Navigating Grief
I woke up yesterday morning to an overnight message that my friend Lisa (who I wrote about a few days ago) died late last night. I knew this was coming but there is a finality when it does. I am grateful that I had a flexible day to allow me to take time for myself to begin to grieve her loss. What I did not expect (although knowing myself, maybe I should have) was how I would experience my grief through photographs through the day, starting with this sight as I walked into the kitchen after waking up.
I see this spot in our kitchen every morning (since I’m always the first one up) but something different drew me in. Maybe it was a sense of seeing a cross but perhaps not. Was it a sense of the grief that was already stirring - the sadness and loss , but juxtaposed with the fact that Lisa’s suffering was past, pain ended, and that she had entered into the hope of resurrection and new life.
After sharing the news with my family and spending some time with my wife (who gives the absolute best hugs), I headed out for a solo walk just to be with the sunrise. Lisa and I often texted crazy early in the morning because she would often be posting on her CaringBridge site before 6am, a time by which I’m almost always awake. I also knew that, during her treatments, she was not always able to be outside walking like she loved to do. So I sent her so many sunrise images over the last three years and we texted back and forth about the beauty of the world around us. This morning, I arrived to see the flooding at the lake which had started to recede but is still present. Therein was another reminder of grief - loss can come like a flood that may overwhelm and take over the whole of our lives.
This isn’t the same bench I have photographed many other times (that one was still fully underwater) but there is a similar sense in this photo. That empty, unreachable bench surrounded by the still waters and illuminated by the early colors of the sun reminded me of the way Lisa is out of reach now. I would get no reply if I texted this image to her and that led to my first cry of the day. While there is great beauty and peace in this image, it also shows isolation and a barrier that cannot be crossed. Along with this somewhat sad image was another that touched my heart - there was gratitude in this moment witnessing two ducks crossing the lake with the waves touching the three (Trinity) trees.
Returning home, I picked Scout up and we headed to Rowe Woods (which was my plan for the day even before the news about Lisa). Rowe is a liminal (or thin) place for me to hear God and to be in conversation with God, with my body, and spirit. I knew that I needed to have a long walk today but I did not expect to it to become an experience of moment after moment revelation about today’s grief but also God’s thoughts on how I have experienced grief in my life and witnessed it in the lives of others.
I had hiked this particular trail many times before and I knew that it was going to be muddy because of all our recent rains and through the five miles of our hike, I was reminded of the different ways that grief intersects with life. There wasn’t some clear progression of images, but simply the different ways that grief appears, overwhelms, recedes, changes, disappears, and remerges. I came to familiar places and heard familiar sounds as Scout and I started out - I heard the morning birds chirping and cars on a nearby road and the very familiar footfalls along the gravel, across bridges, and in the dirt.
Along the way, there were many places where the normal path was not easily passable. The mud was thick and I didn’t feel inclined to just tromp right through (although Scout had no problem doing so). I noticed how others had started forging paths around the side of these spots. Grief is like that sometimes - the path that seems so familiar yet impassable and a path around is necessary. Sometimes it is a path that we forge on our own and other times it is a path that others have already begun.
And then there are other times when there really isn’t any way except through the mess and the grief and the pain.
And still other times when someone has set up a way over it all and we can gratefully cross without walking through the grief.
The tears of loss sometimes come at unexpected moments such as when I heard the creak of this tree as a strong breeze blew just as I walked by. John Muir referred to these tree sounds as the “voices of the trees” but today they sounded mournful. It wasn’t my cry but the trees’ cries echoed those of my own heart this morning.
Grief can be a lonely space but the reality is that we are not alone. There is grief in all of our lives - at times it is more acute and at others less so. Grief is both solitary and communal. It is a shared experience yet each person’s experience of grief is unique. Others along the same path travel it differently. As Scout and I walked, there was a person in blue who was walking a similar pace as us and so stayed this same distance ahead for quite some time. Another person was running the trail and passed us from behind. And still others were on the same path but going in the opposite direction. Yet we were all on the same path.
Gratefully there are times of respite when the trail simply rises above the muddy, impassable places and we travel on smooth, easy paths. These are a welcome relief. The feel is different. The sound is different. The solidity is comforting and reassuring. These times are a gift. These are the moments when grief doesn’t feel as heavy and feels like it just might be possible to navigate through it.
Along the way, we can catch glimpses of beauty such as these early emerging daffodils. But they may seem impossibly far off (Rowe Woods doesn’t like people walking off the trails) and we can only see them at a distance and, like the bench earlier, they feel unreachable. And then still other times, we experience beauty, hope, and wonder all around us.
Memories of the person come back to us. Something reminds us of them that elicits a smile rather than sparking sadness. Conversations with others foster laughter and comfort. We walk in between those moments and find that the beauty is right there - able to be touched, felt, and fully experienced - no longer at a distance.
Grace in grief is also vital. Some days, we may need to take the shorter path (the “shortcut”) instead of the longer path that some might say they think we need to take. Some days we only have it in us to do what is absolutely necessary to get through the day and so the shortest path is the necessary path. Grace in grief is always vital. None of us go through the process the same way even though we may be walking similar paths.
As a person trying to follow the way of Jesus, there are moments when I find the empty cross and the presence of God. Sometimes I find this in the expected places - in the Psalms, in times of prayer, in the community of faith - but other times it is a moment that surprises me such as the intersection of two fallen trees from which emerge a cross. Or other moments when we look to the heavens (Psalm 121 - I lift up my eyes to the hills, from where will my help come?) and we experience something that is majestic and awe-inspiring.
We not only lift up our eyes, but also our hands and our hearts. We lift them in gratitude for the life of this dear person, in hope of resurrection and new life, but also at times in lament when a loss feels unfair or unjust. All of these are healthy, all of these are normal, all of these are part of it. As Lisa would so often say, “it’s all in there.”
What was remarkable for me writing this several hours later is that when I stood below this tree, I was only seeing the branches spreading out. It wasn’t until looking at it later that I saw an arm and a hand reaching up to the heavens. The same thing in this grief process can look and feel differently, when reflected upon even a few moments or a few hours later.
What started as a cool morning with a hoodie, gloves, and a hat began to change as the sun rose higher and my heart rate increased as we hiked. The hoodie was removed and tied around my bag strap, the gloves and hat went back in the bag, and I felt the warmth of the sun on my arms and face. Grief changes over time - at first it can feel so overwhelming and so cold and can feel like there are so many layers on top of us. And then, over time, the grief may remain, but it may feel lighter. It may feel like we can let others in and that we have slowly removed some of those heavy layers. But cold mornings can again come and the layers return. Again, it’s all in there.
The hills of grief (again, Psalm 121...) can look different at different times. They can be forbidding and uncertain or they can seem to have life and growth mixed in between. There may be steps for sure footing and it may feel more like a slippery gravel path. And, in grief, we still need to walk them. We may get out of breath, our legs and bodies may say they are tired and need a break (again, grace), but the amazing thing is that most of the time, we get to the top of the hill and are able to continue the journey. And maybe sometimes we need someone to help us along the journey (as Scout was doing for me throughout our hike).
And finally that day’s journey is finished. At the car, I looked at Scout’s paws and saw mud caked on her belly and on her legs. Mud encircled the base of my hiking shoes. I also noticed that my formerly waterproof shoes must have developed a small hole somewhere because my left big toe was wet. My pants had mud splatters halfway up my calves. My legs told me that we had done a longer hike than usual and it was good to get to the end. It felt good to unhook Scout from her leash, to sit down in the car and to begin the drive home. At the end of the journey the clothes go into the washer and a nice bath make a good end to the day.
(Scout was not enthused with the idea of a bath, even though it was REALLY needed)
Two final photos as I closed my day. I walked our local labyrinth as the sun was setting. The small smooth stone in the foreground was placed in memory of Lisa. Thank you, friend.
Author and counselor Shelby Forsythia shared a phrase that I heard in her conversation with Rob Bell a few years ago. Grief is holy. It is holy because we are remembering whoever (or whatever) it is that we have lost and we are entering into the process of healing. We are recognizing that we are not whole (and may never be fully whole again) but we are slowly learning to live in that new reality. We remember that we are not in this alone but we have others who travel with us, who have traveled similar paths, and we find reminders of the divine love of God along the way. As we grieve, we may find words from others that give us hope, strength, or comfort or we may find words to express what we don’t have words of our own to say. And we honor who or what was lost by living this process day by day.
Beautiful! Thank you so much, Pastor Ed.