We’ve all heard statements such as “She was too good for this world” and “He made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.” It is the language of those who are seeking comfort and meaning after the impact of a loved one’s passing. No matter how frequently it’s voiced, the pain accompanying such language is always fresh.
When someone passes from our sight, it may feel as though all that gave meaning to life has been torn away; that it’s a struggle simply to stay afloat and to maintain an even course on a sea of overwhelming sorrow. Just managing fragile feelings may be the best one can do at such times. Buffeted by doubt, one hopes for release from these feelings, and to be able to regenerate a weakened faith in good, or God. Questions arising from tragedy and loss aren’t easily answered. “Where was God? Why did it happen? What more could I have done to help them?” are words that describe a struggle that is deep. It is the language of grief.
Then there is the language of Spirit. “Ear hath not heard, nor hath lip spoken, the pure language of Spirit,” Mary Baker Eddy wrote in Science and Health (p. 117). It is the language of the Comforter, healing the anguished and sorrowful thought, and answering every human need. It is as silent, powerful, and dependable as a sunrise or a planet’s rotation, and is sensed when human thought is hushed. Its language encourages, strengthens resolve, and promises lasting peace, while opening thought to new ways of seeing life. It invites the mourner to consider an inspired response to the loss, insisting that those who are no longer in our sight, young or old, are continuing to gain a larger, infinitely larger, understanding of Life as God. It’s comforting to know that God, Life itself, never loses sight of His reflection, His child. God sees all of His children as spiritual, eternally coexistent with Him, not as mortals, or as victims of a mortal body or circumstance, but always as precious and unique, never alone, always enveloped in the oneness of Love.