On Grief and Hope

I had never witnessed my grandfather shed a single tear before the morning my grandmother died. Living the closest, I was first to arrive at her hospital room while she was taking her final breaths. I remember grabbing her hand and my Bible that I had left there the evening prior and reading Psalm 23 aloud. Seconds later, my grandfather entered the room.

I will never forget what transpired next. His expression was half-crazed. He looked at me and my tears. I could only shake my head ever so slightly. He looked at my grandmother, his sweetheart since the eighth grade, and then let out the most gut-wrenching sounds of sheer and utter grief. His grief pierced through my own. This man who helped raise me. This man who sacrificed for his family. This man with the quirky sense of humor and big heart. To see him so grief-stricken, it left me undone.

And that's the thing about grief. It doesn't matter if you were expecting it or not, the response is the same. When it comes to loss, there's not really a way in which to adequately prepare. Losing someone you love is devastating. I don't fully agree with the old adage that "time heals all wounds." I think with time, there is a lessening of the severity. There is an acceptance. Life continues in its fluidity. It doesn't, even if we wanted it to, remain stagnant, stationary.

I attended a funeral last week. I appreciated how the pastor talked about hope. Hope in the midst of grief. Hope from a life well-lived. A life rooted in Grace.

I have been pondering his words. Especially at Christmastime. A world full of hurting people. People without hope. Hopeless. And sometimes, even those who know, forget and need to be reminded. I know I have experienced times like that myself.

Because there is a difference. There is still grief. There is still loss. There is still hurting here in this place. But there is a Hope that audaciously stands firm in the midst of life's storms. There is a Hope for what's beyond the here and now. Beyond the struggles. Beyond this life. There is a Hope Eternal.

And that hope came down at Christmastime. For us.

"So let us sing Redemption Song,
Let us worship Christ the Holy one,
We were lost, but we were found,
When Hope Came Down,
When Hope Came Down." – Kari Jobe 

And so, I want to share that Hope with the hopeless. To pause. Look around. See the hurting, and in some small way, intervene.

And it doesn't have to be something extraordinary. A small act of service. A kind word. A smile.

You can never underestimate how even the smallest, seemingly inconsequential act will impact others and spark hope in their hearts.

This Little Light of Mine

Yesterday morning, I sat in the darkness of my room. It's that time of year where the mornings and evenings are typically chilly, but the sun's perseverance warms the midday hours. I put on socks to warm my feet and hymns to warm my heart that was feeling heavy. In the midst of all the unrest, I was restless. Mourning and rejoicing was still the companion of my thoughts.

And here's where it gets convoluted: finding some sort of balance. What does it look like to be able to rejoice about all of the good without somehow blocking out or ignoring the mournful bad?

It's easy to feel disconnected, I think, when we aren't directly affected. It's easy to live safe lives inside our carefully crafted constructs. Until we are affected, that is. Until it is our loved one dying, our sick child in the hospital, our city that is engulfed in flames...

In the darkness, I lit a single candle. I was caught off guard as I marveled at how the small, flickering flame illuminated the darkness. This verse came to mind: The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. (John 1:5)

Then I remembered, this Sunday is the first Sunday in Advent where people everywhere will light a candle for hope. And that Hope can't be extinguished. Even in the midst of seemingly hopeless and heartbreaking atrocities.

There is Jesus.

And I don't have all the answers...

But, there is Jesus.

The Light in the darkness.

Present in the mourning. The very same Jesus who wept and told us to love one another.

Love those who are marginalized. Love those who are hurting and grieving.

And when we love like Jesus, when we truly seek to emulate Him (and not our own agendas), it would be like a conglomeration of all these little lights that that would come together to illuminate the world. A world full of people who are hurting. A world full of people who need to see the love light shine.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great Light; those who dwelt in the land of intense darkness and the shadow of death, upon them has the Light shined. (Isaiah 9:2)

So, friends? Let it shine. 

Juxtaposition

I feel things. Deeply. I can get stuck in my head. Just me and my feelings. Hanging out for days, weeks. And what I am feeling, and therefore thinking, may or may not always be an accurate reflection of truth, but merely my skewed perception.

Recently, I was going through a rough time, a dry spiritual season so to speak. You see, I didn't feel God. At all. And for someone who relies far too heavily on her feelings, this was disastrously problematic. I wasn't really doing anything to address the situation, in fact, I think I was running from it altogether {I'm also pretty good at avoidance}.

Then Friday happened...

As I have reflected on what transpired, I first just have to say that I am blessed to work with a wise, godly man. He lives out his faith and leads with the sacrificial love of a true servant. He acts justly, loves mercy, and walks humbly (Micah 6:8). He extends grace and is calm and even-keeled. I just simply adore him and his heart for Jesus and for others. Anyway, we had the opportunity to take a book that our students had made for a sweet former colleague and sister in Christ who was recently sent home on hospice. I knew I wanted to go... somehow needed to go. I also knew that it would be difficult.

We almost left the book outside, leaning against the stucco wall, but the door had opened as we were starting to walk away. Even though the visit had been prearranged, our presence seemed to be a surprise. I offered to leave the book, as I heard the sound of the oxygen machine in the hallway, but we were invited in. Invited into the space between life and death. And it was hollowed ground. I was immediately overcome with emotion.

The book was shared with her, along with some handpicked Psalms. I prayed silently, wanting to hold it together (I didn't want to upset her by crying). I held her frail hand as we prayed for her. And then the most unexpected thing happened. This feeling girl who had lost her God-feelings felt enveloped by Him. Like, He had reached down to the very core of my soul and held me tight until I could feel His warmth. A burning deep within.

As we prepared to leave, we told her that she was loved. Loved by so many, but ultimately loved completely by Him.

And that was for me to hear as well.

You are loved completely by Me. Nothing, NOTHING can eradicate it. You are MINE.

{I remember. Thank you for being patient with my forgetfulness. Again.}

I walked outside into the bright sunlight, wiping tears from my eyes. Tears for the impending grief of her loved ones.

And the juxtaposition of mourning and rejoicing, like breathing.

of silent things

Here I sit. Lukewarm coffee and blinking cursor. And, as often is the case, I am not sure how to start. But writing helps immensely. It has always been cathartic.

............... 

And fifteen minutes later.....

So, it's pretty astonishing to me that there are things, like major things, about myself I am just now discovering. It also astonishes me how deeply one can bury something and how easily that "something" can rise, uninvited, to the surface. 

Here it is:

I have abandonment issues. I mean, I have lots of issues, but never would I have ever said that abandonment was one of them. 

It's true, so much of who we are as people is shaped in childhood. 

And sometimes your childhood is effed up. 

My grandparents practically raised me and my twin brother because my parents divorced before my first birthday. And when you're 21, having two babies puts a significant damper on the single lifestyle. 

Growing up, I would overhear stories, like my mom would often drop my brother and I off at my grandparents, then leave and not come back for hours, or even days. 

She went on, lived her life, put a baby up for adoption...

She was in and out of my life like a relative who visited a lot. 

It's strange, even now, she will see a picture or hear a retelling of a story from my childhood apart from her and say that she remembers it, too, but I have no recollection of her being present. I think guilt has an unbelievably remarkable way of allowing people to remember things differently than they actually happened. Because, the truth is something they can't accept. I would never have the heart to tell her otherwise. So, I leave her with her recreated memories. They are a comfort to her. I have a feeling she'd never believe me anyway. 

My dad was absentee. He tried to justify it once to me when I was around twelve. He just said, in a very matter-of-fact kind of way, "I thought you'd be better off without me." 

Huh, okay. And because of this, we aren't close to this day. Which is sad. It was also devastating to not be able to point out which man was "Daddy Mike" in a room full of strangers at Christmastime. 

And I thank God for my grandparents. I miss them. I shudder to think how I would have ended up without them. 

Things were stable for me until I was ten. 

My mom had remarried someone who was ten years her junior and ten years my senior. She got pregnant right away with a second set of twins. After the babies were born, they wanted to relocate to Northern California. 

She wanted to bring us with them. I didn't want to go. At all. Looking back, I can only assume that it was out of sheer selfishness that she forced us to go. She needed help with the babies. And she didn't want to be alone. 

I think I have honestly blocked out a lot of what happened to me that year. The year an already timidly shy girl lost her voice completely. The memories I do retain I wish I could somehow un-remember. I remember getting up on our own. I remember having to wear damp clothes to school and trying to dry them before the bus came by swinging in the chill of the morning air. I remember lying awake at night, terrified I'd hear the doorknob turn and the creak of the door again. Terrified of the darkness and the shadows and the man. I remember in the darkness disconnecting myself from my body and asking, no begging, God to just take me. I felt abandoned by Him, too. I'd listen to "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears and repeat the lyrics "Nothing ever lasts forever" again and again in my head and desperately hope they knew something I didn't. 

And then, without warning, we came home. And I was safe again and little by little found my voice, until I was brave enough to write a letter. 

And I carry those scars. And the blame that was eventually placed on me for being silent. And of others' guilt too hard to accept. 

....................

And so today, I can be overly-sensitive. And I'm a people pleaser. I struggle with emotional eating. When I feel like I may be in danger of being left or mistreated, I withdraw.  It's my defense mechanism. My feeble effort to somehow keep myself safe. I had never made the connection before. I see it so clearly now. 

And I continue to find my voice. To struggle and work through the shadowy places and listen as God brings about a purpose. {I am not defined by bad things that happened to me and neither are you}

And there is evil in the world, but it can never negate the beauty. 

Beauty for ashes. 

Words still being penned. 

Pages still to be written. 

Redemption. 

And I will not remain silent. 

The Ushering

November was ushered in quietly with rainfall.

Soft at first.

Then at some point during the night, I awoke to the sound of rain pelting the earth. There is something I find so comforting about listening to the rain. A peacefulness washes over me and I feel like I can breathe. Like really breathe deep.

This morning, dappled dewdrops shone like jewels sparkling in the sunlight. It was quite breathtaking in person. {the picture doesn't do it justice}

And I opened the front door and the blinds in an attempt to let it all inside. Because sometimes that's where the disconnect lies. On the inside.

Slow down. Breathe. Let the moments, hours, days, and months be ushered in softly with grace.

{And Life isn't about running from the downpours and wishing things away}

It's to be embraced, for all of it is a gift.

And I am feeling so thankful today. For rain, for new months, for grace, for family, and friends who are my family....

Burnt Autumn

It's the first Sunday of October. I am sitting on my bed, still in my pajamas, cat curled up in rumpled blankets next to me, and air conditioner whirring loudly, competing with the music that plays softly from my laptop.

I have a headache and woke up with allergies this morning. My head just feels somewhat foggy this morning, like my brain is still half asleep, but I digress.

It's 100 degrees at this very moment. When all I want is autumnal weather, we've been getting triple digits. I want to view the 10-day forecast and see 70's {okay, even low 80's would be acceptable}.

A couple of weeks ago we had a string of scorching days topping out at 108. One hundred eight! I remember having a discussion with coworkers about our lovely saucer magnolias outside our office which typically bloom in October. Their green leaves, instead of falling off before the blooms appear, were simply being burnt to a crispy brown.

I wondered how this would ultimately affect the magnolias. A week later, I had my answer.

They still bloomed. Amid the dead leaves, they bloomed.

And I don't know why this struck me as so astonishingly miraculous, but it did.

But that's exactly what happens, even with us. Sometimes, things just need to be thoroughly burnt up before the newness.

Sometimes, it's unseasonably hot {or cold, or whatever} but it's where we are right now. There are lessons to be learned here. Right here.

I have wasted far too much precious time wishing things were different instead of embracing my days.

I so want to learn how to embrace my days better. I don't want to wish my days away, or foolishly tell myself that, "It will be better when fill-in-the-blank."  Even the hardest of all days is a gift.

After all, it seems to be the hardest of all our days that have the propensity to significantly shape us. I know that it is the time in those long valleys that have made me the person I am today.

I also know that autumn weather will eventually arrive. It just will. The shadows lengthen and air chills.

The changing seasons. Beauty for the ashes. New things from the burnt places.

Grace for each day.

Where I'm Left

I was sweeping yesterday and as I emptied a dustpan full of debris into the trashcan, I just had this overwhelming thought. Like, if I could take all of my mistakes, every misstep, put all the sordid details down on paper, then crumple that paper up and throw it away, I would.

In that moment, I was so overcome with regrets and feelings of hurt and failure. There are going to be those moments, I think, where we just want to crumple all of it up and say to hell with it. And I think that is perfectly fine. At least it's perfectly honest.

And as long as I am being perfectly honest with myself, I also know that there is nothing I can do to change the past. It is what it is. I do not want to go back and relive the things I cannot change over and over again in my head. I've done that too often and it just robs your heart of peace and your life of precious time.

So where does that leave me? It leaves me with the here and now and the choices that are in the present. It leaves me with a God who loves me unconditionally and does not keep score of my mistakes. It leaves me with the assurance that even though I have to keep this paper filled with scribbles and tears and erasures that make up my life to this point, I do have the opportunity to open a new box of crayons. To add color to the lines and shadows, there lies the hope.

After all, it is everything on that paper that makes me the person I am today. I can't just throw it all away. There are no rough drafts in life. This is it. And some of it will feel shitty but life is a beautiful gift. I choose to remember that and will trust that in the end, it will be a masterpiece {even when I don't see His artistry in the shadowy places}.

So right about now, I'm picking up some sunshiny yellow...

**It has been a looooong time since I have written anything, friends. So this is it, after four and a half months, just a stream of thoughts quickly typed up, unpolished, but it's something. And I needed something today. Grace appreciated.

xo,

Jadie