Sorrow and joy
Life is a messy mixture of beauty and pain, and I know it’s not unique to my circumstances. We all will experience times of grief through different seasons and in different ways. Here’s a bit of what’s gone on in my own head as I have grieved my mum.
A few weeks ago marked 6 months since Jesus took mumma home to be with him. And today, the 14th of December, is her birthday. I still miss her so deeply, and I guess the ache will be there for a long time to come. She was an incredible woman, full of dignity, strength, gentleness and grace while also being pretty matter of fact and down to earth. Not perfect by any means, but a pretty darn fantastic lady. When I think of her, I see her dancing in the wind, her wild hair free, barefoot and laughing lightly, or poking out her tongue. I learnt so much from her and feel like I can keep learning much more.
Grief. It’s a bizarre process to watch happen within yourself. In some ways, it’s exactly like those grief cycles you learn about, but mostly it’s nothing like it, being a great deal more messy, and a very personal and unique experience. I look at my family, and each of us process it so differently. Some people need space, some need to talk it through, some need people around them.
I’ve learnt that grief is not something that western culture typically does very well. We feel awkward with it, and often try and ignore, brush it away or move on from it quickly. But I’ve learnt that’s it’s a vital experience to actively journey and allow yourself to sit with, whatever that looks like for you. It helps you to develop good emotional healthy habits by recognising how you feel in a moment, stopping and giving yourself time to process it. It enables you to move forward and not bottle it up. Grief is teaching me to not be defined by my feelings, but to see them, allow them, process them and let them go. Writing is my outlet, so I began writing letters to mum (thanks to the idea of a friend) every time I want to talk to her, and it has certainly helped my to process what I’m feeling. I love learning some of the ways varied cultures experience grief so differently. It’s quite a humbling experience to watch a Yolngu funeral out here in Arnhemland. The ceremony, song, dance. Listening to the women wailing gives me chills, the way their grief is expressed so tangibly; the way everyone knows their place, the outward expression of sorrow, the way the young ones learn from the elders.
Grief. It’s ugly and messy. It’s beautiful. The anger, the pain, sorrow, guilt, the sobbing, the memories, the laughter, the hope. I’ve tried to be intentionally conscious of actively walking through the process of grief, and to give myself the space to embrace all of it, rather than pushing it down. Some days it can be crippling and leave you with an aching sadness. Sometimes it hits you unexpectedly like a wave of sorrow. And then some days are easier and you can pick yourself up and cope and find joy, and live your normal day to day life, and get out and enjoy beautiful things and be light and happy. Firsts are hard- first holiday, first birthday since she’s gone. I fully know that some days you don’t want to feel the pain anymore. But there are also days you don’t ever want to lose that feeling because somehow it makes mum feel close again. Sometimes I feel like I’m going well, but not every day. And that’s ok. I’m learning to be gracious with myself when I need to and give myself permission to grieve, but also permission to laugh. It’s a season, and a normal life process. I don’t think you ever really stop missing them, but you learn how to live with it.
I’ve learnt that in a culture that feels awkward with grief, I actually love it when people bring it up and ask about it. I love getting to talk about my mum. She was an amazing woman. I love it when people tell a story of something daggy mum did years before. It can be painful, but I love remembering. Grief can feel isolating, but it can also bring connection. I’ve come to realise, even more, how incredible my blanket of support is around me, and how necessary they are: family and friends (surrogate family), like a shield of love when I need it. Ready to make me food, cry and pray with me or make me laugh at the drop of a hat. I know many people don’t have that, and I’m beyond grateful for my tribe wherever I may be.
And I’m learning a lot about God too.
If there’s one thing I can attest to in this hard season, it’s the unchanging nature of God, his promise to always be with us, his kindness and compassion and care. I’ve seen that in the details amidst the sorrow, in the hands of his people. Little details that came into place that none of us had particular control over at the time, but reminded me that God is deeply involved. I’ve learnt anew that he is a kind God.
I know all too well how hard it can be sometimes to reconcile the grief and pain we experience with the goodness of God. I know that sometimes all you want to do is be angry at God and tell him it’s not fair. But even through my lack of understanding, all I can see is his love and compassion. I can see a God who knew deep sorrow, pain and separation, and chose that for the sake of love. I see a God who’s plan of love stems far beyond my short life and beyond my human understanding.
I’ve been reflecting on the name of God. Yahweh. He is who he is/ He will be who he will be. Who he has always been, is who he will always be. He does not change his nature. He IS always loving, always just, always gracious. In the same passage that Yahweh tells Moses his name, he also says ‘I will be with you.’ He will always be with us. And I know that his presence is always with me.
That Yahweh is great, I haven’t a doubt. But that he is also deeply personal, I know within my being.
Maybe I’ll never know why it was that God called mum home when he did. But I know that he knows the reality of human pain and loss and grieves alongside us in our pain. He deeply cares about us.
I’m so thankful for the HOPE I have in my God, Yahweh. It certainly has been grounding, and enables me to have peace and joy despite my circumstances. Not that I always feel like that, but there is this underlying sense that there is a future and a hope beyond this life, enabling a deep joy to pervade my sorrow, when I allow myself to take hold of it. As Paul said in 2 Corinthians (6:10) ‘Being full of sorrow and yet rejoicing.’
It’s been an interesting experience to say the least, and I know the journey will continue. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss my amazing mum.
I hope that I can become more understanding, kind, gentle and patient for it and dance wildly more often with my arms and hair free as my mumma would.
