The first time I ever visited a place of extreme poverty, the most unexpected thing was how I lost all my words when trying to explain or share the experience. In the moment, I was only taking it in, and nothing could have prepared me for what I would see there or how it might change me. The disconnection I felt to my words was new for me, and so was the experience. Over and over I would say, “I’ve lost my words.” or “I don’t know what I feel.” It was as if God had shut down my gifts of expression, and disconnected me from emotions momentarily so I could be present and pay attention.
Grief has brought many of these types of memories to mind. Maybe it’s the issue of unchartered territory, and how it changes you but I wouldn’t really know. You never know how grief is going to play out in your life, and it certainly isn’t anything I could have tried to map out for myself or for our family. Now, add different layers of loss, and you’ve got a complicated suitcase to unpack. And if you’re at all like me, I leave my suitcases packed way longer than I should. I put off the inevitable, but there it sits, waiting for me to put things where they go and do the work. This has been true in the loss of my sister and her husband and in the folding in of their 3 kids with ours, making a new family. We are now a blended family, and we struggle to find what we’re supposed to look like; how we are supposed to be ok again.
There are hard and unexpected things in many of our days right now. The good days with the real life, in your face challenges that cause your body to ache, that break your heart, and some days where you just have to go to sleep no matter what time of day it is. The many times a day that you can’t be sure exactly what you’re grieving, but it’s a physical, emotional and spiritual reality that feels like it could be the very thing you were most afraid of your whole life. That ‘oh, God not that’ thing. That aching, long-term sadness or cloud that refuses to blow over, and instead God says, ‘We’ll linger here together a while.’ And you learn that it’s not going anywhere soon and well, you’ve got a role to play in it.
Each day I choose to either linger there or keep moving, and usually I choose to keep moving. But that thing you ‘think’ about and not as consciously as might need to, chases you down. You keep shoving it down or try to change the subject with yourself. Maybe I’ll watch a movie, or pay bills, or do laundry. What will I do for dinner or when was the last time I changed the sheets? “What did I used to love doing?” Your mind will do almost anything else to avoid looking grief in the face. You’ll let it catch you or you’ll inevitably go numb. And the numbness and void are worse. But the time required to grasp God’s hand tight, and linger in the fog, is this thing that gets reduced to your weekly sessions with people much smarter than you about these types of things. But there are 6 other days each week where that fog is present, requiring real effort to see, and so maybe you need to go slower. What you really need is daily space, constant prayer and a trusting, thankful heart for all He’s going to work out in you, the 6 beautiful kids in your life, and this incredible circumstance you find yourself in.
The questions are unrelenting. What exactly are you supposed to do with grief? It seems that I have to almost open the door and invite it in first, before it will go away. And then, will it ever really leave? Where can I put it for later while life races by and when will I feel something familiar again? What happened to the person I used to be? Will all the intentionality we put into our family be realized? We feel so damaged some days. It’s the reality of being present, doing what’s hard when it seems too much, being faithful in the small things, and trusting the rest to God.
Every new reality of what’s being offered comes at great cost to everyone. We agree to do the hard work in our new family. We console, try to speak love and wisdom and look ahead for the next need, the next one to fall, the next conflict in family blending that will inevitably come. In the same moment, I’m thinking… and praying, ‘God, you’ll restore this right? I’ll recognize myself again one day, won’t I?’ When your spirit feels silent even with Jesus, it can be harder and harder to hear anything and so you wait, sometimes impatiently.
Each season brings a new acknowledgement of loss, and grief makes its way to the surface more and more. If we take time to reflect, celebrate the time we had in our previous lives we thought we wanted, healing begins to tangibly be realized, albeit painfully slowly, and I think maybe that’s just how it goes. Like taking that pair of shoes or the belt out of the suitcase that you’ve been missing and putting it where it goes. Now you can finally use it again. I can remember the last belly laugh I had with my sister, and I laugh again just before crying. I can remember her fierce love for her children and her expressions, her voice and her passion, and I can find my own determination again for her children and our new family. I am often the reminder of loss to others, often known in my own home for all the things I’m not, because I’m not her. I can’t be her. And I’m a swift reminder to strangers and distant acquaintances I meet in my sister’s town due to our strong family resemblance. The stares and the eyes welled up with tears of people I run into at sporting events, doctors’ offices and all over this small town. And it’s everywhere.
Life is still a beautiful gift. Even in grief, you can still bring with you a truth and a healing and love those around you with your one life, but you’ll have to find it first, so to speak. You’ll have to be honest about it, shrug your shoulder a bit and say, “I don’t know” for the 100th time. “I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what I think. I don’t know how long this will last. I don’t know if I can do it well. I’m not sure I like it here.” But if I reposition my eyes to Heaven, it changes. Sometimes, I can hear my sister’s laughter again, and contemplate our real home in Heaven. I can be thankful she is in no pain, and wouldn’t return even if she could. I can remember words about being a mist here for only a moment, and I can actually bank on its truth. I can learn to walk out my faith, when I feel nothing at all. I can. I will. Because this anchor we hope in isn’t about a feeling. but a truth that tangibly heals and guides. I have a hard time truly realizing the power in Jesus’ name, but I’m confident that at my weakest He’s working on my behalf.
If I can trust Him to take care of how all these beautiful kids, and this beautiful family can grow then maybe even we can be light in the midst of such a dense fog. The most broken can shine bright too. This is the business he’s in as I know it, drawing us all to Himself. And as I see it, He is the only way that I can see where restoration, redemption, healing and joy are being offered in any circumstance. No matter what; no matter where you live. We intend to reach for it, over and over, offer grace in failure, and rest knowing he is most definitely there full of love and truth to guide us another day.
We have an overwhelming gratitude for all of you in our life that have loved us so fiercely. You pointed us back to our purpose, our only hope, over and over. You kept our eyes outward, reminding us and connecting us to the whole world who so often lives in pain and keeps walking forward in thier grief. We’re not the only ones, and we’re stronger together. God is the same for us all, unchanging. And this is the truth that brings light and joy and keeps our hearts soft. Regardless of what’s been taken, love anyway. Thank you. We LOVE you.