Crying in My Mashed Potatoes

Messy Mourning: Lessons Learned While Navigating the Holidays

There never was such a goose. Bob said he didn’t believe there ever was such a goose cooked. Its tenderness and flavour, size and cheapness, were the themes of universal admiration. Eked out by apple-sauce and mashed potatoes, it was a sufficient dinner for the whole family; indeed, as Mrs. Cratchit said with great delight (surveying one small atom of a bone upon the dish), they hadn’t ate it all at last!

― Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

I was fine until I saw the mashed potatoes-then we all started crying.

It had been nine weeks—only nine weeks since Sebastian died. I was fumbling my way through this grief fog, unable to see clearly because of the constant tears that would not stop flowing. My life was unexpectedly engulfed by gushing water from the tsunami that hit me when Sebastian took his life and left me tangled in the debris of his death, unable to sort through the pieces of my destroyed life. Steve, my husband, and our daughter, Isabel, were also mourning their son and brother, though very differently from me.

Mourning would be easier if other family members were involved.

I did not want to celebrate Thanksgiving. It was the first major holiday after Sebastian's suicide, and I simply wanted the day torn away from November's calendar. Numerous friends had offered to have us over, but I felt awkward. I knew I'd cry the whole time, then I'd feel bad because my friends wouldn't know what to say, then they would be uncomfortable, then they'd probably cry, and then I'd feel worse, and then I would have to comfort them. I couldn't deal with anything yet.

Getting out of bed every morning was hard enough.

While reviewing my life over the last seven years, I've come to realize that self-imposed isolation early on after a family member dies is a natural and common response to a horrible situation. In early grief, we need to hide away, as if somehow believing that this will stop the pain. It is easier to help and care for others in their distress, but when it is our own suffering, we genuinely believe, in some warped way, that we are helping others by not being a burden. People do want to help, but soon, those who want to help feel helpless because we've separated ourselves. We try to shove grief into its separate box and stuff it way in a dark closet or under the bed, hopefully to be forgotten. But, even in our isolation, grief continues to show up, forcing us to look it in the eye.

We need safe people in our isolation to help us navigate this difficult journey. We need others to speak truth and love to us, gently prodding us to move on, even with baby steps. We need to let people in and care for us in our grief. Someone once told me in the days following Sebastian’s death that if a friend asks me to do something, I must say "yes."

"Let us do the cooking this holiday."

"The perfect setting for a wonderful Thanksgiving with the whole family."

My eyes perused the advertisement for a two-hour Thanksgiving cruise on the Willamette River provided by Portland Spirit, a Portland-based river cruise company in Oregon. They promised a beautiful holiday cruise, taking in the scenic views of downtown Portland and the surrounding Milwaukie area waterfront. There were promises of a delicious Thanksgiving buffet with a turkey carving station, all the usual holiday foods, tempting desserts, and live piano music.

It sounded perfect.

The best part is that we wouldn't know anyone on the boat. We'd have a table to ourselves, and nobody would feel sorry for us. We could remain anonymous in the crowd of festive people, so I made reservations for our family.

Thanksgiving weather in the Pacific Northwest is predictable. It is cloudy, chilly, rainy, or a combination of all three. One might occasionally see sunbeams breaking through the clouded grey canopy; if that happens, everyone seems to feel better.

The November sun briefly made its appearance known as we walked up the gangplank toward our boat.

"Stop right here, so I can take your photo!" a chirpy woman all dressed in black came trotting up to us with a camera. She smiled brightly and said, "It'll make a great memory."

I did not want my photo taken. I didn't want to remember this day; I wanted to get this day over. My eyes were in a perpetual state of swollenness from all the crying I'd been doing the last nine weeks. Didn't she know we were mourning?

"It'll be OK." Steve gently said, as if reading my mind. "She doesn't know."

"Stand behind this cute buoy," Miss Chirpy Twenty-something pointed to the white ring beside a railing that kept passengers from falling into the freezing water below.

"Come on, Mom. You stand next to me." Isabel pulled me closer. Dressed in a cute skirt and heather-colored sweater, wearing her Birkenstocks without socks, we shivered together, arms around each other as in a vice grip, and forced our faces into fake smiles.

Our teeth chattering, we stared at the camera and muttered the obligatory, "Happy Thanksgiving."

"You guys look so happy," our photographer gushed.

Little did she know.

After entering the spacious dining room, we were led to our table by another black-attired-perpetually-happy staff member. The delicious aroma of baked turkey and ham greeted our nostrils, filling them with memories of previous Thanksgiving celebrations. Inside the cabin, traditional holiday decorations splashed with greens and reds covered every available wall and table. White sparkling lights gleamed from the ceiling, reflecting off wine glasses while classic pop tunes with a smattering of Christmas carols were played on a grand piano by a gentleman who mysteriously looked like Santa Claus in a black felted bowler hat. The twinkling tunes provided quiet background music and a much-needed distraction as we automatically started playing "Name That Tune" with each new musical selection.

Once the vessel was underway, sailing down the Willamette River at a leisurely pace, designated staff escorted each table to peruse the scrumptious banquet buffet filled with every kind of holiday dish imaginable. We laughed, sharing stories of previous celebratory meals as we filled our plates with turkey (I only eat white meat, Steve, dark meat, Isabel a little of each), prime rib, and green beans.

Then I got to the mashed potatoes. I froze, unable to dish anything else on my plate, for at that moment, I remembered Sebastian.

Sebastian loved mashed potatoes, but my son loved my mashed potatoes.

Every Thanksgiving, ever since Sebastian tasted his first bite of this American staple, I would peel at least five pounds of potatoes. Sebastian couldn't wait for the heap of creamy starches to pass his way. Sebastian, without hesitation, piled his entire plate with them, creating a deep crater ready for the turkey gravy.

Inevitably, we would hear shouts from his sister, who always sat across the table from him.

"Hey, you can't eat all the mashed potatoes! Save some for the rest of us."

"There's plenty." Sebastian would jovially reply. Looking at the empty bowl, he'd smile mischievously and happily announce. "Mom, I think we need more mashed potatoes."

God, I missed his grin.

Our plates filled with Thanksgiving goodies, including the dreaded potatoes, we mournfully hastened through the happy throngs of people and returned to our festive table.

I'm not sure who started crying first. We were surrounded by laughter, singing, clinking glasses, and toasts being declared as tears began running down our faces. We were remembering Sebastian and his love for mashed potatoes. We wanted him there with us as he filled his plate. We wanted to hear his deep bass voice.

We needed Sebastian to be with us, but he never would again.

Looking back, as we isolated ourselves on that Thanksgiving cruise, I remembered we weren't really alone. Sure, happy (mostly) people surrounded us, but God was with us on that boat, sheltering us from our raging storm. Just as Jesus calmed the storm on the Sea of Galilee, we found ourselves in a calm and safe space to cry and mourn the loss of our son and brother. Nobody on the cruise noticed us crying at the table, and somehow, it made it better.

We began telling funny stories about Sebastian; we laughed and started crying again. There was a little purging of the pain that had been so consuming us. It was nice to have a respite from the reality of death, and at the same time, I slowly started to realize that we might be able to get through this day in one piece with our hearts intact, except for the broken piece Sebastian took with him when he entered in Jesus' arms.

Eight Thanksgivings have now come and gone since Sebastian left us.

I peeled another five pounds of mashed potatoes in preparation for our friends, who would arrive in a few hours. Shaving away the brown skins of the Russet spuds, leaving only the white flesh we'd soon consume, I was again reminded of Sebastian's love for mashed potatoes and how much I missed him. The tears came without warning. They did this less often but always unexpectedly, filling my eyes with bittersweet memories.

My grief has lessened over the years; it's not nearly as overwhelming anymore. Grief is like a scar that remains after a past injury has finely healed. Just as an open wound bleeds profusely, so does fresh grief bleed. We can't stop the hemorrhaging of our broken hearts.

But while the wound is gushing copious amounts of blood all over us and we are frantically trying to stop the bleeding, a miracle, unbeknownst to us, has already started. Within seconds, blood cells start clumping together, knitting the wound and protecting it, and eventually, the bleeding stops. Healing has begun, and we didn't even know it. Within days, scabs develop, and over time, scars replace the once-damaged area.

The pain starts to fade as the wound begins to heal.

Scars, like grief, take a long time to heal—longer than we expect. At first, the scar is red, swollen, and misshapen. It can be painful when touched or bumped. The healed area can have a limited range of motion, and the replacement tissue is never as strong as the original.

Grief, like a scar, never goes away. They are both permanent reminders of past trauma and pain. But, with God's help, the mended tissue of grief slowly fades with each passing year until you hardly notice it.

Wounds heal, leaving scars behind, never to be the same again.

God spoke to his people through the prophet Isaiah about a man of sorrows. This man, familiar with suffering and grief, would be despised by the leaders of his day and not be held in high esteem. He'd take on the pain and punishment of the entire world and die for the transgressions of those he loved. This man would bring peace. Isaiah proclaimed, "By his stripes, we are healed (Isaiah 53:3-12)."

After his resurrection from the dead, Jesus showed himself to his disciples, and they were overjoyed. Of the eleven followers, only Thomas was missing. Later, when his friends told Thomas the excellent news, he didn't believe that Jesus was indeed alive. Thomas said he needed to see and touch the scars where the nails had pierced Jesus' hands and feet.

These scars would prove what happened to Jesus was true.

A week later, Jesus showed himself again to the apostles. He approached Thomas and said, "Put your finger here; see my hands, reach out your hand, and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe (John 20:27).” Thomas believed when he saw the scars. Jesus said, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed (John 20:29b)."

These same scars prove what Jesus did for me.

God showed his love and compassion to me by sending his son Jesus, born at Christmas time as a human baby in Bethlehem. Jesus became like me in every way possible, yet he did not sin. Jesus suffered as I have suffered, and so he understands my pain. Jesus did what no one else was able to do: dying on a cross, dying in my place so that I might have peace, healing in my grief, and forgiveness.

Even when crying in my mashed potatoes, God is with me. He continues walking alongside me, guiding my steps until my final days on this earth are over. When I pass through the last enemy of this world, death, I will see Jesus face to face, complete with scarred hands and feet. My grief will be wiped away in Jesus' presence.

"He (Jesus) will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away (Revelation 21:4)."