that’s a rough way to walk this road.
Go to groups or counseling.
I went to a Christian counselor, and it helped me. My mom found a grieving mother’s group, which helped her for a while, and then she got sick of it. My dad began teaching his own groups. I highly recommend powerful groups like GriefShare. You can find locations for meetings all over the country. Regardless of what works for you, talk to someone! A professional is a bonus, and a Christian counselor or pastor is my recommendation, even if you don’t consider yourself religious. Why? God created life and death, so a professional can help explain that God-shaped void.
Do something for others.
If you haven’t already, you’ll notice just how large our Grief Club is. You’ll begin to notice neighbors, friends, and/or family members struggling just like the rest of us. My mom would often handwrite encouraging notes and enclose books that helped her with the loss of my brother. My dad would mow lawns or visit people in the hospital. My niche was providing meals. I often cook a few freezer meals and drop them off without trying to bother a friend who’s hurting. To lessen the stress, I simply drop the meal and run, and text where it is on my way back. Otherwise, people will feel obligated to clean their houses or freshen up, and that’s ridiculous. Include a short, encouraging note. Don’t expect or secretly desire a thank you note because it’s not about you. It’s about giving back and helping others. In doing so, your heart will begin to heal.
Dealing with grief is frustrating and complicated because it’s so personal and unpredictable. Only those who walk through the death of a loved one will understand, but I’m hoping my story will help lessen your pain.
Do you know of a friend/family member who is currently going through a crisis or is grieving the loss of a loved one? Click Here for Ways to Help
Want to follow my book journey? Go Here
