The Superstore parking lot was slush. Disgusting. Wet.
And snow coming down. Hard.
Big flakes that got down your neck, reflected in the streetlights and melting immediately, making you squint and hope not to drop your mittens in the wet.
Puddles, ice, and nastiness. The weather was gruesome. Uncomfortable. A fitting experience for the night.
Mom and I had spent a longer time than expected in Superstore that night. We came out with bags of assorted foods – foods we didn’t necessarily see in our cupboards regularly:
Tea. Crackers. Chocolate. Cranberry juice. A lovely basket. Fruit. Grapes. Cereal. Chocolate milk. (It goes down easier than food when there’s a lump in your throat, you see.)
Because when family comes for a funeral it’s nice to have easy-access food. People drop in. They snack. And kleenex wads pile up so let’s throw some garbage bags in too. You eat at weird times. Or run on coffee. Honestly, you only want to look at meat-and-cheese platters and miniature sandwiches with the crusts cut of for so long! And it’s nice to have a cup of tea in your hands.
My mom knows this.
And this is how we came to superstore on a random, atrociously wet Thursday night.
A coworker lost her dad. And that’s what you do. You show up.
My mom did more than buy chocolate milk that night. This was more than the giving of her many minutes, or the amount the grocery bill came to. Those weren’t things to feel good about, a rank or accomplishment to pin to our chest like a ribbon and walk away, feeling a duty accomplished.
It was a lesson in community. Bravery. Generosity. In compassion and legacy.
She took her 18 year old daughter along, but age didn’t matter. She would take an 8 year old. She would tell them the truth – that it hurts, but there is hope. That mourning is real and that in a culture where the protocol with death has been lost, this is something you can do.
You show up, even if it’s awkward and you don’t know them well. You don’t have to stay long or even take off your shoes. Grief is uncomfortable, but it means more to show up.
Our society has lost our protocol of grief. We don’t know how to deal with death, we don’t remember how to grieve. So here’s what you do when you know someone is hurting and you don’t know what to do.
You take care of people. You give. Cheerfully, not chintzily.
Driving home through the onslaught of snowflakes you might expect me to say my heart was warmed, looking at these inspiring lessons, knowing I would carry this experience on for the rest of my life.
Nope. I shivered. Because it was snowing.
And that’s what you do, in reality. You shiver and drive and just do life (the day to day AND the not-so-day-to-day). There is no feel-good music like the movies. I know this. But it was good, regardless.
It was food for thought that night, those crackers and milk in the basket. There were lessons in that night, and a memory to hold to for many nights to come. The example was powerful.
And if nothing else – please do know
that if you don’t know what to do and someone might be grieving
you really can’t go wrong with a big ol’ bottle of chocolate milk.