An Open Letter to Grief
Well, Grief, here we are. When my life as I knew it came to a screeching halt, and I lost everything (including most of my relationships--and those I didn't lose changed dramatically), you stepped in to fill the gap. I didn't want you here, Grief. You are excruciatingly painful. You are like a ball and chain. You change my reality. You run in the background of all my experiences, so that I cannot laugh with reckless abandon, fully enjoy the good things around me, or be thoroughly grateful for all my blessings. Because the truth is, Grief, I don't want to be here. And especially not with you.
Grief, you show up at the most awkward moments imaginable. I can be in the middle of an important meeting or all by myself when there's no one to hear me cry. If you appear in public, you humiliate me and make me appear weak, especially in front of people whose respect I need. You undermine my strength, abilities, and intelligence by making me seem foolish, helpless, and emotional. You hinder my work by causing my brain to cloud over - I can't even think straight, let alone call on my vocabulary skills, my most powerful resource to articulate my reality.
You suffocate me with your presence, Grief. All my creative ideas, inspiring motivation, and even my will to live are choked out when you're in the room. I can't move forward because, as you well know, without air there's no oxygen to sustain life, and because you are so uncompassionate, you don't even bring a ventilator with you. I'm paralyzed in the moments, days, and weeks you visit me as an unwanted guest, and I gasp for air when you finally shift your attention to someone else for a blessed while. Even so, you leave me emotionally and physically depleted, powerless. I don't even have adequate time to prepare for your next onslaught when you appear again out of nowhere.
There are so many things I'd like to do, so many interesting events I'd like to participate in, but I can't, Grief, because I have to drag you along. You turn every happy gathering into a funeral. You remind me that I'm not like other people, that my life is messed up. You constantly whisper in my ear that I can only escape your reality for so long before you slam me back in my cell. Even when I have the chance to venture out into the world, you're right there waiting for me when I come home. Home to Grief.
I think the hardest part of dealing with you, Grief, is that I have to look "normal" on the outside while you're throwing your tantrums on my insides. I do my very best to hide you, because you are a thief. If anyone knows you're there, you'll make sure I lose new opportunities and relationships. You'll scandalize me, you'll harass me, you'll marginalize me, you'll ostracize me, and you'll steal my identity. You are not who I am, who I was, or who I want to be. Yet, in order to function in life, I must be inauthentic at times and pretend you are not part of my reality. Many others wouldn't handle me well when you're around.
Grief, you hail yourself as some "necessary element" to my future health and healing, yet you rob me of those in the present. I'm willing to cut my losses and move on, but no, you'll have none of that. I must sit in my ashes, acknowledging that the pain of your persistent presence is the result of the loss of people, things, and ways that I once loved. I don't want to admit I loved, because that's what brings me so much pain. There's nothing I can do to bring back that which was precious to me. Don't you think I've suffered enough?
And yet . . .
When I prayed to become more like Christ, I had no idea you would be part of the answer. Because of you, I can identify with the sufferings of Christ. I do have to give you credit, albeit reluctantly, for facilitating that. The side benefit of putting up with you has been that I've become exponentially more sensitive and empathetic toward others. And though I totally did not want to be "that person", I'm actually becoming more relatable to others for having known you, Grief. How is it that you can simultaneously be both a worst enemy and a best friend?
Experiencing you, Grief, has come with a set of unintended consequences. I no longer care about politics - there are larger issues at stake. I also have lost my fear of man - there's no reputation left to lose with others. I have a greater boldness for what I do believe in, and personal boundaries to go with it. And there are a host of unimportant things for which I care nothing at all. After what you and I have been through, Grief, very little matters other than God, His Word, and relationships with people. My priorities and beliefs have changed - for the better, if I may be so candid.
Grief, you are a gauntlet. You are a hallway possessing both the door by which I enter and the gate by which I leave. You are the Valley of the Shadow of Death itself. By having experienced the path by which you lead, Grief, I will have become stronger through weakness; I will have overcome one of the most painful of human experiences; and admittedly, I am a much, much, better person. For all your cruelty, Grief, I'm the one who will win the war against you. My most formidable adversary, you are giving me a most precious gift: humanity.
Grief, your jurisdiction is ending soon. I'm doing my work, and I've put in my time.
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©2020 Julianne Knapp. First published 7.5.20
Grief, you show up at the most awkward moments imaginable. I can be in the middle of an important meeting or all by myself when there's no one to hear me cry. If you appear in public, you humiliate me and make me appear weak, especially in front of people whose respect I need. You undermine my strength, abilities, and intelligence by making me seem foolish, helpless, and emotional. You hinder my work by causing my brain to cloud over - I can't even think straight, let alone call on my vocabulary skills, my most powerful resource to articulate my reality.
You suffocate me with your presence, Grief. All my creative ideas, inspiring motivation, and even my will to live are choked out when you're in the room. I can't move forward because, as you well know, without air there's no oxygen to sustain life, and because you are so uncompassionate, you don't even bring a ventilator with you. I'm paralyzed in the moments, days, and weeks you visit me as an unwanted guest, and I gasp for air when you finally shift your attention to someone else for a blessed while. Even so, you leave me emotionally and physically depleted, powerless. I don't even have adequate time to prepare for your next onslaught when you appear again out of nowhere.
There are so many things I'd like to do, so many interesting events I'd like to participate in, but I can't, Grief, because I have to drag you along. You turn every happy gathering into a funeral. You remind me that I'm not like other people, that my life is messed up. You constantly whisper in my ear that I can only escape your reality for so long before you slam me back in my cell. Even when I have the chance to venture out into the world, you're right there waiting for me when I come home. Home to Grief.
I think the hardest part of dealing with you, Grief, is that I have to look "normal" on the outside while you're throwing your tantrums on my insides. I do my very best to hide you, because you are a thief. If anyone knows you're there, you'll make sure I lose new opportunities and relationships. You'll scandalize me, you'll harass me, you'll marginalize me, you'll ostracize me, and you'll steal my identity. You are not who I am, who I was, or who I want to be. Yet, in order to function in life, I must be inauthentic at times and pretend you are not part of my reality. Many others wouldn't handle me well when you're around.
Grief, you hail yourself as some "necessary element" to my future health and healing, yet you rob me of those in the present. I'm willing to cut my losses and move on, but no, you'll have none of that. I must sit in my ashes, acknowledging that the pain of your persistent presence is the result of the loss of people, things, and ways that I once loved. I don't want to admit I loved, because that's what brings me so much pain. There's nothing I can do to bring back that which was precious to me. Don't you think I've suffered enough?
And yet . . .
When I prayed to become more like Christ, I had no idea you would be part of the answer. Because of you, I can identify with the sufferings of Christ. I do have to give you credit, albeit reluctantly, for facilitating that. The side benefit of putting up with you has been that I've become exponentially more sensitive and empathetic toward others. And though I totally did not want to be "that person", I'm actually becoming more relatable to others for having known you, Grief. How is it that you can simultaneously be both a worst enemy and a best friend?
Experiencing you, Grief, has come with a set of unintended consequences. I no longer care about politics - there are larger issues at stake. I also have lost my fear of man - there's no reputation left to lose with others. I have a greater boldness for what I do believe in, and personal boundaries to go with it. And there are a host of unimportant things for which I care nothing at all. After what you and I have been through, Grief, very little matters other than God, His Word, and relationships with people. My priorities and beliefs have changed - for the better, if I may be so candid.
Grief, you are a gauntlet. You are a hallway possessing both the door by which I enter and the gate by which I leave. You are the Valley of the Shadow of Death itself. By having experienced the path by which you lead, Grief, I will have become stronger through weakness; I will have overcome one of the most painful of human experiences; and admittedly, I am a much, much, better person. For all your cruelty, Grief, I'm the one who will win the war against you. My most formidable adversary, you are giving me a most precious gift: humanity.
Grief, your jurisdiction is ending soon. I'm doing my work, and I've put in my time.
Subscribe to free weekly articles in your inbox HERE; your information will never be shared. :-)
©2020 Julianne Knapp. First published 7.5.20
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I get a strange sense of both sadness and comfort when I experience this song. The Christian life is characterized by suffering, and mine is no exception. I appreciate the truth that God desires for us to live in the present, in His presence, in His hope and love. He is able to grant light and grace for now and for a glorious future!
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