Grief and Hope

In June, I read a Substack from Katelyn Beaty where she wrote about bird watching as a spiritual practice. At the time, my family had recently returned from a vacation in Minnesota, where we had thoroughly enjoyed watching the birds, along with all of the other wildlife surrounding the home we had rented for a week. There was definitely a sense of awe and wonder as we slowed down and immersed ourselves in the creation around us.

In Katelyn’s article, she chats with Courtney Ellis, a pastor and author, about her journey into bird watching, and they talk about Courtney’s book “Looking Up: A Birders Guide to Hope through Grief.” I was intrigued and ordered the book that same day.

It arrived a few days later, and I placed it on the ottoman in our living room, where it accidentally ended up under a blanket and was promptly forgotten about.

This past week, I found it. Clearly, my ottomans don’t get cleared off on the regular. And, even though I have a million books in my “to be read” pile, I started it and couldn’t put it down. This was so surprising to me because lately, when I pick up a non-fiction book to read, it feels like a slog. I’ve been wondering for months why it suddenly feels so hard to settle into this particular genre of book.

This isn’t normal for me at all. I love reading as a way to learn and grow. And yet, I’ve just felt this undercurrent of distraction.

As I read Courtney’s book, I found myself weeping as she unpacked the grief of losing a loved one and the juxtaposition of still needing to show up to pastor during Holy Week. The reality is that life keeps moving even when we are grieving, and really grief takes way more time than we typically make space for in our families, jobs, churches, and lives.

As I read, I realized that I have had an undercurrent of grief for nearly five years.

These past five years have been full of wonderful, joyous moments, and they have been full of sadness, loss, and heartache. This is life, really - a mixture of both. As my friend says, we need confetti in one hand and tissue in the other - celebration and sadness, rejoicing and weeping - in this life, they coexist.

I know that grief is a part of our lives, and in general, I think I’ve gotten pretty good at recognizing it, naming it, and processing it. And yet, as I read someone else’s account of hope and grief, I felt my own body exhale. Like it had been holding its breath for a long time.

I found myself wondering why these past five years feel so heavy compared to other years. We’ve endured hard things at different times. Individually, nationally, and globally.

I’m currently reading a historical fiction book on WWII, the bombings in London, and a little bookshop in the middle of the city providing hope. I’ve thought a lot about what it would have been like to have the air raid sirens going off day and night, having to take shelter for hours in uncomfortable places, not knowing if your home or loved ones would survive. The exhaustion of war - physically, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.

Every day, the news is filled with some horrendous tragedy. Some decision that has been made that devalues human life. Something heartbreaking and grievous. Something that feels impossible.

All of that feels amplified because we have access to more news than could ever be healthy for us to consume. And while that is true, it also feels overwhelming because we barely have time to process one horrible event before we learn about the next. It is exhausting, and our nervous systems are tired.

Courtney writes, “So here I am, heavy with grief but expectant in hope, too. Every day I feel the shroud over my heart lift a little more. We don’t grant much time for the heavy work of big griefs, much less smaller ones. We are people who overcome and transcend and just keep swimming. But what is unexhumed remains ungrieved, and what we don’t grieve will weigh us down like plastic in the belly of an albatross, accumulating over time until we risk plunging into the sea.”

I’m reminded this week that I need rhythms in my life that help me slow down and not rush past the sadness. And I need rhythms that help me to hope.

One day, when we were in Minnesota, there was a heron that landed on the river. It wasn’t there for long, but it was beautiful. I kept hoping it would come back. I’d pause and watch, waiting, hoping I’d see it again before we left. I never did. But there was something about the waiting that slowed me down and caused me to linger. The waiting quieted my soul and helped me to find rest.

I’m pretty sure there is more birdwatching ahead for me. How about you? What rhythms help you to grieve? What rhythms help you to find hope? 

~  Melissa