Grief and Letting Go

Here is the text of the sermon I preached today--the anniversary of Patrick's passing.


A little over six years ago, I stood here and preached my first sermon while Phil was on sabbatical.  It was 2009, and we were still waiting for a child.  Still stuck in the darkness of infertility; not knowing if we would ever be parents.  It’s been a full and unfathomable six years, filled with more doctors and shots and surgeries than I ever imagined.  We had Mira and Patrick and life was complicated and crazy and tiring, but beautiful.  But, as most of you know, one year ago today, we lost Patrick to complications caused by his congenital heart defect.  Learning to navigate feelings of grief and anger while simultaneously working to enjoy and celebrate Mira’s life has been difficult.  We have worked hard to find a new normal, knowing that it will only be normal for a while—until another change occurs.

Over the past year, I tried, unsuccessfully, to ignore my grief and shove it away in the name of functionality.  When it refused to be shut out any longer, I struggled with depression, anxiety, and panic attacks.  When I allowed myself to feel the grief and anger, I became easily overwhelmed—crying profusely and unable to complete even the simplest task.  I experienced word recall problems and memory lapses, making work impossible.  I even had brief moments when all I wanted was to have Patrick back in my arms, no matter what it took to achieve that.  This is grief.  And it’s ugly.

Grief makes us uncomfortable.  We don’t want to see people in pain.  We want to fix it.  Soon after a funeral, lives return to normal, and we just sort of expect everyone else’s lives to go back to normal as well.  Have you noticed that the Gospels don’t really deal with grief?  Jesus dies.  Then what?  How do you imagine Mary got through the day?  Her son is dead—considered a criminal; murdered by the state.  Does her community help her, or shun her?  Nothing tells us how she moves forward.  Or we’re supposed to move forward.  How do we go on?

People would ask how I was doing, but there were no words to explain, so I lied and said I was fine, or sad, or “just hanging in there.”  Most people did not want to hear the truth.  I felt the anguish of the psalmist:

Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress
my eye wastes away from grief,
my soul and body also.

For my life is spent with sorrow,
and my years with sighing
my strength fails because of my misery,
and my bones waste away.

Because of my [grief],
I am the utter contempt of my neighbors;
I am a dread to my friends
—those who see me on the street flee from me.

I am forgotten by them as though I were dead
I have become like broken pottery.

And it hurts.  We discover that there are some who cannot bear witness to our grief and others, usually those we least expect, step up and sit with us and help make life bearable while we learn how to pick ourselves back up and do the small things like breathe or shower or eat.

During grief, time passes in this strange fashion of quick and slow all at the same time, and I suddenly found myself nearing this one year anniversary of Patrick’s death with no idea how that year had passed.  And I’m not done grieving.  I’m not sure I ever will.  But.  I’m on the road to acceptance.  Acceptance doesn’t mean no more hard days, or angry days, or sad days.  It doesn’t mean that I’m done.  It just means that most of my days are good.  In the language of my day job, it is more likely than not that today will be a better day.

As I have emerged from the fog of grief, I have begun to figure out what I’m supposed to do now.  Different ideas have percolated, but most of them have made me anxious because they all fall outside my comfort zone.  “I can’t do that!” I tell myself.  But if I’m honest, it’s that I don’t want to do it.  The ideas would require more work, more discomfort, or expenditure of more time and energy than I feel ready for.  I’m scared.  The ideas involve risk, and I am a risk-averse person.

In my fear and discomfort, I have been reminded that everyone feels that way.  Jonah was clearly called to be a prophet, but he made himself miserable trying to avoid doing the work God called him to do.  Moses was called to guide and care for others in a new place, feeling unsure of himself, but having to be the adult to an entire nation.

Like Jonah and Moses, we are all called to do God’s work.  Like Jonah, we hide.  We run.  Like Moses, we fall short or fail.  We misunderstand.  Moses even tells God, “Oh my Lord, please send someone else.”  It is a comfort to me that even Moses, one of the best of God’s people, was imperfect and felt unworthy and not up to the challenges to which he was called.  And yet, ultimately, Moses goes.  Even Jesus submits to God’s will.  “Not my will, but thine be done.”  We, too, must try.  We must let go.  We must submit. 

Now, here’s a dirty little secret.  People will tell you to let go and let God.  I just did.  And we mean well.  Because the truth is, when you’re ready to let go, it will be freeing.  But if you’re not ready to let go, don’t.  Letting go before you’re ready means spending a lifetime trying to pick it back up.  So hold on.  Hold on until you know that letting go is your best option.  Even then it won’t be easy.  Letting go is still a huge leap of faith.  No matter when you do it, it is likely to feel scary.  But, more often than not, when something feels scary—if it requires you to leave your comfort zone—God is calling you out because He is doing a new thing.

So this is me—doing the scary new things God has called me to do.  I am turning my blog into a book in the hope that my journey will help make someone else feel less alone or make their path a little easier.  And today.  This sermon.  This sharing of my journey with you.  See, preaching—any public speaking really—is not my thing.  I’m a writer.  But through all of this, I have been called to share my story.  So this is me—taking my leap of faith—letting go and letting God.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.

The Scariest Thing I Have to Do

I mentioned before that I moved a lot growing up.  By first grade, I had lived in three states.  Mid-way through third grade saw state four.  By sixth grade, I returned to state #1, but was on city #5, and house #6.  At the end of eighth grade, we had lived in Indianapolis for three years, and I was miserable.  I approached my parents to inquire about when we would be leaving, given our pattern of moving every 2 1/2 to 3 years.  I was horrified to discover that they intended to stay put.  I was going to have to face my demons and figure out how to deal.  Realizing I was going to have to figure out how to deal with all the crap from middle school in high school was rough.  I hoped that the influx of new people from two other middle schools would improve my chances of meeting people without preconceived notions of who I was, but ultimately, I ended up with a small circle of close friends I could trust while dealing with lots of rumors and bullying and crap.  I bided my time until I could leave for college.

That was the first time I realized that, because we always moved so much, I had never had to really deal with any of my issues.  When there were people who didn't like me, or who made my life miserable, I never really had to do anything about it because we would leave. It was never a conscious thing.  I didn't try to make problems and get out of them by moving,  And I always carried with me feelings that I didn't belong and that no one liked me.  But, ultimately, I got to start fresh in a new place, where no one knew me, and I would find a few close friends and brave the world as best I could until it was time to do it all over again.  

Recently, as I began to feel a nagging feeling to move, to leave, I began to excavate my feelings associated with all this moving and discovered that I wasn't so much starting fresh as running away. I was surprised.  How could it be running away?  After all, in the beginning, my family dictated the moves.  I never wanted to move--at least until eighth grade--so none of those moves constituted running away.  And then we didn't move when I had wanted to, so that wasn't running.  And then everyone left for college--it's what you did--so that wasn't running, etc. etc. etc.  There was always a reason I had moved, and it never had anything to do with conflict, so I always saw it as a moving bug--not as running away.  Until now.

See, I've been struggling.  Struggling to belong.  To my village.  My amazing village.  The one that has done so much for me, and supported me, and helped me so fully and freely.  The problem is me. In addition to having trouble asking for help, I tend to prefer to keep to myself.  I usually have three or four really close friends--the people I turn to first and foremost for anything and everything.  As I have moved, who those people are has had to change due to distance, but they are always limited in number.  There are lots of reasons for this.  Part of it is my being a pastor's wife and not being able to talk freely about the church and my relationships with many people.  Part of it is because I am an introvert and have social anxiety.  Regardless of the reasons, though, the fact remains that I play things fairly close to the vest with all but a small few of very close people.

Unfortunately, as my grief for Patrick continued, life moved forward on the outside, and, as sometimes happens with friendships, some of them fell away.  Of the four people I knew without a doubt I could call on for anything, I lost three.  Whether from grief, or busyness, or external obligations, I suddenly found myself alone.  The majority of my village remained intact, but was spread out across the country where they couldn't help with day-to-day needs; and those who were close in proximity were not those I felt I could call at a moment's notice for anything because I had not cultivated those friendships in that way.  Worse, I was incapable of attempting to convert any of those friendships into the type that I needed due to the anxiety and grief I was experiencing.

But as I dug myself out of my hole over the last few months, and my energy returned, my "move" bug began to bite.  Then I began to have this nagging feeling that I want to leave; to run away; to start over.  The mind talk went something like: "If I have to find new people anyway, I might as well do it somewhere else--somewhere I don't have all these memories; or somewhere I already have people I have let in."  But that's not an option.  

Our lives are here.  My job.  Phil's job.  Mira's physicians and health history.  For good or ill, all memories of Patrick.  So I have to find my answers here, where I am.  And that's hard.  Much like starting a new school half way through the year, the relationships are set.  People have already given of themselves to others.  They already have "their people"--those whom they have elected to let in and be close and will allow to call on them at a moment's notice.  It's intimidating and difficult to navigate, even for the most gregarious and sociable people.  As a socially anxious introvert, there are few things I find scarier.  

And so I have to trust.  Trust that I am a likable person.  Trust that others will see what previous friends have seen and that I will find those willing to let me in.  Trust that I will find a new circle of three or four from which my village will extend.  Confession time:  I hate this plan.  I despise that this is what I have to do.  But my feelings don't change the answers.  So, please be gentle with me.  If I seem grumpy, or withdrawn, or standoffish, or awkward, it's likely not you.  It's me.  I'm trying to figure out how to, in the words of the old hymn, "Trust and obey.  For there's no other way."