Dear Grief

Dear Grief,

Thank you.
And we hate you.
And thank you again.

For waking us from a mundane comfortable slumber,
Turning the lights on and shouting, “Get up!
Get up and look around at your life.
See this stuff laying around?
What do you want to do with it?
Or, maybe, you just want to sit down in the mess and cry?
That’s okay.”

You have a way of inviting tears to come up and over, dear Grief.
You also illuminate every vulnerable nook and cranny,
where we were intentionally (or completely unknowingly) trying to keep the lights dim or OFF.

Thank you for inviting us to look closer, to feel – maybe for the first time- to offer permission to not be okay, which is a big deal for the girl who is always okay – if not GREAT!

Thank you for inviting a slow response through an evaluation of relationships, money-spending, marriage, time, our boundaries (or lack thereof).

We are finding our voices thanks to you.
We are picking them up and verbally handing our honest needs to others.

Some throw our voices on the floor, brush their hands, and open the door to
The Old Way of Doing Things.

Others point us toward the Key Maker who creates New Keys for New Doors leading to New Ways.
For them, dear Grief, we find a freeing note in our voice box marked Brave.

This, dear Grief, is how you do your work.
You invite one layer to reveal another layer.
Like pulling back wallpaper from our souls, you are painful, Grief.

You ripped a dang opening in the Mystery Room.

We weren’t ready for that, but ironically, it’s where we are finding ourselves most at home presently. Few explanations or answers- only moving toward the Voice of the One who sews wings on birds and cracks cocoa in His grand beak, who covers with protective wings. You did us an early favor by holding up the feeder, turning it over, and letting the true steadfast seeds stay. All else is extra carried off by the wind.

So, dear Grief, thank you for teaching us how sacred the small moments are. For inviting us to the ground floor where we’re most comfortable- among the broken, hurting, layer-peeled souls who are holding their cups our and “cheers”-ing a vulnerable outstretched hand at our side. Compassion is what we drink, and we feel it go
to the depths of our being.

Where only Love has room to live in this mess-of-a-room.
Healed and held in the hands of the One who knows Grief and says,
‘It is well.’