Lesson 1: Grief is not just an emotion.

Before I really dive into my "Lessons I Learned from Grief" series, I thought it would be helpful to define what grief is, since many people in the United States, particularly in my age group have yet to really experience it. I guess this overview/definition could be a lesson in and of itself... We'll consider it Lesson 1: Grief is not just an emotion. In fact, grief manifests itself in different ways for different people at different times, and affects you mentally, emotionally, and physically. I was recently looking over a journal entry that I wrote last year in the midst of a season of pretty intense grieving. Perhaps it will give you more insight into what a "grieving widow" really experiences on a day-to-day basis, sometimes for months or years at a time. May your knowledge move you to compassion and compassionate action towards those you know who have experienced a traumatic loss.

Here goes...

February 2012

Grief is a strange thing.

It is strange because I cannot fully define it, or explain it. I cannot always make sense of it. It does not necessarily follow logic, but it is not just a feeling either. It is certainly not one particular feeling. People say, “you need to grieve,” but what do they mean by that? Do they even know what they mean? I think most of the time they mean that we should cry. But I can grieve without crying and I can cry without grieving... So what is grieving?

I used to think that grief was a specific emotion, a feeling, but I am beginning to see it as much more than that. Grief colors my world right now. I experience a myriad of emotions in the grieving process on any given day. It is not limited to just the emotional pain of loss. Rather, I would define it as a perspective, a way of viewing the world. As I said, grief paints my world. Every circumstance and experience I now face, I view through a new lens, one that's been shaped by loss, but is also rooted in the hope of Heaven. No matter what I am feeling at any given moment, there is still that lingering hurt, that knowledge deep down that my life is irrevocably altered, that there is no going back to the way things were, that I will never go back to “normal.” It manifests itself in different ways, this getting to a “new normal,” this adjusting to a totally new way of life and thinking. It is that sense of guilt that sometimes creeps in when I laugh, afraid that I am somehow dishonoring Jake’s memory by having fun and not mourning. It’s the hesitance to act “okay” out of fear that people will think I am fine and forget about me. It’s the way that so many things in this world now seem so meaningless. It’s the pain that pierces my heart when there’s only one towel on the towel rack in the bathroom or when I smell a familiar cologne. It’s the longing to be loved and be someone’s first choice. It’s the mornings when I wake up and have to remind myself what’s happened. It’s the nights when Jake appears in my dreams and they feel so real that I wonder if perhaps my real life was the dream. It’s the pain in my eyes that I can’t hide from some people no matter how hard I try. It’s the wondering how things can ever get better. It’s the wondering what Jake is doing in Heaven and the deep longing I have to be there too. It’s the longing to know what he would say in a particular situation and the pain of realizing that I’ll never really know. It’s the identity crisis that happens when you lose someone who is such an intregal part of who you are, the wondering if you’ll ever feel whole again, if it’s possible to be healed. It’s the feeling that you can’t even remember what being whole and happy felt like, the process of beginning to relate to the person you’ve lost as a memory rather than someone you have a continuing relationship with. It’s the shock that still hits you sometimes months later, when you utter the words, “he’s dead.” It’s the pain of missing him and knowing he’ll never be  able to comfort you. Grief is working through all these things and a thousand others, every day, all day until at times you feel so exhausted and drained that you just want to curl up in a ball and be still for a long long time, or worse, crawl in a hole and die too. Yet in this grief there is a constant companion and friend, a sustainer, an intercessor for those moments when you have nothing else to give or say, someone who understands and cares when no one else does. A man of sorrows, acquainted with suffering. His name is Jesus. And because of Him, because I get to know Him in the midst of suffering, despite its innumerable heartaches and pains, grief is actually worthwhile, and in it, I am actually blessed.