Written for the Hunter E. Boss Foundation

Topics: death, grief, religion

Nobody asked if I was going to be able to handle my brother dying. Nobody gave me a quick heads up about it or a fair and timely warning. Hunter simply died. On an unassuming Wednesday morning, he got on the train of salvation and left without so much as a, “See ya later!” (And he isn’t even Irish.) 

While I don’t think for one second Hunter would’ve chosen to die that day, when it is all said and done, he got the better end of the deal. He gets to leave the party while the rest of us are left here picking up the pieces of our shattered hearts. He said, “Peace out!” while we all sang, “When Peace Like A River.”

Yeah, OK, cool move Hunt. No, really, it’s fine. Go on ahead, I’ll just sit here. Just chill on earth for a bit, hang out and wait around. I’m not bitter about it or anything. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. 

That’s a lie, I’m not fine.

The days leading up to Hunter’s death, the day he died, and the months that followed shaped and molded me in ways I never anticipated or expected. When your life is shockingly and terrifyingly changed in perpetuity, the feelings, actions, thoughts, and behaviors that accompany the change are often ugly and tormenting. 

What I found is that those thoughts—those really awful feelings and morose emotions—are not very well documented in Christian life. We love the half-baked sentiments of, ‘Everything happens for a reason’ and ‘God never gives you more than you can handle,’ while failing to acknowledge the gritty and blunt reality of the situation: grief sticks around forever. It isn’t something you bounce back from. You don’t move on. You are never the same.

Nobody talks about that, though. Nobody talks about the depressing and lingering realities of grief. It’s unbecoming for Christians to show negative emotions that aren’t easily rebranded into lyrics of a cloying praise song. As such, the messy parts of life are often avoided. Westernized Protestantism expects Little Women (the 1994 film version): how the March family grieves when Father is injured or when Beth dies. Proper. Polite. Poised. Emotional, but not too much. Affecting, but easily risen above. Perseverance in the most becoming manner. And, preferably, resolved in 120 minutes or less.

That’s…laughable.

A couple months after Hunter died, I was having a third discussion with a life insurance company. Despite having a state-issued version of the death certificate, and a PDF copy, they wanted a secondary proof of death. I asked her if she wanted me to Scotch tape some ashes to a piece of paper and mail it to her. Would that be enough proof? 

Proper. Polite. A good Protestant gal.

Reverent reserve isn’t my M.O. Holding back is not my forte. Sarcasm and candor are my verbal bread and butter. That thing nobody will say? I’ll say it. That thought you won’t admit out loud? I’ve thought it, too. And here is the thesis of my dark delving: I’ve grappled with Jesus over it, and turns out, He doesn’t push an expectation of proper and polite grief. He is ok with messy, dramatic, and devastating grief. At least, that’s my interpretation. (Seriously, though, there are multiple condoned body-snatching incidents in the Bible. It makes my comment about ashes look like Disney content.) 

My denomination may be horrified by my dark humor, but my savior is not. My family and friends might be wishing I’d drop my sarcastic edge like a bad habit, but my doxology hasn’t been denied. Hunter might be wishing I’d shut up, but he couldn’t shut me up when he was alive either, so…bummer, kid.

If you’re into deep, brutally honest, emotionally-laden commentary on grief, faith, and resilience, same. Oh, by the way, hi, I’m Tricia. My brother has been dead for three-and-a-half years and I’m still not fine.