Not From Candies Creek
I used to be able to stand on my front porch, look across the street and down the road a bit, and see the glistening of the sun off the ripples of the water. But no more. Candies Creek, and the place where we once lived, are miles away. (You can you read more about the move to the new house in this post.)
Our new home is great. There's twice as much square footage, large bedrooms, an open floor concept downstairs (which is great for having folks over for dinner), a nice view from the front porch, lots of birdsong, and the neighborhood even has sidewalks on every street!
And yet, for months, everything felt “off” after the move. Emotionally and spiritually, I felt disconnected from myself, from other people, but especially disconnected from God. And while I wasn't reneging on my commitments, I was not enjoying life like I had been only a few months before.
Everything was muted.
Blah.
I began to realize (or more likely the Spirit revealed to me) that I was experiencing grief. Having walked with others during their own grief, I understood cognitively that I needed to let the grief happen, that I needed to sit with it and try not to rush my heart through the healing. I understood it is a process and that it would take as long as it takes. I also understood in my mind that I needed to offer compassion, patience, and kindness to myself during this time.
However, when you are grieving, it can be hard to care about what is true because the shock of the loss and the subsequent emotional journey take center stage, bullhorn in hand, and drown out everything else.
And yet, when you are feeling this way, you hate it. You want it to end. But sometimes that pain makes you desperate enough to stand up straight in the muck you've been wading around in and ask someone for help or advice about how to keep moving out of the place you’re in.
I'd already spoken with my wife, friends, and some folks at my church, and they were all understanding, all empathetic towards what I'm going through. I also spoke to my spiritual director about what's been going on, to get his perspective, and he gave me what I thought was a good idea, one I hadn't thought of myself.
He explained that some of the deepest work God does in us can rely on our ability to be aware of the small places of our hearts. Specifically, in this case, he told me it may not be enough to simply say, “I miss where I used to live,” because that isn't exactly true. Let's use the loss of a loved one to illustrate.
When we're grieving a person we've lost, we have to go beyond simply saying, “I miss you.” The loss is more detailed, more nuanced than that. You could go a little deeper and say something like, “I miss your laughter,” and that is better, but what we really need to do is enter into the emotional space they used to inhabit with us and say, “This small thing here, do you see it? This used to be different when you were here. It was better, more full of light and love and life. This part of me was so much different when I was with you. And now you are gone, and so much is missing here in this small place. You went away, and now I am less than I was.”
So, instead of, “I miss your laughter,” we might say…
I miss the way you would smile when you were getting ready to laugh at something I would say, how you would lean toward me, make eye contact, and often touch my arm or shoulder in anticipation.
I miss how you would laugh as loudly and boisterously as me, and how we so often laughed at the same things, and at the same time.
Sometimes, while you were laughing, you would try to say something else to add to the humor, but the laughter had overtaken you, and your words would become high-pitched and indiscernible, which was also very funny and would add to the laughter. I miss that.
You would sometimes laugh until you cried. I often would, too. I miss how the world outside of our laughter was blurred for a moment by our tears of joy.
When something caught you off guard and struck you as really funny, you would laugh uncontrollably and for a long time, all of your energy and focus poured into the laughter, into the humor of the moment. I miss your wheezing laughs in those moments, and how much harder I laughed in response.
After the laughter had ended, you would heave a big sigh. I miss hearing that sigh. Sometimes I would sigh, too, and if we both sighed at the same time, it would often cause us to laugh a moment longer.
I miss the moments of quiet we would enjoy together after the explosion of joy that was our shared laughter, the feeling of contentment, the feeling that life could not be better in that moment.
As you can see, we can go a lot deeper with our grief than simply saying, “I miss them.”
But I don’t want to go deeper, you may be thinking. The deep places are where it hurts the most.
This thought is right, of course. The deeper we go in our grief, the more potential there is for it to hurt. But pain is not the only thing waiting for us in the deep places where our grief resides. There are very special gifts our grief can give us, especially when we enter into it like I am describing. The first may be a little more obvious to you, that we can remember who (or what) we lost with much more appreciation and gratitude, we can think back to the time before our loss and give thanks for how our life was so blessed. This is a good way to engage our grief and take small steps of healing while holding the hand of the Father of Lights, from whom comes “every good and perfect gift.” (James 1:17)
In this way, we come to realize an important and comforting truth: the place where our deepest grief resides is the same place our deepest love lives.
And when we bury our grief, we also bury the love we held–and still hold–for the person who death took from us, the relationship that ended, the pet we had to put down, the childhood home we moved away from, or the treasured possession that was lost, stolen, or destroyed.
Not only can delving deeply into our grief bring healing to our pain and help us appreciate what we've lost, it can also enable us to be truly present and cherish what we still have. If we are mindful enough, we can use this same process to list the small things that are still present in our life, things we may overlook or take for granted. Let’s use our previous example to illustrate, with some small changes to the wording.
I love the way you smile when you are getting ready to laugh at something I’m saying, how you lean toward me, make eye contact, and often touch my arm or shoulder in anticipation.
I love how you laugh as loudly and boisterously as me, and how we so often laugh at the same things, and at the same time.
Sometimes, while you are laughing, you will try to say something else to add to the humor, but the laughter overtakes you, and your words become high-pitched and indiscernible, which is also very funny and adds to the laughter.
You sometimes laugh until you cry. I often do, too. I love how the world outside of our laughter is blurred for a moment by our tears of joy.
When something catches you off guard and strikes you as really funny, you often laugh uncontrollably and for a long time, all of your energy and focus poured into the laughter, into the humor of the moment. I love your wheezing laughs in those moments, and how much harder I laugh in response.
After the laughter ends, you often heave a big sigh. I love hearing that sigh. Sometimes I sigh, too, and if we both sigh at the same time, it often causes us to laugh a moment longer.
I love the moments of quiet we enjoy together after the explosion of joy that is our shared laughter, the feeling of contentment, the feeling that life cannot be better in the moment.
As you are reading this, I hope your mind drifts to a special person in your life, or a favorite pet, or a place you love nearby, and you begin to think deeply about all the little pieces of that person or place that made you fall in love with them. God is the source of that delight, that joy. Spend a moment and thank him for that gift.
Or maybe you were thinking of someone or something you lost, recently or long ago, a loss that you've never quite recovered from. It's my prayer that you will enter into a time of deliberate appreciation, a time of deep and active remembering. Please know that God sees you where you are, that he feels your pain with you, and that he is glad to be with you in the middle of this moment.
I’ve always used this same method of appreciation in my thoughts and feelings towards Candies Creek while we lived there. I would often reflect on or share with others a moment of beauty I found during one of my walks. I would also take time during my prayer (which often happened while walking) to thank God for his creation, specifically the small beauties I found near the creek.
So then it made a lot of sense to my heart and head when my spiritual director recommended I process through my grief by revisiting the details of the place, slowly and deliberately, allowing my heart to hold closely and tenderly what I used to have.
And that is what I will be doing here for a while. Future posts over the next few months will include my reflections on what made my life by the creek so wonderful. It will be a mix of lament and gratitude, and I hope you will join me.