Thanksgiving is next week. If you have lost someone close, you may not feel thankful for much of anything. The year that my Evelyn died, Thanksgiving was a dirge, and although I gathered with her family and shared a meal together, I couldn’t wait to get home and not talk about how empty and devastated life felt.
As the seasons change and many of our activities move indoors, if there is nothing else, we can give thanks for this slower time, for longer talks with friends, and for trees that remind us that our lives are rooted in something strong, fertile, and enduring.
In the next week, if you notice something that you can do to help someone, even something small, like holding the door open, or sharing a plate of cookies, do so. It can make their day bearable. We often don’t know how hard life is for others because we don’t like to burden others with our suffering.
I continue to be thankful for the fellowship and encouragement that goes on in grief communities and other communities of support. Something that Jahana wrote inspired me to write this:
We come to the table where every broken heart has a place. We pass love from hand to hand, share our stories of being shattered, lost, and lifted up by the compassion of others. We talk of the stillness of our days and the dissolution of dreams in the long drift of nights.
We come to the table to nourish one another and feast on love. We have had our fill of death. Body of life broken. Blood of life spilled. The joy we once celebrated gone. We share what we have with each other, yet we weep by the rivers of Babylon because we remember the terrible, sad, beauty of love. In holy giving and receiving, we bear witness to the communion of all who grieve.
We come to the table to say to each other that in the midst of despair there is hope. We come to affirm that as we share where we are broken, grace is present and mends our wounds. We come to give each other courage for the hard journey and the wonders that lie ahead.
We are not alone.
Mark
No comments:
Post a Comment