grieving

Cancer. Car accidents. Death. Divorce. We do ourselves a disservice if we pretend that life isn't hard. There is something to be said for faith, hope, trust, and peace, but as it says in Ecclesiastes: There is a time for everything... a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.

I'm not suggesting we stop enjoying life and dwell in the land of the despondent, but I know for myself I often avoid the "time to weep...time to mourn."

Which means that when I do experience grief it often sneaks up on me, powerful and unexpected. It brings new meaning to the mourning we often see in the Bible: "When Mordecai learned of all that had been done, he tore his clothes, put on sackcloth and ashes, and went out into the city, wailing loudly and bitterly" (Esther 4:1).

Because I can't do anything to change my circumstances, grief makes me want to pull out my hair, or at least shave it off. It makes me want to get a tattoo, akin to wearing the itchy burlap sack Mordecai put on--giving physical manifestation to the hurt in my heart. It's like a punch in the gut, making me want to double over in loud, painful sobs. 

The Bible portrays this as a natural response to grief. Mourners spend days and weeks, as long as it takes, in this state. 

Yet more often than not I don't feel worthy of grief. Sometimes I feel the choices I've made take away my right to grieve. Or that it is my role to comfort others in their grief and to do so I must stifle my own. Or my sadness doesn't make sense against the peace that others hold. Or their grief is more justified than mine. Or I haven't shown vulnerability in more difficult circumstances, so why now.

But whether I have a right to it or not, it doesn't change the fact that my heart hurts and needs a good scouring that only comes when I EMBRACE GRIEVING. 

This is the time to mourn.

Listening to When the Right One Comes Along with Clare Bowen and Sam Palladio.