“Gilmore Girls” was a staple in our household when it was airing a decade ago. It was a coming of age story, filled with lots of quirkiness and charm but grounded in an unvarnished view of the challenges of human intimacy. I was skeptical going into the recent reunion show, “Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life” on Netflix. Having been disappointed by just about every attempt at rebooting a show after a long hiatus that I have ever seen, I was pleasantly surprised to find that this was different. It had the expected fan service–the call backs to obscure moments in the original series and cameos from almost everyone who ever even walked by the set–but it was something different and special all on its own. It was still a coming of age story and a story of complex relationships, but now it was also a story of mourning.
Edward Herrman played Richard Gilmore in the original series. Richard was an important character but not absolutely central. In fact, Herrman’s name in the credits of the original series was always introduced with the words “special appearance by,” as if to underline the tangential nature of his character. However, Herrman died in 2014, meaning he would not appear in the reunion show. His absence would have to be addressed.
From all reports, this show was percolating in the mind of creator Amy Sherman-Palladino for many years. She knew what she wanted to do with it long before Herrman’s death was a factor. She could have easily dealt with the absence of Richard by saying he was off on a fishing trip or that he had run off with his secretary. She chose instead to make the death of Richard a central aspect of the show. Far from just a quick moment of sadness, the absence of Richard Gilmore colors the entire four episode arc. He is arguably more central and more important here than he ever was in the original series.
Grief is like this. It is not a momentary endeavor, an interlude of sadness in an otherwise productive and happy life. Mourning is a lifelong discipline. It colors and changes us. As a priest, I have been at many bedsides of the dying and seen many people mourn. Grief is as unique as a snowflake. Every person experiences every loss in a different way. The losses do not recede with time the way that people say that they will. Instead, they slowly work their way into the fabric of life, changing the way we love, the way we trust, and the way we see the world.
My maternal grandmother died in 2003. She was just shy of 78, not tremendously elderly by today’s standards but old enough that no one would have said that she died without ever getting a chance to live. She was a complicated woman whose life was not always easy and whose choices were not always good, but to me she was always a figure of pure love and support. Her absence from my life, even after all these years, still feels something like the soreness in the gums at the place where a tooth has fallen out. Something is missing that belongs there, something that could easily be overlooked when it was still there and functioning but that is immediately apparent when it disappears.
Recently, my good friend and colleague in ministry, Fr. Brewster Hastings, died quite unexpectedly. I had no idea how important he was to me until he was suddenly gone. He had been my spiritual director, my mentor, and at times even my confessor. He walked me through a good many difficulties. I did not thank him enough. I did not appreciate him nearly enough. I am quite certain that I will still be feeling his loss in a decade.
We live in a society that tries to deny death. Part of that denial includes the denial of grief. We see it as something to get over or get through. We try to psychologize it. We expect it to get better. We tell people that it will get better. But it doesn’t get better. And here’s the real kicker, it shouldn’t get better.
Grief is not a bad thing. It is not a problem. It is one of the truly great gifts of human life. It is a hellish gift, to be sure, but it is a gift all the same. What the constant throb of grief reminds us is how important life is and how unfair death is. We act sometimes as if death is natural. We try to make friends with it. We comfort people by saying things like, “It was just his time” or “she lived a good, long life and she’s not suffering anymore,” or worst of all, “God called him home.” None of these sentiments tell the truth. Death is an aberration. It is completely without dignity. It robs us every time, whether the person in question lived a long life or not. God is not the author of death. God never intended for us to die. Death is the outworking of sin in the world. It is the warping of God’s plans and intentions.
Grief reminds us that death is our foe, not our friend. Grief can also give us clarity about what is important in life. In the new Gilmore Girls series, the grief experienced by Emily, Richard’s widow, completely changes her, making her realize that many of the things she once thought were important never really were. Living in the shadow of Richard’s memory eventually gives her an odd kind of courage to be kinder to people and to let go of many things that simply do not matter. In a strange sort of way, his death becomes a sacrificial offering for her. It allows her to live more fully, not because she gets over him but because she finds in the pain an untapped potential for beauty and human connection.
The grief I have known has had a similar though as yet less complete effect in my life. I cannot say that I have become a totally different person, but I have grown more sensitive to things I would not have noticed before, things like the difficulties of life for people as they age, the loneliness of widows, and the often unnoticed humanity of the very sick. Like all suffering, grief has tempered my soul. It has made me love more deeply even as it has made me more aware of my own failings to live up to love’s promise.
As a Christian, of course, grief takes on a whole different dimension. It is a reminder of the fact that the very love of God is borne out of grief. So God loved the world that He sent His only Son to die for us. His death on the cross is the ultimate example of fashioning love out of grief. When I encounter the crucifix, there is a dual feeling that often runs through me, a sense of shame at my own sinfulness and a corresponding joy at the fact that His death has lifted it from me. Sometimes in those moments, I suddenly realize anew that Jesus died for me and that I never really saw what I had before. In those moments, I become a Christian for real. It is a religion of bitter sweet love, a piety of grieving happy tears.
And of course, bound up in all of this is the promise of resurrection and the hope of the life to come. Those who have died are not gone, though they may be gone from us. I pray now for Fr. Brewster and for my grandmother and for all those who are on another shore. I pray for their repose in Christ. I hope they pray for me. I learn over and over again, every day, to trust them to God’s care. That too is a gift.
Edward Herrman was a faithful Catholic. I think he would have liked how “Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life” portrayed the loss of his character. There is another shore where Herrman and Fr. Brewster and my grandmother all see a horizon that I only catch glimpses of now. May their souls and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. And may we who grieve never take the gift of our grief for granted.