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I was walking through the woods last evening around dusk. As I walked, I was quiet. My inner world settling in around me and at the same time given permission to surface and be examined. I have been listening to a story by Elizabeth Berg. I have read a few of her books and find them to be cathartic; her words speaking to me like a kindred spirit. I sense that she is acquainted with grief. All of her books I have read have ribbons of grief in them. This one I am listening to currently was stirring my inner world. There are a few lines and images that have caught my attention.
She describes a scene where the main character’s father dies and she is at the funeral with her mother and daughter. There are flowers adorning and filling the front of the room around the casket. Often, mourners are instructed to donate the money they would spend on flowers to a local charity or benevolent purpose. In this scene, Helen reflects on how she is glad they didn’t choose to do that. Having all those flowers before her speak something to her: you can’t let go of everything all at once. Isn’t that well said in concern to grief, especially early grief that still hasn’t allowed you to catch your first breath after being socked in the stomach? But I also feel that it is true for the remaining part of the grief process. You can’t let go of everything all at once.
There is a gradual process of surrendering. Pulling your hands down that are covering your eyes, resisting to look around at your new reality. You peak through your fingers and then cover your eyes again, shaking your head, this can’t be true. Over time you come to a place of being able to leave your hands down by your sides and just look, surveying the land of your loss, taking it all in. You start to walk among the debris, blown out buildings, leveled trees, and worst of all, the corpses strewn about. There is a reckoning of all that you have lost, gathering it in your arms, and holding on to it with a death grip. Not willing to let it go quite yet, or maybe never. You look down and look into the eyes of it all, squeezing tighter.
You keep walking and walking, walking a little more. People who love you, hold on to you, carry you at times, listen to you share the story, they feel the pain along with you. You walk some more, sometimes crawling, sometimes falling into a fetal position. Some days feel easier, the stuff you carry is lighter and other days, you feel like you are going to be buried alive with it on top of your chest.
At some point, you realize your head has popped above the surface of your grief and you are no longer being held under the water, drowning. You suck in a huge breath of air and feel yourself being rescued. One day at a time, you start looking into the sheave of pain you carry in your arms. You look hard at it. You name it. You cry one more time acknowledging, yes, this was a huge loss. But then you are given the grace to let it go. You lay it down. This happens over and over again until the burden you have carried is being gathered and tied on the back of the One that walks behind you.
Oh, to have the grace to look, to gaze deeply, to name it, grieve a little more and then lay it down. Oh, to have the grace to let little bits go.
The art of mending is what Elizabeth Berg describes in another of her books. And she alludes to it in this story. How does one mend? I love the word mend and what it draws to the surface for me. I see an image of a treasured wool sweater that is beginning to fall apart, holes appearing out of nowhere. The needle and yarn moving in and out, darning, until the hole is weaved closed. I see an image of an old piece of furniture, the wooden surface worn through and stained. The sander glides back and forth, removing the uneven and tainted wood fibers, making it smooth and restored…and lovely. I see an image of two friends with a history of doing life together these past twenty years learning to forgive one another and move on. I hear the words of pain and misunderstanding being exchanged from one to the other, trust replanting, and hope for friendship returning.
As I walked through the woods last evening, I felt myself taking a turn in the road of my own journey of grief. I could see a distinct shift in the texture of the path below my feet. I was turning from walking in the muddy grief that threatens to suck my goulashes deeper into the mud to the firmer sand and fine gravel path of mending. Grief and mending feel different to me.
In mending, I find myself able to trust myself (trust God) more. I remember who I am and that I haven’t been shaken, miraculously I am still standing. My perspective is renewed and I realize not all is lost. I look into the once scary, dangerous river that felt threatening to cross and say to myself, “What is the worst that can happen to me?” I hear myself whispering, “It’s going to be all right.” Fear, the kind that causes your body to brace itself, falls to the ground and is exposed for what it really is. I can feel my true self emerging from the ashes, more beautiful than before, strength billowing from me.
When mending, I can begin to see how those things I once carried weren’t all that bad. Yes, they hurt, but they have been made something beautiful of my life. And for that I am thankful. I walk through the woods on this new path singing, “He’s Jesus, beautiful bringer of God’s GREAT MERCY.”
It’ll be all right, Shanel.
Hope has a way of turning its face to me
just when I least expect it
I walk in a room
I look out a window
and something there leaves me breathless
I say to myself
it’s been a while since I felt this
but it feels like it might be hope.
November 19th, 2009 at 4:03 pm
First of all this is a beautifully written passage on your blog and I feel it conveys the title of your blog “Strength and Beauty” perfectly. It is a beautiful piece and I can’t help but think you need to write a book soon.
Two of my favorite things you say in here are about Grace and Fear. I quote you “But then you are given the grace to let it go.”. I love this, it is not like we conjure up this grace. No, it is there for the taking cuz Big Papa wants us to take it. His grace is sufficient!!!!! Praise Jesus for that!!!! I also like your statement regarding fear, “Fear, the kind that causes your body to brace itself, falls to the ground and is exposed for what it really is.” Amen to that too!!! Satan is exposed and all his trickery (fear) is denied, given the hand, rejected!! Fear is nothing but a tool to get us to stop what the Lord has for us. It is simply not our portion as His sons and daughters. We are totally safe in His arms.
I am so glad you are on the mend. I love your imagery of what mending is and was able to relate so well. I couldn’t help but think of this scripture for you and of course I had to pull it from the Message bible.
Romans 8:26-28 Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That’s why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.
I know you have been aching and groaning in your spirit and how awesome is it that all along God’s spirit has been there helping you, covering you, loving you. I love the way they say “our pregnant condition”, I could so many ways with that one. He loves us so much that he is going to take every detail and make it good. It is His promise.
I love you dear sister and I am standing by reassuring you too, “It will be alright!”
Dana