The Myth of Letting Go/Moving On

Dearest Reader: As I post this, I am at a Writers Retreat in Oregon, combined with a trip to visit my son and his family.  On November 5^th, I wrote in my journal…

And now today is the nineteenth anniversary of my brother’s last trip into his beloved Montana mountains. Thirty-two hours later he was found, “hypothermic, but should be OK.” Those of us in Illinois thought the long nightmare was over, but awoke to a call seven hours later that he did not survive. 

Recently I found this early-in-my-grief piece of writing that never made it to this page.  Join me as I reflect on an early lesson I began learning  – one that shaped my grief journey.

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It’s still early in my grief. I’ve been reading about grief because I know so little about how to grieve in a healthy way. My biggest concern is doing it right, which includes how and how long. I didn’t understand I was likely to miss “healthy” in my passionate pursuit of “right.”

I research “grief” and “grief recovery.” Much of what I find is helpful. But in my search, two pesky phrases tossed around as advice, confuse and anger me.  Gratefully I have friends who do not use these phrases with me. They don’t seem to be thinking about them at all. Yet these words continue to disturb me.

“Letting go of your grief is a conscious decision.”
“Moving on from your grief requires a hard choice.”

Can it be that simple – to just “let go?
How does one make that “hard choice? “

I resist these words with my whole being. I don’t see how I can “let go” of grief if it is true that grief is evidence of having loved well. Must I then let go of the love along with the grief? I’d rather keep the grief and the love.

What I find, instead, is this: “Letting go” is not a single decision taking place when I decide I am done grieving now or someone else decides I should be done. Rather healing is the culmination of a string of little decisions. Healthy grieving starts with the willingness to run into the darkness, rather than running away from it; chasing the darkness rather than searching desperately for the light as Jerry Sittser so eloquently explains in his book, “Grief Disguised – How a Soul Responds to Loss.” This book will shape my grief journey more than anything else I read. A friend who lost her son on 9/11 four years before, recommended it to me. I figured if Peggy found it helpful, I would too.

I learn grieving is sitting with the pain, crying the tears, and experiencing the sorrow that settles in the deepest part of me, instead of trying to brush it aside by refusing to think about it.

It is facing the death of my dreams of life as a big sister. I have already lost my other two siblings when I was 11 and then 12 years old. I will lose my parents, but I always planned to have Gordan here with me.  It’s been the two of us for so long.  And now I am here in Illinois,  and he is not there in Montana.

It’s the freedom to ask God the “why questions” I need to ask, knowing it’s OK to voice them since God knows I’m asking them anyway under my breath, knowing all along no answer is going to be enough. And finally, it’s deciding I will ask God about it when I get to heaven, knowing it probably won’t matter then.

And somewhere I begin to notice more sunny-with-intermittent-clouds days than “cloudy-all-day” days.

I find the emotional energy to care once again for others in pain, no longer continually absorbed by my overwhelming grief. I find myself singing “Blessed be Your name, when I’m found in the desert place, though I walk through the wilderness,” during Sunday worship and find I only have a lump in my throat instead of tears spilling down my cheeks as I sing.

When we as a family agreed we could sing the song at the memorial service we weren’t thinking about how many times it would be sung throughout the weeks and months to follow. Those hard words: “Blessed be your name on the road marked with suffering, though there’s pain in the offering . . .” It’s what happens when a song is the top worship song for that year.

I didn’t “move on” from my grief, or “let it go.” Over time it became less intense, less constant as it became part of my story, but not all of my story, because I ran into/embraced the grief instead of running away from it.

And my brother? I think about him every day now nineteen years later. He has become a part of the weave of my life. I love remembering his enthusiasm for life, his corny sense of humor, his love of family, and his twisted humor jokes. I love seeing him in the faces and personalities of his son and grandchildren. I hear his laugh and see his grin as I hug them every chance I get since he is no longer there to do it. I thank God for him, for having him as part of my life and I still miss him.

I have learned to accept Grief as a friend who visits me, sometimes staying for a few moments and sometimes wanting a longer visit. I have learned it’s best to invite her in and sit with her for a while. That way she tends to leave sooner. I don’t dread her knock anymore. She reminds me of the price of having loved well.

I’ll see you someday Little Brother, along with the other two who got there before us. I always like to think the four of us would have made a good musical quartet. The Longeneckers are musical people and still sing a lot. Let’s try it someday “when we all get to heaven. What a day of rejoicing that will be, when we all see Jesus…….” (Do you remember that song we used to sing at church?)

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And now Dear Readers, The book by Jerry Sittser that I reference above is by far the most helpful resource I found when experiencing any kind of loss. Take a look at the description of the book HERE. In addition, I am thankful for a wise counselor. (I wish I had not waited nine months to start) and friends who stood by me and on days when it felt like God was far away, became the hands and feet of Jesus.

Over the years I have come here to share my thoughts with you. Some of you have been here for years, others are newer.  Writing on a blog is a strange thing. It’s like taking the words that represent your thoughts and throwing them out into a tornado, hoping/praying they make it to the one or ones who would benefit. It’s also true that the process for me helps me continue to cement and process the things I am learning. So, many thanks to all of you who read the words that land in this space. As always I love hearing from you here in the comments or email
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