Something and Nothing Like Closure

Editor’s note: You can find moments of peace through Jesus even after terrible loss. Comedian Rickey Smiley’s new book Sideshow is an invitation from a fellow bereaved brother in Christ to find solace in God who is our strength. Remember… But, God… Enjoy this excerpt.

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We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose. — Romans 8:28 NIV

Can you ever truly find closure after losing a loved one? It’s a question that has haunted me in the months since my son’s passing, and here’s where I’ve landed.

I’m not sure finding closure is something we can ever really do when we’ve lost a child. How would that even work? Closure isn’t something that just happens or that you stumble upon. In fact, we don’t find closure at all. We create it. For me, creating closure has meant actively facing my grief, head-on. Allowing myself to feel every raw emotion that comes with it. That’s what I share with other grieving parents. If you feel like crying, cry. Get it out of your system. Let it out. Let the tears flow.

My therapist once told me that our brains can hold all our memories and emotions, including the ones from many years ago. And even when we don’t use them, they are there, like fossils, buried deep. In fact, according to researchers at NYU’s Center for Neural Science, the brain stores fear memories through a “process called memory consolidation in which an experience is captured, or encoded, then stored.”1 I know from firsthand experience that just because you don’t cry doesn’t mean the pain driving the tears you won’t let fall isn’t still there. Our brains store all these feelings, and eventually they are going to come out one way or another. For me, once I got my children and close family squared away after the funeral, I could finally give myself permission to truly mourn the loss of my son in whatever way felt right to me.

Honestly, though, I’m not even sure closure is all about grieving. I think we create closure when we find a way to honor the memory of the person we’ve lost. Every day that I show up to my life and live it in a way that would make my son proud, I am creating the closure I need. Every day that I stand on a stage and make people laugh, I’m creating the closure I need. In the wake of his passing, I’ve made it my mission not to allow the hard parts of generosity to stop me from extending a hand to anyone who needs it. Whether it’s sending flowers to a grieving family or offering a shoulder to cry on, I will continue to do whatever I can to spread a little bit of light in the darkness, knowing just how much the light I’ve received has helped me see.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit that therapy wasn’t something I ever wanted to do. I’ve always been the kind of guy who preferred to handle things on his own. To soldier through the rough times with a smile on my face. But losing a child changes you in ways you never could have imagined. It shakes you to your core, leaving behind a void that feels impossible to fill. That’s where therapy comes in. It’s like a life preserver. When I talk to my therapist, I know I am in a safe space to explore whatever complicated emotions might have shown up for me that week. I can unpack the grief and anger and regret that come with my loss.

While it’s changing a little bit, there are still parts of the Black community where it’s hard to help people understand the benefits of therapy. We don’t want to talk to nobody. And in the Black church, the stigma can be even worse. We are taught to just pray about our pain and trauma. We are supposed to just leave it in God’s hands. We are indirectly told that if we are still feeling the pain of grief, then somehow, we don’t have enough faith. But I know from my experience that this is categorically untrue. My faith is what drives me to my therapist’s office. I don’t ever have to divorce my trust in God from my need to receive help from someone who actually knows how the brain works, who knows how the body responds to emotional pain. Both things can be true.

• I can love God and pray for my healing. I can also go to a professional who God uses to help me along the way.

Going to therapy, and encouraging my children to go to therapy, is one way I’ve regularly and actively tried to create closure. Therapy isn’t about being weak or broken. Not at all. For anyone struggling to heal from trauma or loss, who might be feeling like they are drowning, therapy is a lifeline. It’s an avenue I believe God uses to, as the Bible says, “[heal] the brokenhearted and [bind] up [our] wounds” (Psalm 147:3). So I do encourage you not to be afraid to talk to someone. 

Do I believe that Jesus is the ultimate therapist? Of course I do. In Matthew 11:28–30, He said, 

Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light. — NIV

But I also think this same Bible passage is modeling for us a way we can approach our worries and grief in real time. Who else can we bring our burdens to and lay them down? A therapist might be a good starting place.

We create closure when we are generous with our time. We create it in therapy. And I think part of creating closure for ourselves when we are holding so much grief is remembering that even in the darkness of despair, there is a purpose.

It’s hard to hear that our grief has a purpose. We push back against the idea that God might use our pain for good because that feels wrong. And I get it. But if we believe that God is with us through the ups and downs of life and we also believe that God is good, then why wouldn’t we believe that God, in His awareness of all the things we go through, will somehow, as the ultimate Creator, transform our pain into something useful for us?

I really don’t think this is the same thing as believing God causes our pain. I can’t bring myself to believe that God “took my son,” even though that’s the language some people use as a way to make sense of things. The old church folks used to say, “God wanted him back home.” Or they might say, “Well, you loved him, but God loved him best.” I kind of understand this because, in their own way, people are trying to reckon with this terrible thing that has happened. It’s a way to comprehend the incomprehensible.

Yet I question whether this is true, given our free will. We get to make our own choices. I’ve got to believe that when we make a choice that leads to our demise, the people who are left behind are comforted by God. It’s not that God inflicts pain upon us, but rather, He stands ready to offer solace and comfort through the indwelling of His Spirit.

Nevertheless, this reassurance does little to ease the rawness of our grief. It doesn’t make it feel good. Which is why some people might even resist the good that’s born from the pain — because they don’t feel worthy of it. They don’t feel like they should embrace anything good because of the loss they experienced. But I choose to believe that any positive outcome since the loss of my son is a reflection of Brandon’s desires for me. I believe he is now part of that great cloud of witnesses who are rooting me on as I grow from this experience. He’s wanting joy and love and peace for me.

I choose to believe all this because to entertain any other narrative would be to invite devastation of unimaginable proportions. And at the end of the day, all we have is our faith. All we have is what we believe. Even those who don’t believe in God believe in something. Those without faith cling to something amid deep grief. For me, faith is my anchor when nothing else makes sense. It is what I cling to.

Again, I don’t ever want to pretend like holding on to faith and trusting that good can come from loss is easy. It’s not. But I’ve seen where a person has lost a family member, even a child, and has gone on to preach their greatest sermon or grow their business in a way they never had before. I’ve seen people transform their pain into a book that blesses millions of people or a chart-topping song that resonates with folks who have gone through similar issues.

It’s so important for us to be open to what God might do. To believe that God can orchestrate something good from the pain.

That kind of hope is healing. While it will never erase the ache of loss or bring back our loved ones, it offers a pathway to healing. If we can experience the greatest loss of our lives and still have a little hope that something beautiful will come from the experience, then why not embrace that? No, it won’t bring Brandon back. Hope won’t bring our loved ones back. But it can be a salve that will help us, in the long run, to heal from the challenges of the past and emotional turmoil sure to come. The grief process is filled with twists and turns, highs and lows — that much is clear. Yet there exists a thread of divine purpose, weaving its way through the fabric of our pain. God can take the broken pieces of our hearts and fashion them into something beautiful.

Romans 8:28 says,

We know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose. — NIV 

This verse reminds me that Brandon’s passing, as devastating as it may be, was not in vain. Through faith and perseverance and support, we can find meaning and purpose even when we’re in the most pain. I’m not sure grief is something we get over. I think it’s something that just gets integrated into our lives. It becomes part of us. Part of creating closure is accepting that there really isn’t any closure to be had. At least not in the sense that there is an ending to my experience, a destination that I somehow arrive at on this healing journey, or a point in time when I won’t remember. I will always remember.

I just wish more people knew that. 

As much as family and friends have lent me their shoulders to cry on, their ears to listen, or given me a hug when I needed it, there are many who showed their true colors at the worst possible time. That’s important for you to know also. In fact, if you’ve been through a loss, chances are you’ve seen it too. People who turn your memories into machetes and try to cut you with them. People who don’t know how to hold their own grief and pain and so they lash out at you. People who use your loss as a way to hurt you.

You might find yourself looking around and wondering what is happening. Why are people acting out the way they are, at such a difficult time? What do you do about that when it happens? Well, sometimes it’s necessary to start with calling a thing, a thing. To name what is happening. For me, I’ve come to realize that there can’t be a story of healing from loss without sharing the sometimes-ugly parts of how loss can play out in families. How I’ve been treated since he died. 

When Black church folks say, “But God...” and they leave the rest of that phrase hanging, this is what I think about. All the ways I felt abandoned, and how God filled in the gaps. 

1. “Neuroscientists Show How Brain Stores Memories of Specific Fears,” NYU Center for Neural Science, April 2, 2010, https://www.nyu.edu/about/news-publications/news/2010/april/neuroscientists_ show.html.

Excerpted with permission from Sideshow by Rickey Smiley, copyright Rickey Smiley. 

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Your Turn

The grief of bereavement isn’t necessarily you get over; it’s something that, with Jesus, you get through. If you’re in the thick of it, remember that God gave us each other on purpose and consider talking through your emotions with a trusted therapist. But, God… ~ Devotionals Daily