Jenny's Talk

Memorial Service of Linda Griffin
June, 2008

As I've reflected on Linda's life, the thing that kept coming up in my mind over and over was that she was a lover. She loved deeply and profusely. But the question I kept getting stuck on was, "Where did that love come from? How was it possible for her to have so much love in her after all that she had been through? In spite of the pain and rejection that she had experienced as a child, and in spite of the darkness that those experiences forced her to walk through over and over, she was a lover. She loved with all her heart and with all her soul and with all her mind. She loved Bob. She loved Basia. She loved Esme Bo. She loved all of us, and, most of all, she loved God. But I still didn't understand where all the love came from. How could she find so much room for love in her soul after the pain she had been through and continued to experience? How could she love so deeply and hurt so deeply? And then I started to re-read a book that a friend had given me shortly after Linda was killed, (A Grace Disguised by Gerald L. Sittser) and I found the answer.

These are direct quotes that I've pieced together from chapter 3, "Darkness Closes In." They are sentences from different paragraphs throughout the chapter, but I think they flow together fairly well. The quote starts after the author describes a waking dream he had where he was trying to chase after the setting sun, desperate not to be enclosed by the ensuing darkness. Of course, it was a futile race, and he eventually gave up and was left in the darkness. Later it's pointed out to him that

"the quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise. I discovered in that moment that I had the power to choose the direction my life would head . . . I decided from that point on to walk into the darkness rather than to try to outrun it, to let my experience of loss take me on a journey wherever it would lead, and to allow myself to be transformed by my suffering . . . the experience of loss itself does not need to be the defining moment of our lives. Instead, the defining moment can be our response to the loss. It is not what happens to us that matters as much as what happens in us."

Let me pause here to explain that when the author refers to "loss" he's referring not only to the loss of loved ones, but to all kinds of loss, including abuse, debilitating diseases, divorce, rape, infertility, even unemployment or the loss of a dream, so these words don't only speak to my question about how Linda could have so much love in her after going through so much pain, but they can also speak to all of us. I'll repeat the last couple sentences.

"the experience of loss itself does not need to be the defining moment of our lives. Instead, the defining moment can be our response to the loss. It is not what happens to us that matters as much as what happens in us. I did not go through pain and come out the other side; instead, I lived in it and found within that pain the grace to survive and eventually grow. . . I absorbed the loss into my life, like soil receives decaying matter, until it became a part of who I am. Sorrow took up permanent residence in my soul and enlarged it. The soul is elastic, like a balloon. It can grow larger through suffering. Loss can enlarge its capacity for anger, depression, despair, and anguish . . . once enlarged, the soul is also capable of experiencing greater joy, strength, peace, and love. . . Tragedy can increase the soul's capacity for darkness and light, for pleasure as well as for pain, for hope as well as for dejection. . . We can nurse wounds of having been cheated in life, or we can be grateful and joyful, even though there seems to be little reason for it. We can return evil for evil, or we can overcome evil with good. It is this power to choose that adds dignity to our humanity. . . "

These next sentences are about about prisoners in a concentration camp in WWII. "Some chose to believe in God in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. They chose to expect a good tomorrow, though there was little promise of one. They chose to love, however hateful the environment in which they lived."

"It is therefore not true that we become less through loss–unless we allow the loss to make us less . . . Loss can also make us more. In the darkness we can still find light. In death we can also find life. It depends on the choices we make. . . Not that the choices we make will always have happy results. When we plunge into darkness, it is darkness we experience. We feel pain, anguish, sorrow, and despair, and we experience the ugliness, meanness, and absurdity of life. We brood as well as hope, rage as well as surrender, doubt as well as believe. . . The choice to enter the darkness, then, does not lead us along an easy course. . . The choice to enter the darkness does not ensure that we ever completely come out the other side. I am not sure we can or should. . . I learned to live and mourn simultaneously.

After three years, I continue to live in that tension. But there is a significant difference now. The sorrow I feel has not disappeared, but it has been integrated into my life as a painful part of a healthy whole. Initially, my loss was so overwhelming to me that it was the dominant emotion I had. I felt like I was staring at the stump of a huge tree that had just been cut down in my backyard. That stump, which sat all alone, kept reminding me of the beloved tree that I had lost. I could think of nothing but that tree. Every time I looked out the window, all I could see was that stump. Eventually, however, I decided to do something about it. I landscaped my backyard, reclaiming it once again as my own. I decided to keep the stump there, since it was both too big and too precious to remove. Instead of getting rid of it, I worked around it. I planted shrubs, trees, flowers, and grass. I laid out a brick pathway and built two benches. Then I watched everything grow. Now, three years later, the stump remains, still reminding me of the beloved tree I lost. But the stump is surrounded by a beautiful garden of blooming flowers and growing trees and lush grass. Likewise, the sorrow I feel still remains, but I have tried to create a landscape around the loss so that what was once ugly is now an integral part of a larger, lovely whole. "

He ends the chapter by saying, "I knew that running from the darkness would only lead to greater darkness later on. I also knew that my soul had the capacity to grow­–to absorb evil and good, to die and live again, to suffer abandonment and find God. In choosing to face the night, I took my first steps toward the sunrise."

I think Linda made that choice many years ago, and was faced with that choice over and over as she continued to heal from her past. She chose to love in spite of how the world had treated her and so she was blessed with the ability to love deeply, more deeply than those who haven't experienced deep pain are capable of.

And now it's our turn. It's our turn to love the other driver, as Bob is setting the example in. It's our turn to love the Griffin family as they live with this loss. And it's our turn to choose to love others who have hurt us in the past or who will surely hurt us in the future.

I want to close with one final quote from the same book. Gerald Sittser's wife was also killed by a drunk driver (along with his daughter and his mother), and his wife was also named Lynda (spelled with a Y), so this is a direct quote.

"Lynda was an unusual woman. She was gracious and energetic, simple and hospitable. She found joy in serving others, and she loved her children with all her heart. She worked hard from morning to evening, laughed far more than she cried, and delighted in ordinary life. She was good and guileless at the core of her being. I miss her as she was, not as I wished her to be."