When All Hallows’ Eve Comes Around

Hi folks, I hope you’re all doing well!

We have a couple of things happening this weekend. Firstly, on Saturday evening, we’ll be gathering on King Edward’s Bay beach for our Dusking event. We’ll meet at 3.30pm to say farewell to summer and welcome in winter. We’ll also take a little time to remember those we have loved and lost, with lanterns glowing around the labyrinth. It’s always a special and profound moment to pause, remember, and give thanks.

Continuing with that theme, I’m grateful to Karen for writing our blog this week. We’ll be meeting at the Tynemouth Castle Inn at 7.30pm on Sunday evening, so do come along if you’d like to join us. It would be lovely to see you!

Last March, my mum died unexpectedly. Since then, grief has become part of everyday life as I’ve learned to navigate her loss while also taking on caring responsibilities for my dad.

People often talk about grief as something you “work through”, but I’ve discovered it’s more something you learn to carry. Some days it’s light. Some days it catches you completely by surprise.

At the end of last year I attended a ‘Grief Circle’ bereavement group. One of the activities was creating a memory jar using coloured chalk and salt. Each layer represented a memory or a moment we wanted to remember.

I thought it would be a simple craft activity.

It wasn’t.

As I poured each layer into the jar, memories surfaced that I hadn’t thought about for years. Before I knew it, the emotions were spilling out too.

I found myself smiling through tears as I remembered the day she forgot her swimming costume and decided to go swimming in Tynemouth Pool in her pants and vest. I laughed thinking about the time she produced a Tupperware box full of homemade Christmas cake in the middle of a busy café, completely oblivious to the curious looks from other people.

Those are the memories I treasure. Not the big milestones, but the wonderfully ordinary moments that made her who she was.

What struck me afterwards wasn’t just the memories themselves, but how rarely we have space to share them. 

After she died, people were incredibly kind. There were cards, flowers and messages. But as the weeks and months pass, something changes. It’s almost as if there’s an unspoken belief that grief should become smaller, quieter and less visible.

I know people worry about saying the wrong thing, or about upsetting someone who has experienced a loss.

The truth is that many times I’ve wished someone would simply ask.

Tell me about your mum.

What’s your favourite memory?

What do you miss most?

Most people who are grieving haven’t forgotten. We don’t need reminding. But we do sometimes need permission to talk.

Those conversations often lead to bigger questions too. And if I’m completely honest, it’s not just grief that I’ve wrestled with. 

I’ve wrestled with faith too. As a Christian, I’ve heard all my life about heaven and the hope of eternal life. 

Yet since Mum died, I’ve discovered that faith and certainty are not the same thing. I don’t feel her presence around me. I don’t have a clear picture of where she is. All I can feel is the space she left behind.

For a while, that made me uncomfortable. I thought faith meant having answers. Now I think faith might mean learning to live with some questions.

The truth is, I don’t know if heaven is a place. I don’t know exactly what happens after death. I don’t know where Mum is in any way I can properly describe.

What I do know is that she was loved. Deeply loved by her family and friends, and I believe, deeply loved by God.

So when certainty feels beyond me, I hold on to trust instead.

As All Hallows’ Eve approaches, perhaps that’s what remembrance is really about. Not having all the answers, but making space for memories, stories, laughter, tears and conversations about the people who shaped our lives.

Because they still matter.

Every time I tell the story about Mum swimming in her pants and vest, or unpacking Christmas cake in a crowded café, she feels just a little closer.

And perhaps that’s why the stories matter too.

Sometimes the greatest gift we can give one another isn’t advice or answers. It’s the chance to tell a story about someone we love. ❤️

Conversation Starters

• What funny story do you never get tired of telling?

 

• What’s an object in your home that has a story behind it? (bring it with you if you can)

 

• What’s something small that always makes you think of someone you love? 

 

• What do you think makes conversations about grief easier or harder?

 

• How can we help people feel supported when they’re grieving?

 

• Have you any tips about what/what not to say?

 

• How has faith, spirituality, or your personal beliefs shaped your experience of grief?

 

• What about heaven – what’s your current thinking about this and what has shaped it? 

Thanks, Rob

 

Photo: Karen Wylie