Grief & Grace (Part 2)

(I wrote the original "Grief and Grace," after my Aunt Vita passed away a few years ago.)

I was nervous about Christmas this year. I couldn’t shake the feeling of dread.

See, last year's Christmas Eve was the last time many of us saw our Beloved “Aunt Rae.”

In fact, we’ve lost three people from my mom’s side in the past three years. The dinner table was feeling more sparse. (Three new babies didn’t quite make up for size.) Would Christmas just feel sad?

But as we gathered around the appetizers, we started reminiscing with laughs. Then my dad kicked off dinner with a simple reflection:

“What a year it’s been. What. a. year.  When I say that, I could easily focus on the bad. The loss, the stress, the frustration. But I want to focus on the good things. The blessings and joys.” 

He listed things like the grandkids, having a house, having a job, etc. He continued, “Your mother and I have grown closer to God this year, and we have grown closer to each other. So despite all the loss, I know we still have much to be thankful for.”  Wow.

We did have our one cry moment. 

It came right before our annual White Elephant gift exchange, when dad handed mom a small gift. I braced myself, for I knew what it was.

Two years ago, after the loss of Vita and Grandma, Aunt Rae had given my mom two angel ornaments, engraved with their names and year of passing. They were hanging on the Christmas tree.

So before my mom opened the box, we all guessed.

A third angel.

“I can’t read it!” my mom cried, as she attempted to fan away the oncoming tears.

“Rae: in our hearts always. Love you,” read my dad. Then mom was crying; then we were all crying. She gestured speechless towards the tree. Those were her people. 

“So someone can steal that, right?” interjected my brother-in-law, and we all broke out into laughter.  (I so appreciate the dark humor that is rampant in my family.)

Laughter: that is, overall, what characterized Christmas Eve.

It reminded me of one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems, “Heavy.”

In it, she reflects, 

That time

I thought I could not

go any closer to grief

without dying

I went closer,

and I did not die.

There have been times when grief felt so overwhelming - so unending, I thought I might die.  When you’re in the middle of grief, it seems it will last forever. There’s nothing you can do but stay in it and trust the process. But grief tricks you into thinking you will never feel better. It makes you only see "grief upon grief."

Oliver continues, 

surely God had his hand in this, 

as well as friends. 

Yes. That’s the grace in grief. The love of friends and family. Faith. Hope in a story that ends with resurrection. This is how grief doesn’t kill us.

She claims,

It’s not the weight you carry, but how you carry it…

you embrace it, balance it, carry it 

--when you would not, 

could not put it down.

My father’s dinner prayer was a powerful reminder that we can choose how we carry grief. We could take the bitter, angry route, and it would be justified. We could hold on to its heavy, but familiar hand and refuse to put it down, lest we lose even more.

But maybe the answer is in that balance. Grief and Grace. Joy and Sorrow. We can carry both. 

Finally, the poem ends with,

Have you heard the laughter 

that comes, now and again, 

out of my startled mouth?

How I stop to admire, admire, admire 

the things of this world…

Why is the poet startled by her laughter? Because she never thought to hear it again. To have survived grief and still find yourself laughing - is the miracle.  To carry grief yet still be touched by the beauty around you - is the miracle.

So that’s what Christmas Eve was after all. There was grief, perhaps even some unspoken. But still, still, there was gratitude and laughter. 

Life is so hard, so messy, and sometimes, so painful. Yet I am reminded again of how we may often find ourselves surprised--startled--by joy.