Gratitude and Grief as Companions

You can live life or you can write about it but you can’t do both. I used to say that - mostly to myself when I had gone weeks without writing in my journal.   It’s actually not true.  I said that in a period in my life when I longed to write, to slow down and reflect on the life I was living, to record memories and stories I thought worth keeping.  But I was a mom of school-aged children who wouldn’t slow down. I wouldn’t give in to a reflective pace. I wouldn’t  or couldn’t say the hard “No’s” so I could have that one good, “Yes.” 

But that was a couple of decades ago..  Before I read countless memoirs , before I learned the value of stillness and silence, before life itself - with health, age, capacity, and heartache- had it’s way.   I made that statement before I saw the world in color. I said that when I thought life was sorted was in either/or bins.  I said that back when I thought a person could outrun the past or ignore wounds.  

I know better now. One can both live a life and write about it. Writing doesn’t have to be for public consumption, and most of it probably shouldn’t be.  (Prof. Brené Brown says people have to earn the right to hear our stories and every story is not meant for everyone.)  But the mere practice of writing them, for ourselves, helps re-story us. The slow practice of reflecting on the lives we live helps us find meaning, remember victories, and process our griefs. 

I’ve not written in this space for such a gap of time that it was tempting to believe that old lie I’d once told myself. Live life or write about it, but not both.  I was tempted to give up because the fullness of the last several months has left me little time to devote to this type of writing.  I was tempted to give up on sharing any stories because some of the stories I’ve lived are not for public consumption or are not ready yet to be told.  

But as I pondered leaving this space,  one line came barging into the hallway of my mind while I was doing some quotidian thin like sweeping up Grizzly’s hair.   I have to pay attention when this happens. It’s like thinking in chapter titles. The one-liner is followed by a stream of thoughts I must wade into - to see if there is anything there for me or for you.  

Emily P. Freeman once told me (along with a roomful of other writers) that we should write to serve one person. (She knows who she is).  So when I wade into the stream, I ask myself:  Is this just for me, for my morning pages in my leather  journal or is this for her?  If a few more of you receive something, that’s multiplied loaves and fishes.

This morning, the one-liner that barged uninvited into my mind was “There’s your blog.”  I was on the screen porch hanging my graduation tassel on my Christmas tree.  What else does one do with those hats and tassels?   Since June,  I’ve enjoyed looking at my hat sitting on my desk alongside a picture of me with Dr. David Emmanuel Goatley, President of Fuller Theological Seminary.  Those two things symbolized the end of seminary journey and the beginning of a new path in my life.  With the added decorations and greens of Christmas coming into the house, I needed to put the hat away, but I couldn’t quite let go of looking at the tassel - so on a whim I hung it on my tree! 

The stream that followed that one-liner was the examination of the lie I began this post talking about.  The events of this year: graduation, ordination, a new position in my work, and some changes in family life have piled one upon the other with not enough space to process one before the next one begins. I was buying into the lie that I couldn’t or wouldn’t ever write about some of these things because they are getting further and further in the rearview mirror. I was questioning whether  this part of my writing life might be over. 

  But alongside that tassel on my tree hang other ornaments with stories of their own -  the crocheted cross sent to me during my illness in 2022, the hand-painted Celtic cross from my artist daughter’s recent collection, the tiny squirrel representing friendships made 42 years ago.  As I pondered the memories of these and other ornaments, I realized it’s never too late to remember a story or to tell a story.  

Gratitude nor grief ever really go away, no matter how far back the event itself happened.  Both are worth revisiting from time to time.  Gratitude because it leads us to contentment and into the presence of God, the Giver.  Grief because it reminds us of the depth of love and life we have been privileged to experience. And if we let it, grief can lead us into the presence of the Comforter.  

I’ve found myself experiencing both gratitude and grief with the end of my seminary studies. You’d think I’d be so thankful to be out from under the pressure of theological and historical research papers, Hebrew tests,  sermon writing and group projects.  I am!  But it was such a big part of my week, 20-30 hours of study, for three and a half years. It was a part of my identity and a source of creative and intellectual stimulation. It was a season of stretching and growing that this not-so-young  girl needed.  It took me awhile to find a weekly rhythm without being a student. 

 Even more so, the people - I miss the friends, the community to which I belonged.  Though much of connection was Zoom classes and Facetime calls, the common bond of loving the Lord Jesus Christ brought me into relationship with brothers and sisters from many tribes, tongues and nations and we slogged through the hard stuff together. At my graduation, I sat between a Korean brother and Spanish-speaking sister. We each sang our praises in our natives tongues.  I was undone- crying with both grief and gratitude - more than actually singing.  After the ceremony, I had face to face meetings with a few favorite professors and hugged fellow students I’d only known on my screen.  I kept thinking: I’m here!  I’m actually here!  I finished!  

I accepted the invitation to let my life change that came through the face of my dog Grizzly in 2018. This long journey that began with trauma and deep questions bubbling up led me to to apply to Fuller in the winter of 2019 and become a student the following fall.  The journey came to its end this year with the Class of 2023.  

The stories of 2023 are piled on top of each other like Christmas ornaments in the red storage boxes.  All of them are not for now, but some of them are. The tassels tell a story of both gratitude and grief. Of ending, beginning, ending and beginning again.   It had been quite the adventure - with almost every area of my life turned upside down in those last four years.  But repeatedly, God had opened and closed the doors for me.  Over and over, he made a way. Not one thing did I lack.  When it looked like I might not leave the hospital in January of 2022, like I might never finish seminary or my ordination process, He knew better. He had decreed that I would “live and proclaim the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living” and that I will do as long as I can breathe in whatever spaces I find myself. 

Just like living life or writing about it is a false dichotomy, so is gratitude and grief. They are not opposites practices but complementary ones. They go hand in hand and the tears each bring can flow simultaneously.  

For those of you who have followed me in this space a long time, thank you for waiting, thank you for staying with me and for reading these words whenever they come.  May the grace to both grieve and be grateful be yours this Advent season.