Way Through
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Hugh’s dad died a few weeks ago.
Hugh is a dear friend and Presbyterian minister in Waterloo (just west of Toronto), Ontario, Canada.
I call, we small-talk for a while, and then I ask, “How is your heart?”
“I appreciate you asking. My heart is heavy and sad.”
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I love Hugh.
I mean, how many people do you know who thank you for asking about how they are?
We chat about how consoling a clergy person — someone who usually is the one doing the consoling — is like a magician trying to fool another magician.
“I do have one thing to say about grief, something that’s probably not in your repertoire,” I say. “And it’s not something I tell everyone who’s mourning. Actually, it’s a bit of an off-color joke about mourning.”
“Share away, Brian.”
“What do a man masturbating on the bow of a ship and grief have in common?”
“I give up.”
“They both come in waves.”
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Changing the topic, Hugh asks, “May I tell you something that I find comforting?”
“Of course.”
“Through,” he says and then repeats: “through.”
I wait for him to explain, which he does: “I had a seminary professor who stressed the importance of ‘through’ in the 23rd Psalm. ‘The most important word in that psalm is through,’ she taught. We aren’t called to stay in the valley of the shadow of death and pitch a tent. No. We walk through it. It’s like Robert Frost said: ‘The best way out is always through.’”
“Hugh, something I like to add: the best way though is with love.”
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Whatever you’re going through, I hope you know that through is the way through.
And that you are able to be compassionate to yourself as you go.
💙
