Grief is a Weird Thing...

Grief is a weird thing. 

One minute you’re getting ready for bed and the next you’re taking a drink out of your water bottle you keep in the bathroom when the smell of leather smacks your nostrils. You’re instantly transported back into your grandparents’ living room as a young girl. Saddles sitting on saddle racks, bridles laying on top of their bags, the smell of leather soap filling the air and the sound of the oldies radio station adorning the speakers. 

Your grandpa is sitting to the right of you, silver brush in one hand, silver polish in the other. “A little more elbow grease, bird legs.” As you scrub in a circular motion all of the silver pieces adorning your prized show saddle. “That’s it! Just like that!” 

Grief is a weird thing.

You realize it's been 7 years since your grandpa passed away and you never really grieved him because just 6 months prior, your husband passed away. So the random smell of leather or the random Buckskin Association coffee mug you find tucked in the back of the cabinet send you through a whirlwind of emotions. It doesn't seem possible that all this time has passed and because you were already in survival mode, your nervous system was already dysregulated and your flight or fight was already activated... there was no capacity for additional grief.

Grief is a weird thing. 

One minute you’re enjoying the crisp changes to the air as you’re enjoying a barefoot stroll through the yard and the next minute, the leaves rustle the trees just right and you’re taken right back to the afternoon before your husband died. 

Grief is a weird thing. 

Even 8 years later. A memory will unlock with a sound. A smell. A song. The way the wind rustles the newly drying leaves. The way the cool, crisp air fills your lungs. 

You’re not here. You’re there. In that house. Screaming on the floor, “I TOLD HIM NOT TO GO!”

 
You’re not here. You’re there. Staring blankly into the roaring wood fire in the outdoor wood burner. You can’t move. You can’t speak. You can’t breathe. All you can do is stand there, staring blankly at the roaring fire as the perfect metaphor for how your entire life feels right now... swallowed up by a roaring fire.

Grief is a weird thing. 

One minute you’re here, in this glorious, beautiful life you so desperately prayed for. And the next minute, you’re there. Sitting at the funeral home, alone. Yet you’re not alone, you’re surrounded by hundreds of people and your three precious babies. Yet, no one can possibly understand what you’re feeling, so on the contrary; you’re quite alone. They will all leave the funeral home and go back to their regular lives. Silently, they're probably thinking how grateful they are to not be in my shoes. To go back home to an empty house with your three children and begin to navigate life raising three babies all on your own. The calls will cease. The random visitors that come and sit with you or clean your home will stop. The childcare offers will cease to be voiced. In only a matter of weeks, this earth-shattering event will cease to be on anyone's mind as they go back to their regularly scheduled lives.

Grief is a weird thing. 

It sneaks right up on you. Right in the middle of a core memory. Right in the middle of your kids’ birthday celebrations. Right in the middle of the laughter and bliss. Suddenly you’re all too aware that something is missing. Something will always be missing. 

The definition of grief is the inward expression. The deep anguish of a significant loss.

The definition of mourning is the outward expression. Sorrowing and lamentation.

With time, the waves are smaller and less suffocating. The outward expressions of your grief will be less and less, sometimes as subtle as a gasp of air as your mind and body orient to each other in a disbelief that it actually happened to you. Not someone else; you. You'll gasp as the disbelief and perhaps even wonder, "Did his life happen at all? Or was it all a dream?" But surely you know that's nonsense as you look over at the three precious lives that are snuggled up next to you as proof that his life DID happen.

Grief sneaks up on you. It’s a weird thing. 

It changes as time goes on. But no matter how many years slip by since that frightful day where your world stopped, there will always be this shadow that sneaks up on you without warning. 

One minute you’re blissful and praising God for this life. The next minute you’re gasping for air because one loss does not make you immune to anymore loss. 

Grief is weird...

I think the more time that goes on, at least for me, the more the anxiety rises that my time is coming again. The other shoe is going to drop. The anticipatory grief keeps an unrelenting grasp upon your tender heart. Waiting for that next shattering loss to sweet you away like a tidal wave. Like someone standing in line waiting to get to the front of the line to gather their ticket, except that when you get to the front of the line, it's your turn to experience the grief.

Grief is a weird thing. But with it you will flow and dance. The dance between what was and what is. The honor of what was, what is and what is to come. 

Grief is a weird thing, but the waves won’t always threaten to drown you. In the beginning the waves are 200ft tall and, like the storm sea, are relentless; daring to suffocate you completely. But with time the waves space out and the swells are 100ft, 50ft, 15ft.

I leave you with these words. Because 8 years later, these words ring truer than they’ve ever rang before. I will never consider myself healed. But there’s beauty in the unknowing as you move forward into the unknown. There's beauty in honoring what was while you move into what is. There is never moving on, only moving forward.