Gifts from Grief

Last Friday, I spent all day decorating our house for Christmas.  Our tree had been up for a week and the kids' winter break was about to begin.  The prospect of sixteen days off sure made me merry and bright! And as I opened the boxes and bins of old decorations, they became fresh with meaning. I framed holiday cards given to us in past years and placed them around the house. Some of them represent new friendships that were painful to leave so soon. Other pieces hold memories with my family long ago yet felt different today. Pondering the gifts of the years filled me with joy.

Grief has also had its place, so I've pondered it. We won't be home (in NJ) for the holidays. That's only ever happened once, the year Owen was born. Even then, he and I flew home for a visit just weeks into the new year. Today, we have no idea when we might return.  to that place and a circles of circles of family and friends that are changing now without us. "Even when you're moving for positive reasons... moving is a major grief event," says Russell Friedman (Grief Recovery Institute). "Rather than avoiding the feelings of grief, lean into them... Grief is the way out of the pain."

Most of us on Earth are either grieving or living not far from grief. Some can't be home at the holidays, some are truly alone. Others grieve secretly while some are unaware that grief is the secret they hold. Sometimes it comes by utter devastation or by sudden loss. Other times it's simply a bi-product of the natural course of life. No matter, grief is painful. Whatever the circumstance, Friedman's definition will fit:     

 "the conflicting emotions caused by the end of or change in a familiar pattern of behavior."

Not long after our August move, a friend of ours kindly reopened the door to permission when she said I should take all the time I need. Change takes time to navigate. Even really good change. We already enjoy so much about our life in Colorado that people are confused sometimes when I say I'm doing well. It doesn't mean I don't have grief to walk through, that many moments are not hard. I'm just not depressed about what I don't have, about the distance, or even about the grave financial struggle that's come with relocating.

Grief doesn't exist in an emotional vacuum apart from peace, beauty, love. Likewise, there's a joy that is only found once we've known loss. It's why I'm thankful for past seasons of grief, why we can celebrate even in the midst of sorrow. On December 23, 1862, Abraham Lincoln wrote a letter of condolence to the daughter of an old friend, William McCullough, who'd just been killed in the war. Lincoln wanted to assure her even in the depths of anguish: "The memory of your dear father, instead of agony, will yet be a sad sweet feeling in your heart, of a purer, and holier sort than you have known before." We may never be the same after mourning, but we can become more.  

Perhaps through grief we find a friendship that stands the test of turmoil. Maybe after extensive sicknesses we experience profound health for the first time. A tragedy may restart our hearts with a fresh focus on what's really important. One season of grief may uncover a former loss we were never able to process till now. These are gifts we find even as our days bring loss.

Here we are at Christmas. This season enunciates the Greatest Gift ever to come from emptying and ultimate loss.  God himself would become a child and suffer all that man could, in order to make us whole. Wholly his. Rejected, despised, a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief... Jesus the Son and Light of the World knows our pain personally and always offers more of himself in the dark places. A letting go can make room. 

Rainer Maria Rilke famously spoke, "Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final." Here is a poem of his, in the same vein.

LET THIS DARKNESS BE A BELL TOWER

Quiet friend who has come so far,
feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

You are here. You are alive.
You and I.
Let's keep going.

I'm back

I guess I'm back on Blogger with tales to tell in a whole new place. A literal one this time.

We moved to Colorado over the summer and now live in the one of the country's richest, "safest," cleanest places.  In Boulder County, the beauty alone evokes pleasure, strength and venture with every daybreak! The receptiveness from everyone we meet is wonderful and it frees us to be ourselves. It’s nearly too much to comprehend how many facets of opportunity this culture provides to enrich our lives.  This is a season for restoration and enlargement.

Intriguing, then, are the frequent dreams at night that I have of home in NJ. With all the celebration I'm taking in, I'm not longing to go back. They’re not leftover nightmares about troubled days, either. But they do cause heartache.  Sometimes the prostitutes appear, the homeless, the drug dealers, the imprisoned.  They’re all there, with our other neighbors and friends, going about their usual business like any other day in Millville.  And I’m there with them.

As major changes go, it's natural to miss what's familiar, and our neighborhood was the thing most palpable, dynamic and affecting to me.  It wasn’t relatives nearby, our church friends, the other places I frequented or my regular escapes into nature. Life was a struggle on our troubled street, but it was home.  And it’s where I loved and found Love.

I’m paying attention to these dreams and the feelings welling up, to the grief over how much tragedy occurs and how many lives are ever-stuck in emptiness, darkness and despair.  I’m considering how it all translates into life here and the now-distant relationship to Millville.  Yet I recognize the need to let things play out as they will, in their own timing, so to enjoy the gift of the present.

Years ago, Kenn gave me Mother Teresa’s A Simple Path.  I do prefer weightier books but decided to read it another time.  It’s straightforward, like the life of Teresa and her fellow missionaries: all sincere yet most unsophisticated.  Except for their love.  To simply love, with no questions asked (or strings attached) and no judgments made, this is the most profound way of life.  It is The Way.

Almost daily, I celebrate how our NJ days rooted us deeper on that Way.  Those times enlighten these, like a preface to a book. How will this story of Love go on?  Let's let the Artist do the unveiling.

Unfold the Tapestry.

Life as a fledgling

My four-year-old decided to mimic my journal writing (in my journal).  It was cute, until I told her she had to stop to get ready for school and she threw a fit.  Her desire to be grown up is sometimes so endearing but other times it's maddening.  I have lost count of the moments she's insisted she could do something without help and has hurt herself trying.  I'm glad I am there to pick her up again.

I've realized this is my story, even as an adult.  Now and then, I'll wander just far enough by myself and start to get this idea that I've gained enough insight, strength in the wings, that now I'm ready to fly.  Solo. To handle it all alone and suddenly soar.  Never to return?

I love the book, Are You My Mother?.  That baby bird is  pretty cute. He's determined to find his mother.  I will! he says. I WILL!  He jumps (and falls) out of the tree, wanders among strangers, gets a little confused, and doesn't find his mother.  Something scary swoops in and that scary thing takes him home.  His mother returns and the baby bird thinks he's the one who's found her.  How endearing.  She humors him.  Can beaks smirk? They do in children's stories because I can hear her thoughts, Mm hmm, you sure are smart, little one! You've figured it out all by yourself. Look how far you've come!

In actuality, the bird still hasn't learned to fly.  He's a fledgling.  He may be strong enough to try to fly, even leave the nest for a bit, but his mother's job is not done.

It usually takes something of the scary sort to help me find my way home again.  To remember, even if I know how to fly, that the soaring only comes in surrender.  I yield again to the reality that I can't do it alone, and flying with wings like the eagle only happens when I trust the Wind alone.

No matter how far I have come, I need to let the Wind carry me... and lift me again when I jump and fall. 

Spirit, teach me how to really fly.  Teach me long. 



*Second photo image taken from illustration by P. D. Eastman ©1960

how does your garden grow?

i may have inherited a green thumb from the dear gardeners in my family. i'm surely no expert, but i have learned how much effort, time, patience and carefulness it takes. and don't forget ingenuity! yet even with the best sweat, the process can be downright disappointing sometimes.

for example, take efforts thwarted by insects and other animals. you choose a tiny seed, dig in dirt and position it just so, water and watch and water some more. a small stem starts to show sweet little leaves and excitement begins to build. the care continues and the dreams of a lush garden light your whole day . . . until those leaves are chewed right down to nothing!

living life as a Kingdom servant can be likened to this. you pour yourself into others, dreaming of the beauty they could enjoy some day. you sacrifice time and share your belongings, open your heart and help carry theirs. you push yourself to give and stretch your ability to commit. then you start seeing changes in how they treat others or in the kinds of choices they make. excitement builds and it's easier to imagine healing, restored faith, a transformed family and sometimes even a holy city!

until a neighbor disappears for awhile. or one who claimed his need for change, proving grateful for support, finds it easier to stay stuck in old patterns. or a family who seemed headed toward reconciliation falls into turmoil again. or a period of peace in the neighborhood is upset by another rash of violence.

our lives are teeming with "pests" that interrupt growth. maybe it's addiction. maybe fear, or denial, selfishness, anger, greed. some we choose ourselves and others are inflicted upon us, but the list that tears and destroys is endless. when it seems no green could appear and never a blossom would show, we need to trust the Master Gardener. the One who plants life in us will continue to tend to what's begun. and recognize this: when we serve others in the love of Jesus, pour out our time in prayer for them, willingly invite them into our families and become a shining light in their midst through our faithfulness, something of life gets rooted in their hearts and in ours.

which seeds will take root for good, we may not know. just keep going back to the garden. water, prune, and address those irksome pests. and picture the garden full and vibrant one day, flowing over with beauty.

it's okay: a work in progress

i think i'm learning a little bit more about ambiguity and unanswered questions, about striving and settling.

like this weekend. i was six hours away from home and my babies, and my sweet 3-year-old ended up in the hospital. it was likely he'd be just fine, but i really did fear i might lose him. now i look back on it and think, was there more to take away from that experience? should my reaction to his healing have been as intense as my fear of his failing? did i miss something?

yes, i'm learning.
it's okay to not know how to respond.
it's okay to wonder what's going on and not come up with an answer.
it's okay to revel in the glimpse of something without jumping to seize the whole picture.
it's okay to speak what i sense is utterly true, even when it's depths i cannot grasp nor wholly express.
it's okay to stay put when divergence enters the room.
it's okay to feel less than inspired after a conversation.
it's okay to start something i may not finish today.
it's okay to try something, not knowing where it'll take me.

it's more than okay.

i am learning a little bit more about my compulsion to get everything just right. mind, matter, me, you.

i'll probably pursue more insight into the crazy weekend, but i think i'll be okay if i don't.