Unraveling
Rebekah Cornelius | Train – Develop – Care Tugging on one little thread can unravel the whole sweater—a visual that describes my relationship with grief and loss. Loss has unraveled…
Osaze Murray | Train – Develop – Care
Sometimes, in the middle of my favorite show, a commercial comes on louder than the show I tuned in on, and I find myself diving for the mute button on the remote. It’s off putting and intrusive. I didn’t ask for the commercial or the intense volume.
I’ve come to think of grief very similarly. Much like a commercial I have to accept as a part of my life experience, I didn’t ask for grief to be so loud and unexpected.
I’m currently watching my father battle dementia, and it’s new to me. This progressive loss doesn’t plateau. If I pay him a visit, I notice a part of him that’s gone, no longer available, and then the next visit I might very well notice something else is missing. In the words of my friend Charlotte, whose husband has this disease, “It’s such an invasive illness. It robs and steals without any barrier along the way.” The grief accumulates.
Grief amps up the volume when there’s loss, like losing my dad a little bit at a time. But there are so many kinds of loss. I was familiar with grief over unfulfilled dreams, grief over sin, and even “good grief” (thanks, Charlie Brown) resulting from positive life changes like someone moving to a new city for a job promotion, or even recently missing a leader or pastor who retired. Grief also takes over bandwidth when there is injustice. Proverbs 21:15 and Psalm 94:1-11 have carried me through grief during the senseless deaths of Sandra Bland, George Floyd and others.
There are many types of grief, but I have had to walk through this one quite surprised and unprepared.
In the midst of the noisiness of my progressive grief over my dad’s declining health, I’ve learned two things. First, no one does a good job at grieving. It’s messy, so I have to learn as I go. And second, it’s okay to name the loss and take time to grieve it. Former Rutgers basketball coach James Valvano, affectionately known as Jimmy V, proposed three ingredients for a full life that I think are also helpful for fully grieving: “Laugh, think, cry.” So, when I say to myself, “It’s okay to grieve,” I’m learning to say “It’s okay to laugh. It’s okay to think. It’s okay to cry. If need be, it’s okay to do all three.” In this season of louder grief, it’s okay for it to be part of my regularly scheduled programming.
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