Blessings

Even In This

It took me a while to wrap my head around this one, that there is any blessing connect to grief. Before someone starts yelling, let me be clear. I am not saying that grief is a blessing that we need to experience. No one needs to die in order for us to understand anything.

            When someone we love dies, we lose so much that it can feel like nothing is left. As the weeks and months go on, we are left with a new understanding of life and ourselves. We walk into each day differently because we know how quickly everything can change. 

            As the dark veil of sorrow lifts, we begin to notice small things that make us smile — a baby giggling as it plays with its toes. A bite of really good apple pie. The beauty of the constellations on a crystal clear night. We may even sense that grief has become a friend and walks alongside us.

            What I’m saying is that grief takes us to a place set away from everyday concerns, a landscape where we can deal with death. Because of grief, I’ve become thankful for the small pleasures of living and the little things people do that I once took for granted. Even in the gut-wrenching absence of the person I loved, life goes on and good things continue to happen.

            This is what I was grateful for in the year after my wife died:

                        

I bless my shoes for taking me through another day. Bless the sun for warming your empty chair. Bless Sue and Daniel who stop by for coffee, who have no words, but listen as I share the day’s emptiness.

I bless my lips for not cursing death. Bless the silence that calls me into solitude. Bless my heart that holds on as I walk through the canyons of sorrow. Bless the lack of anything I care about for the time to do what others need done.

I bless my thoughts for finding mystery in chaos. Bless spaghetti and dark chocolate. Bless this glass of cabernet, and the next. Bless the grief that won’t go away, and my fear that it will and I’ll have nothing left.

I bless compassion, mercy, love, and await their return. Bless the night with its scribbled directions. Bless Orion’s stars that have become companions. Bless the candles I light on the mantle, and their steady fire that remains as my dreams burn away. 

I bless anger for the temporary insanity it brings. Bless the ring on my finger that I won’t take off. Bless every memory that comes back from oblivion. Bless your lost photos of Arizona’s sage and red-rock desert, the pocket watch you gave me last year.

I bless the darkness and its unforgiving. Bless our past for giving me something to mourn. Bless the memory of your love that keeps me going. Bless the unknown future that looms ahead. And then I kneel.

What else can I do?