DEAR GRIEF

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The Blog That Speaks: Dear Grief

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Photo by cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-suitcase-by-the-door-7128341/

You did not stand on ceremony (it seems you never do). Loaded with bags under each arm, you announced, “I’m here” and then proceeded to drop your bags with a thud by the door.

Like a chameleon, each time that you stop over, you alter your appearance. You keep me guessing so that I never know for certain how you will look. Will you be loud, as one adorned in bright colors? Or will you be subdued, wearing grays and dark blues? You resist any effort to pigeon-hole you, despite my endeavors to dissect you. I have analyzed, researched, and felt you, but this one thing is certain: you remain the elusive, unpredictable one.

Initially, the bombshell of your most recent visit was accompanied by bewilderment. You seem to have a propensity toward high shock values with your arrivals. But I must say, I experienced one of your personal bests—this visit’s shock value was a definitive 10.

The more you lingered, the more feelings I felt as you unpacked your bags. At one point, I discovered your flare for apathy. You simply plopped down on my sofa and abruptly asked, “Who cares?”

Similar to a quote stated by the prophet Isaiah, I asked myself: “What’s the point? We eat, drink, work, and play, and then tomorrow we die?” A life is snuffed out without warning. It is all so senseless!

The shock of this sudden death has stamped me with your mark of apathy. This illuminates humanity’s weakness—my weakness. It magnifies death’s power over and above my best effort to live. It casts light on my lack of control when death chooses to snatch others from life’s journey. As such, I have no power over when you will appear. I do not know when you, Grief, will show up at the door and like an uninvited, unwanted guest, unpack your bags.

As a finite being, I am helpless to stop death from encroaching and thereby powerless to prevent your arrival. After the death of a friend or family member, Grief, you come. You enter my life. You barge into my home. You rearrange my furniture. You take over my routine. You interrupt my relationships and work. You gain control over my being. And during this visit, you are draining all motivation and energy from the room.

Why is it I hear very little, if any, discussion on this feeling of apathy in relation to you? Is there something about this feeling that we do not desire to acknowledge? We frequently mention anger, sadness, depression, guilt, and maybe even relief, but we seem close-mouthed about indifference. I wonder if it is due to the way it connects to our powerlessness—our mortality? Are we reluctant to admit to each other and to ourselves about our finitude, our limited control over life’s events?

It may be said that apathy is in sharp contrast to Western culture’s can-do attitude. We marvel at Olympians who manifest such power as they defy all odds by breaking barriers of time, strength, height, and age, utterly defeating them. Human weakness seems vanquished in the glory of their triumph. Our limitations appear conquered through sheer willpower. Feeling inspired by these athletes’ dedication and tenacity we, the viewers, might even dare to wonder that perhaps nothing is impossible even for us . . .

Well . . . for a while at least . . . until the next time death comes, and you, Grief, arrive unannounced.

Your grand entrance reminds us that we are not omnipotent. No matter how technologically advanced we become. No matter how many barriers we shatter. A life can still be snuffed out in a moment, and you can just show up.

No one is immune from you, Grief. Even Jesus experienced your arrival at his door. If there was anyone with power to overcome, to defy weakness, it was Jesus the Christ. He is fully divine while also being fully human. But when death came to Lazarus, you showed up. And Jesus wept.

And so, Grief, I guess you are teaching me. You are teaching me about life and death. You are teaching me about living. And as hard as it is to say, may I embrace your visits and allow you to you teach me about being human, just as Jesus did.

Your student,

Pam