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March 5 - March 17, 2024
Threads of toxic positivity weave their persistent way through our narratives. We can admit that we are struggling, but we’d better resolve the conversation with a clear articulation of our hope. We can state that we need help, but we’d better be careful not to scare people.
I crossed my fingers and prayed that no one would approach me with that concerned face, the furrowed brow and pursed lips, and ask how I was really doing. Somehow, though, I was also simultaneously afraid that no one would ask! I was scared that my pain was invisible, that I was forgotten. These conflicting desires, these inexplicable emotions—this is why the bereaved so often just want to stay home and hide.
The incoherence of bereavement isn’t exactly the kind of thing that can be articulated in a succinct sound bite. There’s no elevator speech for grief.
Meghan O’Rourke writes, “Without ritual, the only way to share a loss was to talk about it… I wanted a way to show my grief rather than tell it.”
The truth is, I want it both ways. I want people to notice my pain, but not in a voyeuristic way. I want people’s support, but not their speculation. I want to be seen without having to showboat. But I’m smart enough to know we live in such a noisy world that sometimes we have to wave our arms to be noticed.
And if I am silent, I worry sometimes that no one sees me at all.
Contrary to popular belief, having a baby does not mentally and emotionally undo a previous miscarriage.
It seems to me like grief has taken up permanent residence in my life, like a bad roommate who always leaves a mess, clutters up my well-ordered existence, and never pays her share of the rent. There’s no way to evict grief, nowhere for grief to go. It’s a parasite, a freeloader, a leech.
Death is fast. But grief is slow.
Proverb 30:15–16 articulates the enduring tenacity of grief: “There are three things that are never satisfied, four that never say, ‘Enough!’; the grave, the barren womb, land, which is never satisfied with water, and fire, which never says, ‘Enough!’”
Grief is an existential testimony to the worth of the one loved.
the work of grief is less about release and more about learning how to hold on in a way that is healthy and whole.
To grieve is to love.
Grief is learning to endure, to bear up under the beautiful burden of love.
I’ve come to believe that just because I’m devastated doesn’t mean I’m not coping well.
I’m not sure I would put this weight down even if I could. I think of the people I’ve lost. I loved them. I still love them. To say it was easy or that I was past it would be to diminish the love we shared. Because of my love for them, I will endure the long, slow, plodding toll of grief.21
Frederick Buechner: “Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”
I used to make up things about my grief. I used to tell myself that my losses weren’t that bad, that I was going to be just fine.
What is this propensity in us to be so unwilling to admit that something is truly, totally, and spectacularly awful? I’ve come to believe that the best thing you can do in grief is tell yourself the truth. Every bit of it.
But if we tell ourselves the truth about the bad, we must also tell ourselves the truth about the good. No, we will not be miserable forever.
“‘Meaningless! Meaningless!’ says the Teacher. ‘Utterly meaningless! Everything is meaningless!’” (Eccl. 1:2). This didn’t exactly square with my American evangelical commitment to Christocentric positivity.
With wisdom comes much sorrow; with pleasure and wealth comes disappointment; with toil come fatigue and restlessness.
The thought that I could be accompanied by joy as I walk through the pain and toil of life is deeply hopeful. It is almost as if the antidote to sorrow is savoring.
It’s important to remember that many of history’s most prominent hedonists, such as Epicurus, advocated not for drunkenness, gluttony, or lechery, but rather for the prudent pursuit of freedom from fear and anxiety.
If anything, grief increases our capacity to be thankful. The good things in life taste sweeter when we have tasted the bitterness of death.
Kahlil Gibran’s “On Joy and Sorrow.” In it, he writes: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Sittser puts it this way: “The soul is elastic, like a balloon. It can grow larger through suffering. Loss can enlarge its capacity for anger, depression, despair, and anguish, all natural and legitimate emotions whenever we experience loss. Once enlarged, the soul is also capable of experiencing greater joy, strength, peace, and love.”
Grief uniquely outfits us to experience the joys of life.
The ultimate act of resistance is to enjoy life, to savor it with every bit of strength I have left in me, to eat, drink, and be merry. We must feast on life.
“If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it… don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.”
To this day, it is this embarrassment that is the most perplexing emotion I’ve felt in response to death. I know this might sound strange and, frankly, I find it impossible to even describe. But I felt like a failure. I felt like I’d been caught unaware, like I’d been ambushed. I felt irresponsible somehow, like I’d let my guard down or been naive.
Anxiety demands that we experience the pain of a loss before it even happens and then again if and when it actually does happen.
I’ve heard from many people that their tolerance for violence or tragedy in their entertainment was greatly diminished after they experienced significant grief in their own lives.
I missed it. A ritual passed away before my very eyes. I’d been too busy, too caught up in the demands of life. I had participated in its extinction.
what do I do with myself now that I am walking around with this horrible wound and deep sense of knowing what it means to be mortal?
What has been accomplished by all this grief? Is there any silver lining, any redemption to be found? Is the wisdom I’ve gained worth the loss I’ve endured? Wouldn’t I still go back and change it all?
“We comfort a sufferer,” he writes, “when we give him courage to bear his pain or face his misfortune. Comfort is what sets him on his feet.”
Grief gave birth to something in me. I can’t even name it. I can’t describe it. It is a very particular and mysterious form of strength that is both humbled and emboldened. I wouldn’t wish those labor pains on anyone. But I cherish the outcome.
I will never say that my grief has been good. But I will say that it has not been wasted. Not one bit.
The sorrow that threatened to break me apart is now the cement that holds me together.
Faith and grief. They make strange bedfellows. And yet they are more akin than one would think. Both are lifelong journeys. Both are intrinsic to the human experience. Both can feel like they blind you and open your eyes in one swift motion. Both are at times mother, father, tutor, taskmaster, and tyrant.
Psychologists note that some form of avoidance is natural and even healthy in the immediate aftermath of loss. Evasion helps us regulate the disabling and chaotic emotional experience of fresh grief.
Rituals name and order the chaos of our emotions.
The truth is, grief requires presence so much more than it requires perfection or performance. The same is true of faith.
I guess love always creates a liminal space, between discovering and losing, between joy and sadness, between embracing and releasing. Birth is always the beginning of death.
Rainer Maria Rilke: I live my life in widening circles That reach out across the world. I may not complete this last one but I give myself to it.
