He is so often in the past because that's where he left his boy and where he can still find him. Not the actual past exactly but his memory of the past, a past distilled and refined, a past that makes sense, a story not a circumstance. The past, then, is malleable, not fixed.~John Dufresne (From My Darling Boy)

I hadn't expected that grief would feel so like an ambush. That's not my word. It's the phrase used in the Grief Share group I'm in. A "Grief Ambush," states the workbook. That's when something comes out of the blue--a smell, a song, a location, or a memory that surfaces suddenly when you least expect it. Then you're crying in the grocery store or numbed out scrolling on your phone or your body so exhausted it seems a tire is encircling your neck. Pulling you down. Or you wake up at 1:30 a.m. and can't go back to sleep, your brain sprinting around an endless track of thoughts and feelings and what ifs and shoulds. And the culture doesn't adapt to these ambushes. "Time to move on. There are a million things to take care of." "It'll be okay." "You know you'll see your loved one again." The Grief Share workbook calls these pithy phrases "motivational soundbites." Ugh. Not helpful. (Surely though said with good intentions.)

I didn't foresee that I'd feel as sad as I do when my brother-in-law died. I've even felt guilty that I'm taking his death as hard as I am. I mean, I've lost people before. My sister, a good friend, a colleague I worked with most everyday for fifteen years. Aren't I more resilient than this by now? The Grief Share facilitator reminds the group, "Don't compare your grief process with other peoples' experience." I guess that means not comparing my own past losses as well. "Everyone grieves differently and that's okay. Go at your own pace," he consoles.  I notice in the group there are people attending with "fresh" losses, in the last months, even in the last weeks. Others two years ago or eight years ago, but say they've never talked about the death, never felt permission to mourn aloud. 

Last night in the group, the gentle facilitator asked each of us to say (if we wanted to--you never have to say anything if you don't want to) what we most miss about the loved one who is no longer here. I said I found myself going back in time to remember Mario. "He looked like my husband," I said. "Those same emerald green eyes that take your breath away in the sunlight. And he was the one who linked my husband and me twenty-five years ago, before social media, before the internet was so common. He could have put that letter I sent in the "return to sender" pile. Just tossed it. But he didn't set my words aside. I guess I most miss that historical gesture. I miss him. It feels like he's still here. But he's not." The words poured out of me and i realized it felt like a relief to finally express them to others. And nobody scolded me, nor hurried me to finish the missing of my brother-in-law. I could see heads nodding with understanding, with comfort. I felt heard.

The Grief Share facilitator said to us before we parted, "Do the next thing each day." That's a good idea, because the world goes on and there's plenty to do. And I tell myself it's okay to stay just a little longer when I go back in my memory to the place where I can still find Mario.

Shine your light, Jesus

What do you have for me today?

Shine your light, Jesus

Show me the way. ~Kari Kristina Reeves (From Canyon Road, A Book Of Prayer)