The warm February day Grandma took her last labored breath, passing from this life in a quiet room beyond the sunlit rows of a South Georgia pecan grove, was, in many ways, a day filled with regular things for the rest of us.
I know. It doesn’t seem right to say those words.
It doesn’t seem right that grief meets us in the middle of everyday life, but as much as I would love to reject the thought, I know it’s true.
On that particular day, the balmy morning unfolded with little fanfare, a federal holiday tagged for playing catch up, as late winter sun shook a light veil of fog from the yard.
It’s just after 10:30 am, the bathroom clock ticks forward in steady motion, scattered laundry is slowly gathered into piles, and a tangle of gray and white bed sheets are pulled for the wash.
Down the hall, finishing touches go into place on a new air conditioning unit, temperatures inside and out inching toward 80 degrees in an early wave of Spring, as the humid air whispers of change, dusting yet another fine layer of yellow pollen over the front porch.
It’s normal. And ordinary. It’s the regular kind of routine that comes with making way for a new season.
Until the call comes. The call we’ve all been expecting, the one we think we’re ready to accept, even knowing such news will bring an unwelcome visitor we’d much rather turn away.
His name?
It is Grief, and lately, he’s shown up a lot more than I like to talk about, sneaking up over and over, with one blow after another.
But I know it’s not just me. You’re also probably much more familiar with him than you’d like to be.
Recently, I stopped by a local shop where I’m somewhat acquainted with the staff, and with red rimmed eyes, the proprietor shared an unexpected loss. In the two weeks since my last visit, her husband tragically passed away on a routine trip to the store.
Looking at photos, trying to absorb the shock alongside her, and listening to stories of their 27 years together, I was again reminded that grief is an inevitable part of life.
It’s raw. And painful. It comes in many shapes and sizes, and there are often no easy answers to the broken dreams or shattered expectations left in it’s wake.
Last year, at the first in a succession of funerals that rocked our world, my family and I sat in the large, quiet chapel of a small Alabama town, soft colors of sunset washing over the well worn country roads around us, as the deep voice of a minister from Mississippi resonated through the room.
“There are no shortcuts in grief.”
I can’t tell you exactly why this phrase resonated with me in such a strong way, but I think it’s because I could tell he was speaking from experience, and also because, in that moment, he was giving us the permission we sometimes hesitate to give ourselves.
Permission to welcome emotions buzzing just below the surface, humming in low, distracted tones, when grief knocks on the door of our hearts, forcing sorrow and schedule to coexist.
When those heart wrenching phone calls come on ordinary days, as we finish up dinner, prepare for bed, or greet the full agenda of a brand new, unsuspecting day.
And though I don’t always understand why things happen the way they do, if I’ve learned anything about grief during this season, it’s that he must be allowed in, lingering, unwelcome visitor though he is.
I’ve learned this is the only way we can truly let him out, the only way we can release him in the presence of God, on a journey that can’t be passed over, but must be walked through.
Because it’s true. There are no shortcuts, and there are no easy answers.
In my story. Or in yours.
But there is a solution. One that doesn’t change, though time and ages roll.
His name?
It is Jesus. A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief, wounded for our transgressions and bruised for our iniquities, He understands more than we will ever know.
So in closing, I can say, yes, grief meets us in the middle of everyday life. But so does the Lord. At a soft place of surrender, and a stark point of recognition, finding Him through it all brings purpose into the pain.
Our void. His fullness.
Forevermore.
Beautiful words Misty. Just a wonderful reflection on a part of life that isn’t so. I do know grief a lot more than I’d care to admit, and I’m glad I’m not alone. I feel most of think we’re the first and only person to ever feel a particular way, when really, we’re not. Jesus endured the worst pain of all, so he can carry us through ours. Thank you for writing.
Thank you very much, Erika. Your words really mean a lot. I agree, it’s easy to feel alone in our pain, but I’m so thankful the Lord meets us in the middle of it, with fresh comfort and strength for the next step. Thanks for sharing your heart. You are a blessing to me!