“After the Fried Chicken, Mac & Cheese and Potato Salad Are Gone”...Revisited

There is something about death that brings people together. And there is something about the days after the funeral that can make you feel more alone than you have ever felt in your life.

Recent losses in our community have caused me to reflect on some of the most painful chapters of my own life — the passing of my brother, my father and my mother. Three different losses. Three different moments in my life. Three different kinds of pain. But there was one thing they all had in common. The silence that came after the fried chicken, mac and cheese and potato salad were gone.

If you grew up in the South, particularly in the Black church, you know exactly what I'm talking about. When someone dies, we know how to show up. We show up with flowers, sympathy cards, hugs and prayers. We fill the church pews. We sing the old hymns. We quote Scripture. We tell stories about the good old days. We embrace the family and assure them that everything is going to be all right.

And Lord knows, we know how to feed people. There's fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, potato salad, collard greens, cornbread, pound cake and sweet tea. Enough food to feed an army, because somewhere along the way, we learned that when words fail us, food becomes our language of love. And there is something beautiful about that tradition.

But here's what I've come to understand about grief. The hardest part of losing someone often doesn't come when the church is full. It comes when the house is empty. It comes after the last amen has been spoken. After the final song has been sung. After the flowers begin to wilt. After the thank-you cards have been mailed. After the folding chairs have been put away. And yes, after the fried chicken, mac and cheese and potato salad are gone. That's when grief introduces itself in a way you never expected.

I remember it after losing my brother. I remember it after losing my father. And I remember it after losing my mother. There was a profound silence. Not simply the absence of noise, but the absence of someone whose presence had always been a part of my world. A telephone number I could no longer call. A voice I would never hear again. A conversation I wished I could have one more time. A memory that could make me smile one moment and bring tears to my eyes the next.

And what made it especially difficult was watching the world continue to move as though nothing had happened. People returned to work. Children returned to school. Friends resumed their routines. The phone calls became less frequent. The visits slowed down. And eventually, the question, "How are you holding up?" became something people stopped asking. Not necessarily because they didn't care. But because their lives had returned to normal while mine would never be quite the same.

You see, that's the part of grief we don't talk about enough. We prepare people for funerals, but we don't always prepare them for the loneliness that follows. We know how to organize a repast, but sometimes we forget how to organize continued compassion. We know how to stand beside someone at the graveside, but we don't always know how to stand beside them six weeks, six months or even six years later. And if we're not careful, we can become so focused on celebrating the life of the person who died that we forget about caring for the people who must continue living without them.

Can I say something that might make us a little uncomfortable? Sometimes we are better at showing up for the dead than we are at showing up for the living. We will pack a church for a funeral but struggle to find fifteen minutes to sit with someone who is grieving. We will spend hundreds of dollars on flowers that will eventually fade but forget that a simple telephone call might brighten someone's darkest day. We will tell a grieving person, "Call me if you need anything," without realizing that sometimes grief leaves a person without the strength to pick up the phone. And sometimes, the most loving thing we can do is stop waiting for the grieving person to reach out and reach out to them instead.

Not to offer another cliché. Not to tell them they should be over it by now. Not to remind them that their loved one is in a better place, as though that somehow eliminates the pain of missing them here. But simply to say, "I know it's been a while, but I haven't forgotten about you."

Because here's something I can tell you through my own losses. Grief doesn't operate on a calendar. It doesn't recognize the thirty-day mark, the six-month anniversary or the passing of another year. It doesn't care that the funeral was beautiful or that the obituary was well written. Grief has a way of showing up uninvited. In the grocery store when you see something your mother used to buy. In the car when a song reminds you of your father. During a family gathering when you look across the room and realize your brother's laughter is missing. Sometimes grief shows up on birthdays, holidays and anniversaries. And sometimes it shows up on an ordinary Tuesday afternoon when you thought you were doing just fine. That's why I have learned that grief is not something you simply get over. It is something you learn to carry. And some days, that burden is lighter than others.

Now, I know what the Bible says. Psalm 34:18 reminds us, "The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart." And I believe that with every fiber of my being. But I also believe that sometimes God demonstrates His presence through the compassion of other people. Through the friend who calls without needing a reason. Through the neighbor who stops by just to sit for a while. Through the church member who remembers that the anniversary of a loved one's death may be harder than the funeral itself. Through the person who says, "You don't have to be strong today. I'm here."

Remember, when Lazarus died, Jesus knew that resurrection was possible. Yet the Bible tells us in John 11:35, "Jesus wept." Think about that. The One who had the power to raise Lazarus from the dead still took time to share in the sorrow of those who loved him. If Jesus could pause long enough to weep with the grieving, surely we can pause long enough to walk with them.

And to those who are grieving right now, I want to speak directly to your heart. You do not have to apologize for your tears. You do not have to pretend that you're fine just because everyone else has moved on. You do not have to rush your healing to make other people comfortable. And you do not have to feel guilty because you laughed today or because you experienced a moment of happiness without the person you lost.

Finding joy again does not mean you have forgotten them. It means you are learning how to live while continuing to love someone who is no longer physically present. There is no shame in seeking counseling, joining a grief support group or admitting that the burden has become too heavy to carry alone. Faith and emotional support are not enemies. Sometimes prayer gives us the strength to reach for the hand that God has already placed in front of us.

And to those of us who have friends, neighbors, church members or family members who have recently experienced a loss, I want to offer a challenge. Don't let your compassion end when the funeral ends. Put their name on your calendar. Call them thirty days later. Check on them three months later. Remember them during the holidays. Invite them to dinner. Ask them to tell you a story about the person they lost. And when they begin to cry, don't rush to change the subject. Sometimes those tears are simply love looking for somewhere to go. Understand that you cannot fix their grief. You cannot replace the person they lost. You cannot fill every empty space in their heart. But you can remind them that they don't have to walk through that emptiness alone. Because the truth is, the measure of our compassion is not how many of us show up when someone dies, but how faithfully we continue to show up for those left behind.

As I reflect on the passing of my brother, my father and my mother, I realize that time has changed the way I carry those losses, but it has never diminished the love I have for them. There are still moments when I wish I could hear their voices. Still moments when I wish I could ask one more question. Still moments when I wish heaven had a telephone. But through it all, I have come to understand that love does not end at the cemetery. It simply learns to live in a different place. In our memories. In our traditions. In the lessons they taught us. And in the parts of ourselves that exist because they once walked beside us.

So the next time someone in your community loses a loved one, by all means, take the fried chicken. Take the mac and cheese. Take the potato salad. Fill the church. Sing the songs. Send the flowers. Embrace the family. But when the services are over, when the guests have gone home and when the last plate has been washed and put away, remember that someone's journey through grief is only beginning. Because sometimes the person who needs you most isn't the one standing in front of the casket. It's the one sitting alone at the kitchen table three weeks later, wishing they had just one more conversation with the person they buried.

And maybe, just maybe, your telephone call, your visit, your embrace or your willingness to simply sit in silence will be the reminder they need that God has not forgotten them. And neither have you.

That's my view from a pew.

The fried chicken will be eaten. The mac and cheese will be gone. The potato salad will disappear. The flowers will fade. But our love, our compassion and our commitment to those who are grieving should remain long after the last amen.

Because grief doesn't end when the funeral ends. And neither should our love.