What we see

Where we place our focus makes a difference

My late wife Claudia lived with few regrets. Only rarely did I hear her opine about something she wished she had done differently, and it always had to do with a misstep on her part in a personal relationship. She tried to repair pain she caused others, and she ardently refused to live in the past. She had a “growth mindset,” and until her last moments of consciousness she was engaged in plans to make others’ lives better. I will always love her for that.

Because she was so genuinely, positively making such a big difference in the world over the past few years, I have a tendency to think about what could have been if she had no died at such a young age. I was reminded yesterday that perhaps my focus needs to change from one of anticipatory regret (by which I mean thinking about “what could have been”) to gratitude for what has been.

The memorial service I officiated yesterday felt like familiar territory. Services of Death and Resurrection have been a significant part of my ministry all these decades, and the familiarity of the liturgy and the ritual actions provide a sense of comfort and security for me, and I hope for those who worship.

Because the woman we remembered yesterday was Claudia’s age, and because Claudia’s own demise occurred nearly a year ago in this same season, I had pangs of remembrance from my own experience of loss. They were not overwhelming, fortunately, and I was able to fulfill my tasks honorably. My voice only broke during a few moments when I invited some of the day care children for whom she had been a provider just a few months earlier to join me at the front of the sanctuary.

I pulled up a chair near the pulpit, the children sat on the steps around me, and we talked about what it’s like to lose someone we love. Bright-eyed and beautiful, the children nodded when I reminded them that she had loved them, and that her body became sick and she couldn’t live any longer, but that she was alive with Jesus. Even though we can’t see her anymore, she still lives with us in our hearts because when you love someone, we always have them with us. My voice, heavy with emotion, cracked a little when I noticed one of the little boys blinking back his tears. We prayed together, they returned to the adults in their lives, and the service went on.

I preached my sermon and the invited the woman’s son-in-law to share the family’s eulogy. He shared a sincere and warm-hearted reflection; he caught my attention with his first few words when he said (I am paraphrasing): “Instead of thinking about what could have been — the Sunday family get-togethers at the lake, the grandchildren that will arrive in the next few years — the things she will miss out on, we want to remember what she did have the opportunity to be part of.” He continued with a loving tribute that captured his mother-in-law’s essence, and when he finished, I knew I had heard the best sermon of the day.

Regularly I am beckoned to live in the land of regret as I think of what my life might be like were Claudia still living. I think of the church I would be pastoring, the children and families Claudia’s work would have continued to touch, the quieter years of eventual retirement we could have enjoyed together. I don’t think it’s unusual for a grieving person to think this way, and I do not chide myself for doing so.

But I realize again that it’s not a sustainable place, this la-la land where what might have been trumps what is and what could be. And, knowing Claudia as I did, I know she wouldn’t me to escape into this fantasy world, either. She would want to be remembered, of course, but only as a catalyst for those of us who knew and loved her to continue stretching forward in our lives. Because that is really what she lived for anyway: to motivate others to engage the important work in the world around us. In life, and now after death, her inimitable presence compels me to live with the abundance that comes from gratitude for what has been and with confidence for what is to come.

There were many thoughtful people checking in on me yesterday, knowing that this was my first memorial service since Claudia’s death and knowing how similar the circumstances were to my own. I received thoughtful texts and kindly phrased questions that settled my heart before and after the service. There are not enough words to convey how grateful I am to be surrounded by loving people near and far as I continue to reconstruct my life.

I am more assured more than ever that if I remember where to place my focus — in possibility, not regret — Love will see me through, walking with me moment by moment, whispering sweet somethings in my ear.