Each month I reflect on what life brings & allow that to lead
me to an appropriate blog entry. Usually the prompt comes from some
personal encounter or conversation. However, like most of you, over the
last few weeks I have watched the Boston bombing horror unfold. It is
remarkable how so many of us are touched - even from a distance - by such an
event. We find ourselves reflecting on how "I've walked right down
that street," or "I stood & watched someone at the finish line of
a marathon." Shocking & senseless tragedies like this remind us
of the fragility of life. As a parent I find myself with a deeper ability
to empathize as well as a heightened sense of worry & fear. We find
ourselves grieving for people that we have never met. This may seem strange
until we recognize that while we are indeed grieving for those families we are
also grieving for ourselves. Our culture is one that largely denies grief
and so many of our losses go un-grieved. We are encouraged to "be
strong," "move on," and consoled that "they are in a better
place." It is when we are profoundly affected by some seemingly
distant tragedy that we must recognize the inadequately & un-grieved losses
in our lives. We would be wise to heed these reminders to slow down, sit
with our grief, appreciate the everyday glimpses of beauty, and cultivate a
spirit of gratefulness.
So now, just a few weeks later, the lights are already beginning
to fade. The country's attention is moving quickly to new stories of
tragedy & loss. This is when I imagine the long, arduous journey of
grief is really beginning for the families of those who died, for the scores
who are reconstructing their sense of self without a leg - or both. The
cameras are gone. The house is empty and quiet. The void becomes
unavoidable. And so, for the people of Boston, for all of us, for the
strength & resiliency of the human spirit I offer this reflection on grief
that I delivered last spring at a night of remembrance for a cancer
support agency.
All That We Let In: Breaking Open with Grief
The arrival of spring is usually welcome with its warmth, its
songs, its fragrances. And yet many of us here may find it bittersweet to
participate in the changes of spring without the physical presence of those who
have been so important to us. And so, as we gather to remember them – we
also gather to re-member ourselves. Perhaps more accurately we gather to
acknowledge the remembering & re-membering that we do every day. We
gather to name our losses, to share our suffering, to open – together – to the
overwhelming waves of grief that we so often try to hold at bay.
You are indeed courageous for being here today. For we are
rarely encouraged to express our grief – much less embrace it. It tends
to make those around us uncomfortable, awkward, distant. And we, too, are
frightened at times that we will lose control, that we will be overcome, that
we will find ourselves in the words of poet Mary Oliver, unable to find
“foot-hold, finger-hold, mind-hold.[1]”
Of course, there are appropriate times for holding our grief at
bay. There are errands to be run, work to be done, relationships that
must be tended. And also, we need a break – time for rest and
renewal. Yes, there is a time for every season – even a time for healthy
distraction – a welcome lifting of the weight that threatens to crush us.
Life still requires much of us – even the bereaved – and yet our grief requires
much of us, too. It needs attention, it needs intention. It needs
to be named, opened, explored. And so we gather today to create a safe,
sacred space to let the waves wash over us. We learn when swimming in the
ocean that we must lean into – even dive into – the waves so that we are not
knocked down & sent tumbling out of control. And so we must
periodically – in times like this – lean into – dive into our waves of grief.
As a chaplain I encounter suffering daily – physical, emotional,
spiritual pain, grief in so many forms. I hear the questions – the really
big questions. I used to think I was supposed to respond with answers, to
offer certainty and reassurance. Now, I know better – I imagine each of
you here, as you grieve and have supported others in their grief, has learned
that most answers offered by others ring hollow, that we can’t give another
person hope. And yet we can still do something of tremendous
meaning. We can sit with each other in silence, walk beside each other
along the journey, we can listen as others ask the questions, and we can “live
the questions[2]” together. In the words of
singer/songwriter Emily Saliers, “I don’t know where it all begins, I don’t
know where it all will end, but we’re better off for all that we let in.[3]”
Better off for all that we let in you may
ask? We are often tempted or even taught to close ourselves off from the
bad stuff. And yet it is only by remaining open – yes, open even to the
grief of loss - that we then also remain open to healing. After all,
Kahlil Gibran reminds us that our joy and our sorrow are inextricably
intertwined. “When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you
shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”[4]
So, your experience of grief, your questions of loss, may be quite
distinct from others around you depending on what season you find yourself
in. Perhaps your grief looks like the fall with her
leaves scattered on the ground around you resembling a room in your home left
untouched/unchanged; memories still so colorful that it may not yet feel like
an ending. Or you might find yourself in winter – where
it’s barren, cold, all seems lifeless, you are closed off, zipped up, and
hunkered down. Maybe you would name your grief now as spring –
with glimpses of beauty returning but there remains a chill in the air, an
uncertainty lingering regarding whether or not the new buds will indeed bloom
or be victims of a returning frost. It might even look like summer –
there’s a new intensity to your days, activity and life are bustling again, and
yet there’s a dryness in the air, and those violent afternoon storms keep
interrupting your sunny days.
Whatever the season, may you continue to find the courage – like
you have by being here today – to be open to what your grief is saying,
offering, demanding of you. Kate Braestrup, a wilderness chaplain with
the Maine Park Service, offers this wish. “If your heart must break – may
it break open.[5]” And so I offer these wishes for
you: Now that your heart is broken, may it break open rather than apart…
Open to…a hand on your shoulder from a person too wise to speak
Open to…the condolence card from a friend too scared to call
Open to…the song that brings tears rushing back
Open to…the music that washes you clean
Open to…doors that need closing
Open to…relationships that need mending
Open to…granting forgiveness
Open to…receiving grace
Open to…questions that have no answers
Open to…answers that you do not want to hear
Open to…feeling - something, anything to get beyond the numbness
Open to…change, small steps forward, to get beyond the stuck-ness
Open to…the anguish in the face of a stranger
Open to…the joy of a holiday season
Open to…the fall leaves that signal endings
Open to…the spring blossoms that declare new beginnings
I don’t have many answers but this, I believe with all my heart,
is true: We are indeed better off for all that we let in. May it be so.
[1] The Swamp, A poem by Mary Oliver
[2] Letters to a Young Poet, a book by Rainer
Maria Rilke.
[3] All That We Let In, A song by Emily Saliers
of The Indigo Girls.
[4] On Joy & Sorrow, A Poem by Kahlil Gibran
[5] Marriage & Other Acts of Charity, A book by Kate Braestrup
