Almost exactly 2 years ago, I wrote these words in blog post:
Grief doesn't have to make sense. But everyone and every loss deserves a safe space. And our culture does a lot of running from, covering up, and simply ignoring grief. But the longer I spend noticing grief in myself and others, the more I am convinced that making space for grief is one of the bravest, kindest things we can do for one another.
I've done a lot of things since my last blog post. Probably the biggest, though, is moving. Back in February, we learned Partner's ministry was going to have to move to New Town. The process in our marriage, family, and community from then until now has been brutiful (brutal + beautiful). For today, I'm reflecting on the Good-Bye portion of the journey.
The journey is vast, here's a quick summary:
Personal belongings. Since June, we've sold/purged 25%, toted 10% along with us, and moved the remaining 65% out of our home, into storage, and finally into our new home in New Town. During that time, we were exposed to head lice, bed bugs, and an earthquake.
Office. I've started the complicated process of shutting down a small business that's in the business of relationships. HIPPA created some expensive, tedious obstacles that resulted in me purchasing my first flip phone since 2007. The power of relationship created sacred, devastating, and beautiful moments that resulted in me wondering if I could continue this work while simultaneously wondering how I could continue any other way.
Relationships. My family has lived in Current Town for the past 6 years. Prior to that, Partner and I have spent a combined 29 years here. It is, for now, our community. And in 13 days, I will move to New Town and start the process of creating community. I've been thrust into a grief process for my connection to this community. At some point, I stumbled across the post I quoted above. And I've realized a thing about Big Grief is there's no running from it. I'm constantly reminded of it. People around me are reminded of it. And I've never been so devastated, raw, and lost. Or confused about how to handle it. Here's the best example I can conjure:
Let's say Kiddo 1.0 is running as fast as she can so she can tattle on Sister first. Hypothetically.
And Kiddo 1.0 trips in the enormous flip-flops she insists on wearing and completely face plants into the asphalt.
Hypothetically.
So I scoop her up, assess the damage, and convince her the gaping wound on her knee and forehead is of more immediate concern than whatever human rights violation Sister committed.
Level 1 Grief: Decide the pain of washing it out and bandaging it is too hard. Stop the bleeding, give the kid a sucker, and pretend things like flesh-eating bacteria are make believe.
Level 2 Grief: Decide the short term pain is the "healthy" option. Hold child down while she screams, clean out the wound, apply medicine, and pray you at least have band-aids with cartoon characters on them. Don't forget the sucker.
Level 3 Grief: Decide the wound is outta your league. Take child to the professionals. Hold child down while THEY do the cleaning, mending. Be with child through the healing. After it's all done, child has a scar.
At I've worked this Level 3 Grief (professionals and all), I've realized that "closure" isn't what I hoped it would be. I thought it was the sucker, easing the pain of grief. But there's no way to do a GOODBYE that actually makes it much better. Much like the scar that's left behind, the relationships I'm being asked to leave have become a part of me. I can't say goodbye to them. I can't leave them on the alter of my church when I have my last communion. Or in the booth of my coffeeshop when we have our "final latte."
If you've made it this far into this very long post, here's what I need you to know: I'm taking you with me. I am a more humble, patient, compassionate, and brave human because of each of you. You have literally knitted together the version of me that will take communion at New Church. That will drink lattes at New Coffeeshop. I would not have made it through this season without you, and will only make it through the next season because of you. In countless moments of courage & kindness, you've made room for my grief.
The anger, betrayal, sadness, and confusion of my grief is still there. But, for now, they've been quieted by gratitude.
Thank you.
