Come to the Table

            We come to the table where every suffering heart has a place. We share our stories of being shattered and lost, and talk of the stillness of our days and the erosion of dreams in the long drift of night. We weep by the rivers of Babylon as we remember our dead and the terrible, sad beauty of love.

We come to the table to nourish one another. We have had our fill of struggle and despair. We share what we have with each other, and pass faith from hand to hand. In holy giving and receiving, we bear witness to the communion of sacrifice and grace.

 

We come to the table to say to each other that in the midst of despair there is hope. That where we are broken, there is mending. That where we are angry, there is reconciliation. We come in compassion to bring courage to each other for the challenges that lie ahead, and to learn how to live in community together. 

 

                                                            Mark Liebenow, Christmas 2021

Courage in the Wilderness

 Brené Brown writes: “The wilderness is an untamed, unpredictable place of solitude and searching. It is a place as dangerous as it is breathtaking, a place as sought after as it is feared. But it turns out to be the place of true belonging, and it’s the bravest and most sacred place you will ever stand.”

                                    

For me, the wilderness of grief was paired with the wilderness of Yosemite because I went there to hike after my wife died. There, in the solitude of nature, as the noise and rush of city life faded away, I listened to the sounds of nature and heard what grief was trying to tell me.

 

Writing Our Grief Out

            All sorrows can be borne if they’re put into a story, Isak Dinesen said. Writing about our grief unties its knots, and unhooks death’s claws from our flesh. 

 

            Start a writing routine. Every day, sit down at the same time, and write about your grief. Record all of your thoughts, feelings, memories, and questions. Write about everything that seems connected until you can’t think of anything else to say. If something else shows up later, make a note to explore it. Writing helps, as does walking in nature and having a community of support.

 

Grief, Sci Fi, and Courage

When we need a break from grief, movies can provide an escape for a couple of hours, although we have to choose carefully because if someone dies in the movie like our loved one, we end up feeling worse. Movies can reach places inside us that are shaky, provide encouragement for dealing with the challenges that lie ahead, and offer a different way of looking at life.

 

The future can be limited by our fears.

 

When I was going through grief and needed relief from sorrow, several science fiction movies and TV shows kept my spirits up. As their stories became part of my life, I came to think of their characters as real. In Doctor Who, one of the shows on the BBC, River Song says, ‘Aren’t we all just fairy tales?’ They were certainly better companions than some of my friends who disappeared because they were scared of grief. Behind the characters were flesh and blood writers, people who understood the nuances of grief. 

 

We are the sum of our stories.

 

Tolkien’s The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings books have been part of my library since college when I tacked a 3x5-foot poster of Middle Earth to my apartment wall. Later they would shore me up when my wife died young because they were stories of physical adventures, and with my mind unable to grasp what had happened, I needed to be physical but rather than battle orcs, ogres, and trolls, I went hiking in the wilderness. Recently I watched the movies again and was struck by how ordinary people did what needed to be done, even though they were scared and didn’t think they had the required skills or strengths. But they gathered their courage and stepped forward. It was also clear that even in the movies where characters often miraculously survive, people I cared did die, even if they were fighting for good causes. The writers got that part right, too.

 

On Doctor Who, the Doctor has companions he loves as they travel around the cosmos with him. When they leave him to get on with their lives, he grieves their loss. But when Amy and Rory die because of the Weeping Angels, the Eleventh Doctor is so devastated that he gives up saving the universe and hides away as a monk. Until Clara shows up. Because of her compassion, his humor returns (“Bow ties are cool!”) and he opens his heart to caring again. Even when they seemed doomed and survival impossible, the Doctor says, “We are not helpless.” and together they figure a way out. 

 

To be fearful of something is where the adventure begins, if we have the courage to take that first step.

 

Perhaps what appeals to us most about science fiction and fantasy stories, besides the epic adventures, is that they are often vision quests. You probably grew up hearing about teenage Native Americans being sent into the wilderness to receive the vision that would guide the rest of their lives. Joseph Campbell (The Hero with a Thousand Faces) explored the similarities of these quests in many cultures, and his work inspired the Star Wars movies, which inspired new generations of those who believe in responding when people are being abused.

 

When grief strikes, the future we expected with that person is swept away, and what we desperately need, after the shock and numbness have worn off, is a new vision to guide us, a new direction to head, or a new purpose that brings energy and excitement back into our lives.

 

We are limited only by our imaginations. If we can dream something new, it can happen.

 

We would all like to live long lives, although that’s not really the point of living. What we want more is to live lives of meaning. The rock climbers I camped with in Yosemite saw life as an adventure, and when I was mired in the doldrums of grief, they encouraged me to take more risks when I hiked. For themselves, they felt that they had to risk falls, broken bones, ripped tendons, even death if they were going to discover what they and life were made of. At the end of their lives, they wanted to look back without regret for opportunities they could have taken.

 

In movies and TV shows, people took deep breaths and stepped forward into the unknown, even though they were scared and didn’t know if they would survive. This is what confronts those who grieve every day. There were times when I didn’t know how I was going to make it through. It takes an enormous amount of courage to walk into public with grief filling our eyes as we shop for groceries and search for reasons not to give up.

 

It also takes courage to listen to someone who is grieving, knowing that you can’t take their pain away, and knowing that you don’t know what words will comfort them.

 

Death is not the enemy of living. Settling for a dull life is. Do something each day that takes your breath away. 

Cantus: The Silence of Grief

In Arvo Pärt’s Cantus, a composition for orchestra and Orthodox bells, silence is written into the music. There are times when no musicians are playing, yet in this silence we hear reverberations of the notes recently played. We hear them even though no one is playing.

So it is in grief after a loved one has died. We still hear their voices reverberating in our hearts. We see their shadows moving through our days, and feel brushes of their touch, even though their bodies are physically gone.

Our Public Face of Grief

When death comes to someone we love, our world changes and we are forced to change with it. When we go out in public, we bear the marks of grief. We are numb and in shock, yet most of the world doesn’t seem to notice. 

We sense people staring at us, especially those who know us well, because the face that they were used to seeing is gone. People also treat us differently because we are dealing with something that scares them, and they don’t know how to handle it.