Golf and Grief

According to the National Eye Institute, only 5–10% of Americans are farsighted. I'm one of them.

For years, I assumed that would give me an advantage on the golf course. Surely I'd be the one who could keep an eye on that tiny 1.68-inch white ball, trace its flight, and help my group find the shots that wandered into the rough. Instead, I was the one asking, "Where did it go?"

Time and again, I lost track of the ball. Sometimes I never saw it at all. My depth perception was off, and I wasn't nearly the spotter I thought I'd be.

My golf girlfriends took me out and gave me the grace to be a lot of things...!

At my annual eye exam, I finally got an explanation. My ophthalmologist told me that the prescription I wear every day intentionally compromises my distance vision in order to improve my vision up close. If I wanted sharper distance vision for golf, I could wear a different prescription or contacts on the course. I decided I would stay with what I have (to be honest, I'm not that a serious of a golfer / good enough to do that).

I did however, find solace is coming to realize that what I was really seeking wasn't a new prescription—it was an explanation. And I got one: My vision, though compromised, is corrected.

Lately, I've realized that's how grief works, too. Death, loss, and sorrow have compromised my vision. They have changed the way I see the world, the future, and even myself. But, I see. In fact, I have resources to correct my vision. Even strengthen it. I'm lucky. And through this experience, I understand that golf has become an unexpected teacher. The purpose of this post is to provide three examples. I hope one or two will resonate with you.

Women Show Up
In the eulogy I gave for my mom, I mentioned the fourth station of the Cross: Jesus meets His Mother. In the time since my mom's death, the significance of the Ninth Station of the Cross has been revealed to me: Jesus meets the Women of Jerusalem. 

It is written that Christ encountered a large crowd of women who mourned and lamented Him. They wanted Him to know this burden was not His to carry alone. 

I joined the Olympic Club in 2013 and signed up for the Women's Golf Network. In 13 years time, I have played and competed against these ladies at home and on travel trips. It is a multigenerational group. We are single and married, with or without children. There are women who are new to golf and others who have played for most of their life. What brings us together is golf. 

These women get it, and that is evidenced by the number of cards, emails and messages I have received from them. They understand the special relationship between mothers and daughters. They know what it's like to lose a parent, and what my mom meant to me. Even though my mom didn't play golf, though she isn't someone they met, they mourn for me.

Grateful for ALL of the cards I received. These are just the ones from my golf girls...

There is no official grief committee among us, and yet I cannot describe how moved I have been by their words of sympathy and condolence, wisdom and kindness. This outreach is remarkable and it's important. I show up at my golf club to have fun and recreate. To be able to go there and know that people know a little bit about the heavy heart I carry makes it easier to be present and in the moment.

Truly, SO many of my colleagues and friends have done the same, but this golf group of women has taken me by surprise; I am grateful.

Look up and Out
The nature of playing golf means there's time to talk. I think it might be easier to open up and talk because both parties are often looking toward the pin and not at each other. Golf leaves its own room for conversation. Somehow that stance makes sharing a little easier. 

I asked a dear friend how he was doing after losing his dad. Some time had passed. He told me he had felt numb for the first few months. Those words stayed with me.

Everyone grieves differently. There is no right way to mourn. But he had given language to something I couldn't yet name. Since my mom died, I haven't had the same edge, the same zip, the same instinct to chase after things. Grief comes in waves. Right now, I'm still in the ocean.

When Jimmy came to my mom's funeral, I told him I finally understood what he had shared with me on the course. "I trust it gets better," I said.

He smiled and replied, "We'll talk."

We're due for another round.

Peripheral Vision
So much about golf is counterintuitive. Less is more. Slow is fast. Trying harder often makes you worse. And while golf demands that you keep your eye on the ball, good golfers rely on their peripheral vision as well. They see more than the shot in front of them. They notice the wind, the contours of the fairway, the hazards, the opening to the green. They hold the whole course in view.

Thinking back over the last seven months, I realized I saw my mom's decline the same way.

Walking down the hallway, I caught a glimpse of her caregiver helping her from the corner of my eye. In that instant, I saw how frail she had become.

Later, leaving the skilled nursing facility, I looked through the rehabilitation room and saw her working with a physical therapist. She was trying so hard to keep up. There were moments when I wondered whether she wanted to get better. That glimpse answered my question. She was fighting with everything she had.

It is brutal to watch someone you love die.

Maybe that's why we never really see it with near sight.We absorb it in glimpses. Out of the corner of our eye. A moment here. A moment there. Slowly, almost mercifully, our hearts begin to accept what our minds cannot bear all at once.

In Conclusion
Golf is a great game because it teaches you about yourself.  It teaches me to look up and out, to accept what is in front of me, to trust companions who walk beside me, and to notice what appears at the edge of my vision. Grief has undoubtedly compromised my sight, but it has not taken away my ability to see. Through faith, friendship, and the quiet lessons of the fairway, my vision continues to be corrected. Maybe that's what healing is—not returning to the way we once saw the world, but learning to see it anew.

But we do not grieve as people without hope, for Christ the Lord has risen to die no more. He has taken us into the mystery and the grace of this life that springs up from death. 
—Constitutions of the Congregation of Holy Cross, Constitution 8.118