We all are forced to deal with the loss of things and people we love. Leaving things behind is a part of life, as evidenced by the changing of the seasons, the "circle of life" in which death brings new birth, and many other cycles in nature.
There are multitudes of things we can lose, and most people have this general idea that certain losses are harder than others. This is true in a way, but all forms of loss also have much in common.
To some, the loss of a game can be just as devastating as the death of a friend is to someone else. Everyone must deal with the sadness in one way or another. Sometimes it takes years, sometimes only a minute, but there is a process of letting go every time we lose.
I haven't experienced the death of a close friend or relative since I was ten years old, but recently I grew apart from some old friends, and I left a lot behind me when I came to Friends University. I hear people talk about moving on, but I am not sure exactly what that means.
Should I simply forget I ever had that friendship? I am good at forgetting things, but if I forget, I learn nothing. Should I move forward and find a replacement as soon as possible? I would be lying to myself if I thought I could replace everything I lose. No, the only way I can really "move on" or truly let go of things is to celebrate their passing.
I am not saying that these losses are unimportant, nor that we should not grieve. The phrase "don't cry over spilled milk" does not mean we should never cry when we lose. In fact, allowing ourselves to grieve is the most important step towards self-reconciliation. What it means is that we shouldn't spend our lives worrying about things we cannot change.
In the end, am not here to discuss all the stages of grief. Instead, I plan on relating my personal experience with just one step in the process: celebration.
It was Easter Sunday, 2017. I had attended the same church for about a semester, so I was finally getting comfortable around the people there. This particular church had a number of traditions on Easter Sunday, one of them being the inflation of helium balloons directly following the service. They handed out the balloons to anyone who wanted them, but especially the kids. A number of us were just hanging out in front of the church when I heard a little girl starting to cry. She ran up to her daddy and pointed to her balloon as it floated up into the sky, out of reach. Rather than just getting her a new balloon or distracting her in some other way, he knelt down beside her and pointed up. Her sobs quickly subsided as she watched the balloon, slowly rising through the fluffy clouds. We continued to watch it as it flew for almost five minutes, growing smaller and smaller until it finally disappeared from our view.
There was a sort of wonderment to that moment, watching something float into the sky right after hearing the sermon on Jesus' resurrection. I realized that it was because she lost it that the balloon had so much impact on her and everyone else. Sorrow turned into something memorable and joyful, or at least bittersweet. Part of the celebration was in the knowledge that the lost balloon could never be regained, at least in the same way.
The simple fact that I am writing this story more than a year after it took place is a testament to its significance. So, what does it mean then? I think it has something to do with acceptance of a loss.
When I drift apart from a friend, it makes me very sad, and I admit that sadness. If I look at the big picture of things, though, I find comfort in the memories I have with them, as well as the fact that in moving on, my loss forms me, and it forms them, too. It's hard to explain, but the words of the song "Old and Wise" by Alan Parsons and Eric Woolfson relate my sentiment perfectly:
Someday in the mists of time
When they ask me if I knew you
I'll smile and say you were a friend of mine
And the sadness will be Lifted from my eyes
Oh, when I'm old and wise
