I hate the unpredictability of grief.
It’s hard and inconvenient, random and unannounced. I hate feeling like I’m not in control, and if anything is reminding me of the reality that I’m never really in control, it’s the ambushes of sadness and apathy and frustration hitting hard.
So far, grief has looked like tearing up while cutting a pan of brownies a friend brought over, because brownies remind me of home and how my dad always made them from the Ghirardelli box mix my mom bought from Costco.
Sometimes it looks like tears dropping on the crisp white worship guide on Sunday morning while Matt puts his arm around me and draws me in close because we’re singing “Be Thou My Vision” and the last time I heard this hymn in a corporate, church setting was at the end of my dad’s funeral.
And a lot of the times it just feels like exhaustion for no reason. Or being overwhelmed with little tasks that seem like too much, and then frustration because I could handle them before all of this happened.
In a lot of the past few months, I’ve felt like I’ve been living two lives. My external one, where I’m hustling to get all the things done– the class slides for the next day, the grading, the reflections, the emails, the parent phone calls, the trying to be intentional about relationships, and the billion other obligations that come with being an adult. And they’ve mostly been getting done.
But I’m also experiencing life in my head, where I’m randomly exhausted and frustrated and where it just feels like there’s not enough space for all the things I need to cram in it. I want to deceive myself, and convince everyone else around me, that I’m ok by checking all the things off the list because it just seems easier. But then there are moments like when my boss compassionately looks at me and tells me I’m not doing my best because I can’t, and then I drop my shoulders–and everything I’ve been trying to hold up with them– and realize she’s right.
I’m learning that grief has its way of humbling people, and it just doesn’t care about all of the new and hard and transition already happening in life; it just barrels its way through to make you realize you can’t shove down and ignore tragic things.
Friends, I really hate this. All I want is to be ok, to ignore grief because sometimes it seems too big to face, too monumental to process. And when I look back at the past two months, I notice that I’ve been masking so many moments with busy and tasks and emotionlessness until it all inevitably leaks out unannounced.
As I keep stepping forward into this thing, as aggravating as it is, I’m starting to realize that maybe the Lord is using this hard, unpredictable grief as a grace.
Because I think grief, in all its unannounced ways, is forcing me to be kinder to myself because I just have to acknowledge the reality that I’m more broken in ways I can’t hide anymore, even to myself. It’s forcing me to slow down and to Sabbath, because I’m learning I actually can’t function without the intentional breaks, and also that we were never intended to in the first place. And it’s creating this compassion in me, one that wasn’t there before, because when people share their hurt, I can resonate in ways I couldn’t before.
In the midst of all of this hard, the Lord is using these unpredictable ambushes of grief to make me look down at my wide open wounds and allow Him do the hard, painful work of healing and growth that I’ve been ignoring with perfectionism and busyness. And isn’t it beautiful that the Lord can use the most tragic of circumstances to do His good, holy, and perfect work? The work He’s been doing all along?
I hate that this thing happened, and I hate that my dad is gone, and most of the time, I hate how grief keeps humbling me in unpredictable ways. But when I take a step back and look at the work the Lord is doing through my broken and sad and pain, I can’t help but be grateful to experience grace in new ways, ways that are softening me and pointing me towards Jesus again and again. And if that gets to be the end result of this terrible thing, then I have hope as I keep leaning into these random waves of grief.