Gratitude

 In the days and weeks that followed Jonah’s death, I was overcome daily with gratitude for the love people poured out over us. I was so touched by all the meals, acts of service, presence, kindness, beautiful and meaningful gifts. People rearranging their whole lives to come across the country to be with us. How could I ever express what it meant? My vocabulary suddenly reduced to sorrow and thankfulness, neither fully capturing the universe of emotion I felt from both this sudden loss and the immediate response of astounding love. 

Gratitude is really another way to say thankful humility. And I think an even more descriptive way to express my feeling would be thankful vulnerability. Defenseless, truly laid bare, scorched, small, and coughing up ashes, but somehow met with the most beautiful tender understanding and care. Friends and family reaching to meet my every need when I couldn’t muster the strength to do so for myself. So, so grateful. 

Of course, this is what I would feel. Gratitude, as my beloved people put love into motion around me. 

But what has been surprising is people’s gratitude for my grief. 

At first, I was worried I might just be too much for people. Of all the kinds of grief, this is a heavy, heavy one. It is just too close to homes and hearts. Would it just be too sad for our friends? What should we share, and what should we try and carry more privately? 

The truth is I already knew the answers to these questions. I am not very good at hiding emotions. I have no real poker face. When I feel it, there it is. So openness it must be. This grief is a living, wild thing, and I do not have the strength to cage it. If I don’t and let it bend and shape me, I will surely be broken apart. 

And so, I found myself walking into church one Sunday, knowing the clouds were gathering just around my shoulders. I could feel the shift in the air, but thought I could probably hold my emotions at bay until later in the day. But as I walked in the door, I was immediately met by three women, one after the other, each wordless, compassionate, knowing, and each enfolding me tightly in her arms. That was all I needed. I just wept. Hard. Couldn’t help it. Grateful. 

Still tearful, I entered the back of the room and sat to the side so I wouldn’t draw too much attention to myself. Before I could even take a breath, my friend made a beeline for me, sat down, and strapped her arm around me. I wept again. And she did, too. By the end of the service, there was a circle of women, all ages, around me, praying for me, tending to me. I felt so helplessly grateful. 

At the end of the service, my darling friend came over to me again. “When I came here today, I really needed to cry. I am so sad today, but felt like I needed to be okay to be here. Put on a good front. But then I saw you, and you were so vulnerable and able to cry, it made me feel okay to cry, too. To cry with you, but also for me. I needed that so much. Thank you for making it okay.”   

Speechless. I realized something profoundly altering. Letting her love me and receive my grief gave her the opportunity to release her own sorrow in concert with mine. My grief was not the burden for others I imagined it to be. It was a delicate intimacy, received with reverence, solidarity, and relief, and it opened the door for her, too. It was her turn to share her gratitude with me, for my vulnerability. A gift I didn't realize I was giving.

We think we need to hide our sorrow. We sublimate and endure. But that is not the way we were made to be. And there is just so much grief in the world. It is not just me who has permission to feel it today. We all do. But because I feel it so evidently, others can cry their tears, too. My grief may even have the power to heal. 

The truth is grief is not meant to be carried alone. It is meant to be adequately witnessed, and in that, there is healing for everyone. And I while I am still grateful and often humbled by the heart of others, it seems I am not alone.