Strength For The Journey

I haven't written specifically about grief for a while. It tends to come and to go, sometimes like a small nagging reminder, sometimes like a huge flood of pain. Truth be told it never goes away. We learn, day-after-day, to live with it. In that process we rebuild a new life.

Granted, it's never quite the same, because we evolve along with our grief. As we change, so does our grief. They say the first year you are mostly numb. As you get further down the road, you wish you could go back to the numb. In the middle of the numb you just do the best you can with whatever brain power you have to work with. Then they tell you the second year is harder than the first. So much for any hope of a reprieve. I'm well into the third year and find it's taking some hard jabs at me.

I still struggle with the stigma of being a survivor of suicide loss. I still try to wrap my head around the reality of it. I still lay in bed and wonder how can this be, how did this happen, what could have been done differently. I still find myself both visible because of it and invisible because of it. People sometimes don't hesitate to tell me of other suicidal tragedies, and sometimes I don't have the strength to carry that additional pain. 

I also know, that having chosen to speak of the journey, people expect a certain strength from me, a dedication to the process, a life mission of sorts. It's there,  some days I can carry the load and articulate it. Other times the tears force me to hunker down, to feel and release the pain. Both the strong days and the grieving days serve a purpose. 

This I know. We all grieve losses at some point in life. They come in a million ways, shapes and forms. Some come early in life, some mid-way through, some late in life. They come in the shapes of illnesses, pandemics, divorces, job losses, and other tragedies of the heart. When they do, know you are not alone. Know the tears are part of the healing no matter how wretched they feel. Know that it's okay to not be okay. Know that asking for help is a good thing, a smart thing, an important thing. 

Then remember we only have to do this one day at a time. Sometimes one minute at a time. There is grace in taking it bit-by-bit, moment-by-moment. Growth, like grieving and healing, is a slow process. So cry when you need to, surrender to the process, have faith in the outcome. We'll get through this, trust me on this. 

Holy Thursday, Holy Each And Every Day

If only we remembered to find the Holy in every Thursday, not just on Holy Thursday. There is a lot more holy going on than we take notice of, give honor to, give thanks for.

There is holy in the joy of an new baby. There is holy in the mundane chores that keep our household going. There is holy in the grief that changes our life and the person we are. There is holy in those who serve the sick, who minister to the faithful, who teach our children, who repair our cars, who sack our groceries. There is holy in the farmer who tends the fields, and the garbage man who takes our trash and the chef who feeds the hungry. Holy surrounds us. 

I know, right now, holy can feel far away. We're challenged, struggling, and lonely for the life we used to know. People we love are staying away in the name of safety, people are sick and dying. People have lost jobs. We're shaky at best, we're afraid.

And...we are holy. We have the capacity to give of ourselves even in the midst of these losses. Everything feels impossible and we long for what used to be our reality. Here is the deal, every loss holds the opportunity for growth. Growth of the holy, growth of strength, growth of our hearts. What is growth you might ask? It is when our shells crack, light is let in, and let out. The cracking part hurts, oh so much. It's hard, sometimes lonely, often overwhelming and always holy. 

Whatever is cracking your heart now, know that light and love will somehow accompany it. Even if it is not evident at this moment. It will come. So if you need to cry in the process, cry. If you need to rest before you go on, rest. If you need to wail, then wail. All of this is holy. All of this. 

Sometimes I Wish...

Sometimes I just wish I could go back. Back to life before grief, back to life before being a widow. Back to life before moving, back to life before pandemics shook the world. I'd like to go back and have more days with my dogs Mickey, Mr. Hanky, and Hobbs. I'd like to go back to when my kids were little and held my hand while crossing the street. Back to when the hard choices were what to have for bed time snacks and which book to read them. Because some days it just all feels so hard. I feel like I've given up everything, and yet, I know it's not true. I have gone through a lot, lost a lot, made lots of changes. With that comes feelings which are intense and overwhelming. Luckily they are also fluid and transitional.

This is a hard time in life. Uncharted, with no clear end in sight. And...I am, we are shaken by it, emotional because of it. So naturally, I look back some. Because I know what that looks like. Even when it is full of longing, full of pain. It's hard to know, at this time in life, what to look forward to. The struggle is real, and we have to accept that it is. 

It's okay to be exceptionally weepy. I, known for being a world class weeper, find myself in tears daily. It's okay, it's just where I am in life. I find myself worrying more. Do I need to? No, I know there is a larger plan in motion. I know I will be blessed beyond measure. Yet, in this time, I worry because I am human. This season in our lives is full of human moments.

You may find you can't sleep, or can't eat. Or can't stop eating. You comb the news for information, and are appalled when you find it. Or you stay away from all the news because it is just too overwhelming. You may pray unceasingly, or struggle in finding comfort in prayer. 

I look back because, compared to now, those were simpler times. We need some simple in these complex days. We need faith more than ever, we need hope in both tiny doses and in large increments. We need to trust that this is temporary.

So I tend the grief, of both the past and the present like I would nurture a small child. With tender arms to hold her, with acceptance that whatever she feels is valid and needs some light to heal it. With a gentle hug, and an I love you no matter what. A soft blanket of love to curl up in and a reminder it won't always feel this way. Be kind to yourself, we're going through a hard time. It's okay to not be okay...and this too shall pass.