My first experience with grief was in the 5th grade when my grandfather died.
That was a very long time ago, but I can still remember the strong smell of a mixture of roses, lilies and carnations from the floral arrangements during visitation. My sisters and I gathered some of those flowers at the graveside the next day and took them home. I also remember that we cried a lot, told stories as we remembered Neely Orr, and had a beautiful service. Then I went back to school and life resumed. I realize now that life didn't resume quite the same for my grandmother who had lost her husband or for my mom who had lost her dad. Eventually even they seemed to find a new normal and carried on.
There were other losses through the years, but all were losses we knew were coming. Grief took its rightful place as we healed and moved on. What I was not prepared for was the day that grief came knocking at my door in a very unexpected way. This one I did not see coming!
My 4th baby was born with a rare genetic syndrome and severe disabilities, and it was immediately clear that life would never be the same for any of us. None of Michael's prognosis were life threatening, which brought great relief. So, when grief kept pushing its way into my heart, I was confused and kept attempting to push it right back out. Sad was an emotion that made sense. I was sad to see my baby suffer and sad that all of our lives were now different. But I had not actually lost my baby, why grief?
What I know now is that I was experiencing an ambiguous loss. I held my baby in my arms, but I lost the little boy that we had waited for and dreamed about. I have a friend who cared for her father as she slowly lost him to Alzheimer's. I know others who have "lost" loved ones to addictions, deteriorating diseases and mental illnesses long before they lost them physically. There are no flowers to gather, no service, no community sitting together remembering stories, and too often no one giving you permission to grieve.
I grieved the baby I lost when my Michael was born. I grieved as I saw other kids his age hit their milestones, go to school, start driving, go to college, slowly become independent, and get married.
Grief has often knocked at the door of my heart out of the blue and at unexpected times through the years. I've learned to let it in. I don't have to understand all the reasons that it showed up that day or in that season, and I don't have to be afraid of it. It does its work of helping my heart to process, and eventually lets up. Through these 24 years, I have learned a few things about grief, whether it is ambiguous or not.
1. It's OK to grieve even if no one else is grieving and no one else understands.
Often when I am sad or grieving, people have pointed out all the reasons that I should NOT be sad. They bring up all of the things that are going well and might even mention others who have it worse.
"Well, at least you still have a son."
"Think about how well that last surgery went."
"But he has come so far."
"Look at what ______ is having to deal with." ...
"Look at what ______ is having to deal with." ...
I know they mean well and just want to cheer me up, but what I really need is permission to grieve my very real loss.
2. Grieving does not mean I don't love my son. I've long stopped shaming myself or feeling guilty for what I am feeling.
I can hold the son I have while grieving the one I lost.
3. Grief has no expiration date. It will show up wherever and as many years later as it pleases and usually stays longer that I'd like it to.
Most people can handle my grief for a time, but they get to a place where they need me to be OK. There are, however, those few who can sit with me in my grief for as long as it takes. I invite those who can walk that difficult road for the long haul into my grief, and I let the others off the hook.
Each person can only offer what they have to give.
4. I am kind to myself when I am grieving.
I have learned to listen to my body and pay attention to my heart. Muscling my way through a time of grieving has not served me well. I will take a morning walk instead of my normal run. I sleep a little longer, make sure I eat well, and spend more (or less) time with friends, depending on what my heart needs. I make time for silence where Jesus can speak His peace directly to my heart.
5. I no longer try to push grief out of my heart. Years ago, a very wise counselor told me that sadness is like the tuba in an orchestra. It brings depth to the overall sound. However, if it were to blare full-blast all the time, it would drown out the other instruments.
Grief has a seat in my orchestra. To try to kick it out actually causes it to play louder. To accept that it has something to offer allows it to bring depth and a different kind of beauty to the overall melody.
I am the conductor of my little orchestra of emotions. There are times that I accept the score and allow grief to bring up the volume. There are other times when the dust settles, and I allow it to bring the quiet depth that only it can bring. In those times, others rarely notice it is there. I wave my hand to motion it to play softer, and I take in the mystery of different emotions that combine to make a beautiful whole.
Life is full of expected and unexpected loss. Jesus told us that this journey called life would not be easy or void of pain. I no longer deny or shake my fist at the process of grieving. I give my heart permission to embrace the process and to take the time it needs.
And I gratefully embrace the comfort that only the Savior of my soul can give. He always gets it. He is always near. He always has patience and room for my grief. He always grieves WITH me.
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Matthew 5:4
2. Grieving does not mean I don't love my son. I've long stopped shaming myself or feeling guilty for what I am feeling.
I can hold the son I have while grieving the one I lost.
3. Grief has no expiration date. It will show up wherever and as many years later as it pleases and usually stays longer that I'd like it to.
Most people can handle my grief for a time, but they get to a place where they need me to be OK. There are, however, those few who can sit with me in my grief for as long as it takes. I invite those who can walk that difficult road for the long haul into my grief, and I let the others off the hook.
Each person can only offer what they have to give.
4. I am kind to myself when I am grieving.
I have learned to listen to my body and pay attention to my heart. Muscling my way through a time of grieving has not served me well. I will take a morning walk instead of my normal run. I sleep a little longer, make sure I eat well, and spend more (or less) time with friends, depending on what my heart needs. I make time for silence where Jesus can speak His peace directly to my heart.
5. I no longer try to push grief out of my heart. Years ago, a very wise counselor told me that sadness is like the tuba in an orchestra. It brings depth to the overall sound. However, if it were to blare full-blast all the time, it would drown out the other instruments.
Grief has a seat in my orchestra. To try to kick it out actually causes it to play louder. To accept that it has something to offer allows it to bring depth and a different kind of beauty to the overall melody.
I am the conductor of my little orchestra of emotions. There are times that I accept the score and allow grief to bring up the volume. There are other times when the dust settles, and I allow it to bring the quiet depth that only it can bring. In those times, others rarely notice it is there. I wave my hand to motion it to play softer, and I take in the mystery of different emotions that combine to make a beautiful whole.
Life is full of expected and unexpected loss. Jesus told us that this journey called life would not be easy or void of pain. I no longer deny or shake my fist at the process of grieving. I give my heart permission to embrace the process and to take the time it needs.
And I gratefully embrace the comfort that only the Savior of my soul can give. He always gets it. He is always near. He always has patience and room for my grief. He always grieves WITH me.
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted." Matthew 5:4
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