What Grief Looks Like

Recently I got a glimpse at what grief looks like,

through the lens of one of my 8th-grade friends.

I was on my way to the Post Office with the last of our thank-you notes when I got the idea to stop by to see Pierce and his family. I'd walked Pierce, who lost his younger brother four years ago, through his grief and loss and I was eager to reconnect, to meet his puppy, to sit for a spell, and to normalize what I'm going through as I grieve the death of my brother.

While I was there, Pierce's dog Cooper jumped up on my lap and started to love on me. As if he knew. Knew that my heart is heavy and hurting. 

Knew that there are moments when I am struggling to breathe. 

Knew that my life changed so drastically in the blink of an eye.

Comic credit: Dave Coverly

Pierce's message to me was that the grief probably wasn't ever going to go away, but that I could use it to propel my purpose and passion. 

Then he added, "When you're ready." His grief taught him that.

And while I was enjoying my Cooper blanket, Pierce snapped that shot.

 

That picture-perfect shot of what grief looks like.

So what exactly does grief look like?

For me, it looks like confusion.

And uncomfortable feelings.

And a lot of chaos and fog.

The words grief coma tend to describe it well.

This afternoon, it looked like tears at the DPS,

when I was trying to renew my license.

The attendant was so uncomfortable when I

told her I was sad because my brother died that

she messed up the picture and had to take it twice.

Yesterday, it looked like protest when I found out

that the retreat center I'm speaking at next week

requires a negative Covid test. I felt overwhelmed

and I didn't want that crazy inconvenience. Gah.

The day before that, it looked like gratitude,

when a friend texted to ask me this:

How do you like for people to support you?

That's such a sensitive inquiry.

More gratitude for the Panera gift card from a friend in Ohio, for a meal and visit from my friend and one of Joshua's former teachers, and for a succulent plant from a colleague and friend at school. 

Before that, it looked like a compassionate reconnection with a friend who flew in from out of town to sit with me, to breathe with me, to listen to me, to laugh and cry with me. To tell me that it's going to be okay.

With my emotions all over the place,

I keep going to gratitude to help me

process my loss and find moments of peace.

Music has really helped me, so here's my Good-Grief playlist.

Amen by For King and Country

Glitter by Patrick Droney 

Scars in Heaven by Casting Crowns

When We Fall Apart by Ryan Stephenson

And Your Praise Goes On by Chris Rice

Almost Home by MercyMe

Find You Here by Ellie Holcomb

I Will by Citizen Way

Save A Place For Me by Matthew West

Only Jesus by Casting Crowns

This last one starts with the words make a mark.

My brother's name is was Mark.

And more tears start to silently fall.

I'm so grateful for the friends who are willing

to walk this messy grief journey so that 

I don't have to do grief alone. Ever. No matter what. 

Even when my DPS attendant doesn't fully understand 

that I'm okay with the picture on my driver's license 

showing exactly what grief looks like on me.