I was recently overcome by another powerful wave of grief from the loss of my stepson, Larry Jr, to suicide 7 years ago. Describing this recent surge as a wave suddenly devalues its impact; it was more of a tsunami. It knocked me down and kept me there for nearly 2 days. At first, I felt submerged under deep, dark water, unable to catch my breath. Eventually, I found strength in my breath and floated up to the surface.
The waves of grief, large or small, remain as unpredictable as the length of my recovery from them. But this time, while treading in the pain of loss and deep sadness, it felt less scary and eerily more comfortable. Have I just become a stronger swimmer in the ocean of grief? Perhaps. It’s hard to explain, but I’ll do my best metaphorically. The recent category 4 hurricane that wrecked our community and brought with it 9 feet of storm surge, flooded our garage, and 80 of us residents lost our vehicles, among numerous other items from our storage units. The water left the space it filled through the very openings it came through. Its havoc was temporary in terms of its presence. My latest wave of grief reminded me of that storm surge, coming in, filling the container of my heart with murky water, creating panic and feelings of being overwhelmed. But I didn’t panic this time. I knew that the flood was only temporary, and that eventually the contents (grief) would leak out through the cracks of my broken heart. That knowing brought me comfort.
There is never a good time for this visitor named “Grief.” The visits are almost always inconvenient, and my first desire is often to run, to shelter, and avoid. The truth is, Grief is always present, always there, lurking and waiting. I cannot hide from Grief. Instead, I have learned that it is best to be with it, to be present to it, feel it. I’m no longer afraid of it. I’ve learned to hold space for my sadness and the spontaneous memories that emerge with it. I’ve learned that there are some things we just can’t fight. Grief is one of them. I allow it to be as it is, and me with it, knowing that like the flood, it will recede.
And like many times before, the flooding waters of grief left my chest and my eyes. Like the morning after a stormy night, the sun still rises, the birds still chirp, and life goes on. So do I. I envision a beautiful rainbow lingering in its wake, a reminder of God’s promise to never again flood the earth, and perhaps his promise to me, that he will not give me more than I can handle.
Today, as I put a pen to my recent experience with the visitor named Grief, I’m left with gratitude for making it through the visit and abundant gratitude for all that remains. I’m left with more clarity, feeling more deeply, and once again, seeing life through a visibly cleaner lens of compassion and love. I choose to believe that somehow, through my continual healing, I am improved from this tragedy. I admit that I cry more easily, but I still laugh uncontrollably. Grief has been a spiritual teacher, and I have learned powerful lessons from it. Grief (and Hurricane Ian’s) recent lesson: Accept the impermanence of all things. There is, however, but one exception, and that is grief itself. Grief never leaves us completely, therefore its residence in our hearts is permanent, and we must learn to live with it.
With that said, at any given moment, I might silently be weeping, and you have no idea.