The Unexpected Gifts of Grief

The Uses of Sorrow

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.

- Mary Oliver[1]

In August 2002, my Dad passed away in front of me and my family.

Just before that moment, my family had gathered around dad’s hospice bed that was set up in the living room of our home. At this point, Dad was non-verbal, and as we were speaking to him, holding his hand, and reminiscing, he began to let go; he chose to die when we were with him. Reflecting on this event some years later, in that moment, it felt surreal and, honestly, it was frightening. Yet, because we were with him, his passing had become an unexpected, communal act of departure. Without words, Dad bid us a courageous farewell.

In a certain sense, my dad gave us all a gift— being in the presence of his family would be the last thing he experienced in this life. I’ve often reflected upon the timing of his death, too; maybe he just needed reassurance, perhaps he didn’t want to be alone in the end, and needed just a little help from his loved ones to finally let go.

I recall as it was happening, as we all were shedding tears of sorrow, we encouraged him to go onward, assuring him that it was okay for him to cross over into the arms of God. We assured him that we would care for our mother when he was gone, and how we were so thankful for his life in our lives. In an informal act of last rites, we read aloud favorite selections from the Psalms and Romans chapter 8, all from his King James Version bible, of course.

Until that moment, I had never witnessed anyone die.

And since that moment, I’ve never been the same.

My life changed with the last breath of my father.

Isn’t life so often like that— irreversible change is merely a breath away.

At that time, I had just turned 25, and I soon realized that this experience was something few of my peers could relate to when I tried sharing about it with them. Most of my friends had not gone through what happened to me, and I remember feeling isolated, alone in my grief. I was in college at the time, so returning for the fall semester, some two weeks after burying my dad, it all felt so disconnected and out of sync with the gravity of what had just happened to me.

Still, the academic world around me continued to move forward. I suppose it gave me some structure at the time while I carried this brand new emotional ‘box full of darkness’ we call grief. It felt like a void at the center of me, but only I knew it was there. And probably too soon afterward, I tried to convince myself I had accepted it and was moving on - although, in reality, I wasn’t sure how to interpret what had just happened to me. When a death arrives in our lives, whether expected or not, it can be like a sphinx with its riddles; uncertain about its rhymes and subtle meanings, we try our best to move forward, knowing or not knowing the answers.

I recall times afterwards, I would have dreams where my dad would appear in them, he looked the same, his voice sounded the same, and in one dream in particular, we were both seated in a car, he was at the steering wheel, driving, and had just stopped the car to drop me off at a nameless storefront. Before I stepped out of the car, I embraced him and told him how much I still loved him, and how I didn’t want to go away from him. Upon waking, I began to awaken to the reality of how affected I still was from his loss.

Years passed.

Unexpectedly, these matters of the heart came to a head one day as I attended a ministry workshop at Pendle Hill Retreat Center in eastern Pennsylvania. The workshop group explored ideas related to public prophetic ministry, drawing from Quaker values and practices. At that time, I was pastoring among Evangelical Friends, and I recall feeling somewhat anonymous to the group I was learning alongside. Some would jest with me, “Wait…you’re part of an Evangelical Friends Church? What are you doing at Pendle Hill?! Sound the Gurneyite alarm!” This was the good-humored running joke among the cohort, a lovely group with whom I quickly found connections and enjoyed being my authentic self among this diverse group of Quakers. Over the course of the week, I had the opportunity to connect authentically in ways I had been seeking. My soul was thirsty, and I drank in each conversation, opening up about vocational ministry as well as other aspects of my life.

Eventually, one of the conversations happened to turn rather nonchalantly to the topic of death, dying, and those who had gone before us. Listening in, my heart began to burn within me, as a weighty Friend from our cohort shared a personal conviction of how those who have passed before us in death will remain with us in a holy, mystical, unseen way.

Upon hearing these words, my heart palpitations quickly moved to what I can only describe as a visceral response (which at the time, I kept to myself). I felt the nudge and spiritual weight of these words, because it was something I was already experiencing intuitively, but never considered rationally until that very moment.

This insight spoke deeply to my condition. I was holding onto my dad in a way that was rooted in the past, but our relationship had since changed. My dad and I remained connected in a new way, a way of faith, a way caught up within the mystery of Christ.

When I was finally by myself on my solo drive back home after a week at Pendle Hill, the emotional floodgates burst open in what I can only describe as raw, cathartic, prayerful ecstasy. I had been given an insight that beforehand I had either overlooked, been blind to, or somehow misunderstood—that death is not separation, but rather, it is transformation.

As a Quaker minister, this part of my journey has helped Way open me to serve others in their times of distress, drawing upon my encounters with grief and consolation.

More years passed, and in 2019, my mom died rather unexpectedly. Grief revisited me. And as I grieved for her, I realized I was also revisiting my grief over my dad.

Though time has passed since, I remain tender; perhaps, one could say – I remain wounded. Yet, from this place of tenderness, I have discovered how I can give to others. I can listen, offer compassion, and when asked, I can share experiences, offer wisdom and bring the gift of authentic trust into relationships. The loss of our loved ones, while traumatic, can also create within us an ability to live a more compassionate life, both towards ourselves and towards others.

Lastly, I have learned an unexpected lesson about the nature of life and death: your love for someone can continue beyond the veil of death, growing even stronger. In this way, my parents are my beloved dead. Because of this, the heart of the Gospel can be summarized in three simple words: Love never dies. Though they are gone, they remain. They dwell somewhere within the riddle of faith, hope, and love, where I meet them from time to time in my dreams.

Mark Condo, the Pastor of Reedwood Friends Church, is also a Professor of Supervised Ministry at Earlham School of Religion. Additionally, he is a Public Theology Doctoral candidate at Fuller Seminary.

He resides in Portland, Oregon, with his lovely family, including his wife Megan, their children Brenna and Lachlan, and three adorable dogs: Valkyrie, Prudence, and Grimm.

[1] Mary Oliver, Thirst, The Uses of Sorrow. Boston: Beacon Press, 2005.