I sold my family home today. Suddenly, I needed to make space for grief. Unbidden tears found their way down my cheeks. And there they were — overwhelming feelings, not because I invited them, but because they would not be denied.
I have learned much about grief since my father’s death five years ago, and the loss of my mother in the past year. Any formula is absurd in the navigation of grief. Grief needs freedom, space, and time. And now, when all of our lives have changed in ways we never imagined, when family members and friends leave us suddenly and too soon, grief comes like an unexpected guest.
We really need to get better at grief. We need to accept that it will come uninvited, overwhelmingly, with paralyzing speed. Memories are blessings, but memories can also amplify our sense of loss.
Never again will I walk through the apple orchard with my father, or make apple dumplings in my mother’s warm kitchen. When I look at the empty pool, I can see my little children and their cousins, laughing and splashing. I see mom sitting by the pool, perhaps bringing chocolate chip cookies. I see my dad hoeing the potatoes or tilling the garden. I see my now-grown children once again as skinny halflings in wet bathing suits, riding a golf cart much too fast through the yard, while my father smiles with loving pleasure.
More and more, I am grateful for my childhood and for the childhood which my parents helped me give to my children. As I wrap my head around the idea of my home now belonging to someone else, I pull back. I find myself averse to anyone else walking among those apple trees or sitting in that warm kitchen, which has been the center of my life for so many years. They don’t know — they can’t see, the love that was here before.
I know that practicality demands I sell the home my parents built and cared for, but emotion yells at me, “No!” I know, I know. I should move on. My faith tells me that I will see them again.
But the truth is, it hurts. And I believe that hurt should be allowed and even coddled for a time. Then I will move on… until the next time grief visits me. Taking a walk one morning, I found peace during my phase of grief. Amidst a cemetery perched on a hill, I looked at the names, written on stones for hundreds of years. I wondered as to the lives of those buried here. Did they love well? Were they loved in return?
I listened carefully. The voices were like gentle incoming waves, replacing my outgoing tide of emotion as the sunlight caught their messages with intentional reverence. “We were once like you. Worries, sacrifices, and pleasures played in our lives. But listen. Fear did not alter our ultimate destination. Worry paralyzed our precious hours on this training ground called earth. Gossip destroyed while hate and jealousy murdered relationships.
“But amidst our ever-preoccupied existence, we learned to love. We loved with abandoned effort. We balanced our flaws with giving the gift of hope. We tenderly held those who cried. We cried too. Our wounded hearts reached beyond the expanse of selfishness, and we held each other through our trials.
“In Love, in loving, in being loved, we found meaning and purpose. Our lives became rays of warmth, penetrating the fog of daily life. We learned to sparkle, to catch the light of God, and to mirror this beauty from deep within us. We became the revealed secret to generations after us. When the time came, we no longer walked here, but there is proof we lived and proof we loved.
“We learned there is more than angst and worry, more than selfish living; we learned that our love is all that ultimately matters. Every act of kindness, every gift of grace, every sacrifice of self for others is tallied in this brief, incoming wave of our life, and the receding tide leaves marks upon this shore, leaving resilient evidence that we had loved.”
I listened carefully, and my emotions were calmed. I embrace this secret message with reverence. It is truth.
Janet Kurtz
(Living City, USA)
