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Lydia: In our society, there are no rules for grief. There is no guidebook. When my husband passed away at the age of 24 in March of 2011, I realized this first hand.

Of all the issues presented by his death, one of the most prevalent was that I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing or how I was supposed to be feeling. In my adult life, I had never made a decision or taken any major action without him, and now I was forced into determining a brand-new course of action for myself—and doing so alone—a terrifying thought. This unwanted independence, coupled with the lack of confidence I felt after his death left me in a state of panic.

What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to feel? And what would people think about the decisions I was making?

Words of hope and wisdom In those early days, I longed for words of wisdom. Words have the power to provide structure, stability, and answers. I ached for advice about my next steps and desired approval once I took them. But very quickly I realized that the initial desire for guidance was, in fact, the opposite of what I needed. I found that many of the words of hope and wisdom that people gave me, or the opinions they shared, were incredibly damaging to my grief process. Hearing “You will get over this one day” or “You will be happy again soon” felt like a twist of the knife already in my heart.

How was it possible that I would be happy again without my husband by my side? And I would never “get over” what had happened to me.

Close friends and family member’s attempts at providing direction became frustrating and stressful. Everyone had an idea of what I should do in my situation and the logical next steps to take, but they weren’t me.

No one knew how I felt; therefore no one could say what I needed to hear. The positive intentions were there, but hearing what they would do if they were in my situation just made me feel more alone. The reality was they weren’t in the position of having to combat my grief. That was a burden only I held. And words of advice or hope became daggers. I wanted to scream from the top of my lungs, “Stop!” But I was afraid to do that.

I was afraid that I would make a mistake if I didn’t take advice or nod and thank those individuals who were telling me I would be okay. Fear of what others would think and a lack of confidence in myself left me rooted in place, taking in words that were crushing my spirit and making my grief even harder.

And then I heard the words that changed my grieving process completely. Two people in two days told me that however I was feeling or whatever I was doing at the time was exactly right for me. I could trust my instincts.

What a freeing concept! It was as if I was finally given permission to be me. I was told that there should not be a rulebook on grief because everyone grieves differently. It was okay to process my grief in my own way and make decisions in my own time, not anyone else’s.

Over 10 months have passed since the death of my husband. What have I learned? That simple words with positive intentions can be alienating or painful; but other words can be freeing and liberating. I will hopefully never judge someone’s grief process again, or try to encourage them to feel a certain way or do a certain thing.

The process of grief is individual and unique. Instead of saying the words I feel compelled to say, offering the hope I hold for the situation, or giving advice on what someone should be doing, I will recognize that what is most important to a grieving person is support, love, and unquestioned loyalty.

A person in grief will eventually see the hope that you hold, will eventually make the decisions they need to, and will eventually want to hear your advice. But until they tell you they are ready, what they need most is permission to be exactly who they are at that moment.

Lydia McDermott graduated with a degree in English from the University Honors Program at Northern Illinois University. She plans to begin a master's program in mental health counseling in the fall. Lydia lives in a Chicago suburb with Charlie and Jovie, her two beautiful Huskie dogs.

Read the second article by Susan, Lydia's mother. (Continued on next page.)

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It really is true that we are surrounded by grief. In this already (God is here— the kingdom is come) and not yet (we are waiting for Christ's return and the fullness of what is to come) world of ours, loss and sorrow are very real.

On any given day, on an elevated train ride in Chicago, I can find myself sitting next to a man who has just stumbled his way through his work day, still reeling from his wife's request for a divorce. The woman across from us has cried so many tears over the last two years, but today's news has left her feeling numb. She will not be able to conceive a child.

We stop and a college student gets on. She is distracted. She is thinking of the little sister she has lost to the streets, an addict whose illness is killing her. Dressed to impress, a man bumps her shoulder as he exits. He has just come from an interview for another job he will not get, even though he is more than qualified. And then there is a boy in the back whose daddy died—too soon—just a month ago. Grief is all around us. It is a shared human experience and it binds us together, one to another.

Why is it that we are often reluctant to acknowledge it? What keeps us from reaching out to one another? Is it because we are afraid to make our friends even more sad? Or perhaps the feelings of loss and sadness hit too close to home and our experience with grief makes us feel too vulnerable. In our discomfort we shut down just a little bit.

We see someone we care about hurting and we want to make it better. We put so much pressure on ourselves to get it right—as if it were about right or wrong. We long to say the perfect thing, the thing that will be so deep in meaning and so full of hope that it will buoy our friend, our neighbor, our co-worker with strength and perseverance. It is so human to want to fix, to avoid pain, to "move on" as quickly as possible. Let's face it. There are no perfect words.

Words are powerful. They help us paint the pictures of our minds and tell the stories of our hearts. Words give shape to our hopes, our dreams, and our fears. But there are times when words seem so limiting and somehow too small to say what we wish we could say. Words fail us. And they don't seem like they are enough.

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