Grieving and Processing are a Spiral

As I sink back into the couch, adjust my almost crossed ankles, and sigh; I know I must write tonight.  It seems like it has been eons since I sat down and composed something coherent and yet it also feels like yesterday I wrote like I meant it…but then again, the 46 days since I said goodbye to Kenya have passed in the same way. This week, I am being reminded of my worth without works. I am not on the path to proving myself, pulling myself up by my proverbial bootstraps, or vainly grasping at the plates of processing and adjusting to keep them spinning. I cannot.

Those two meager words are so freeing. I cannot force myself to process. I can’t “get over” the friend, cousin, and acquaintances that lost their lives in the last 2 months. It is a lie to think that there is a formula and timeline for grief and for transition. Any “plan”, book, article, piece of advice that offers a quick fix to feeling right side up and “back on your feet” is a gimmick and futile. Grief and processing are a spiral. Some days eating lunch and enjoying some of my favorite foods will pass with a quick prayer of gratitude, and yet others my eyes could be blurry as I choke on the same delectable taste because it reminds me of the precious babies that didn’t get to eat today, or of a memory of a long ago barbeque with friends. And that’s okay. It’s healthy. It’s a part of the spiral of grief and processing.

                And its pride that tells me anything different. Its pride that tells me to cover up those broken moments and the same pride that overconfidently pats itself on the back when it appears that I’m “over that stage”.  In the usual pattern God works…by throwing multiple things in my path which in their own voices harmonize a perspective of a singular message, I was reminded yesterday of how pride seeks to control and is fearful and angry when its desires are thwarted and that it ultimately condemns. Pride is either put to death in you or it will kill you. It will quench your true hope, vision, and cut you off from sources of life like family, friends, and ultimately, THE source of life, Jesus.

 You see, you and I will die. You. And. I . Will. Die.

Read that again. 
               Then take a deep breath and realize the weight that just like the family and friends I lost in the last two months, your time will come. Then, remind yourself that you have so much to live for. This moment matters and it’s not too late to stop living like you have to prove you matter. Live in freedom and love. Freedom to admit you’re human, you hurt, you grieve, you take time to process. You are alive today. This moment. For a reason and for a purpose. Where you are at may hurt, may be confusing, may be full of real grief—but it’s a part of your life not the entirety of it. Be humble enough to admit when you are wrong, are hurting, are breaking, and be open to receiving. Receive forgiveness. Grace. Hope.

                It is in these moments, okay they feel like years of twilight zone days, know that it is okay to be real with where you are. Freedom comes when you can admit you need forgiveness, need grace, and need to be reminded there is an eternal hope in the midst of your temporal pain. Jesus died for your pride—even if you and I never admit that our grief is a spiral not a “to-do-list” we can check off—we are wholly loved.  You. Are. Loved. When you cry out in grief, walk in a daze because so many formerly habitual things take effort or are cringe-inducing, when you are able to take a deep breath—you are loved. I know in the coming days and weeks, especially in this holiday season, I will need to re-read this. I will have to remind myself that my imperfect ways of grieving and processing have already been paid for. All the times I will want to rage against materialism this holiday season, all the times I will shake my fists believing that I know best when my family and friends should ‘ve left this earth, in each of those moments I am still perfectly loved and those sinful, temporal attitudes of doubt and fear and despair have all been paid by a perfect Savior who took those burdens. He is with me in the grieving and the processing and his perfect grace covers each bend in the spiral.