This Hidden Grief

Yesterday should have been the perfect day.

I drove over to the memory care facility to drop off a care package for Grandma.  It was a bag filled with puzzles, a couple of my books, a Mother’s Day card and, of course, some chocolate.

I had to call them first and let them know I was coming and when I got there, I dropped the bag by the glass front door and then stepped back about ten feet.

The receptionist came out, mask and gloves, to get the bag.  She asked me how I was.  I said, “Good,” and told her to “Stay safe,” and then she disappeared with the bag back inside.

Mission accomplished.

Yesterday should have been the perfect day.

After dropping off the care package for Grandma, I drove over to Pastor Debbie’s house to have a social distancing lunch with her and Carol in the front yard.  It was the first time I had seen Pastor Debbie in months and the first time I had sat with anyone for an extended period of time to chat and eat and enjoy each other’s presence.

The weather was perfect, blue skies with just a few clouds for character.  There was this amazing breeze and Pastor Debbie’s yard sat in the shade with only the butterflies and squirrels and birds to distract us.

We had Panera … the first time I had my favorite sandwich in months.

We laughed.

We got caught up on each other’s lives.

And then, after an hour, I packed up my chair and hand sanitizer and water bottle and went home.

When I got home, as is the new normal, I immediately went to the kitchen to wash my hands.

And it was there, at the sink, that I broke down crying for the first time since this whole coronavirus thing happened.

It was a perfect day, I suppose, in this new normal.

But it was not the day I wanted.

I wanted to be with my grandmother.  I wanted to hand the chocolate to her.  I wanted to watch her face light up because even though I always bring her chocolate, whenever I give it to her, it’s as if I am handing her chocolate for the first time.

She will hold the box to her chest, close her eyes and say a silent prayer of thanks.

Yesterday, I got to be with Pastor Debbie and Carol.  I got to sit with them and dip my toes into the very fringes of their space.

But that was not what I wanted.

I wanted to hug them both.

It’s been two months since I’ve hugged anyone.

The day was perfect.  It really was … except where it wasn’t, and that weight, that intense sense of loss just crashed over me.

And for the first time in two months, I let that grief in for a moment.  I allowed myself to mourn what I’ve lost. 

We’re all grieving, even if no one we know has died, we are grieving.  We are grieving loss of jobs, loss of routine, loss of purpose, loss of touch.  We are grieving all the things we selfishly took for granted.

And we’re not just grieving for ourselves.  We are grieving for the rest of the world.  Our grief for others seems without limit.

But we do not grieve alone.

And that is what is so important to remember.

You are not alone.

You may feel alone right now, but you are not.

You have God and you have a whole community, a whole communion of the human race, with you.

You do not grieve alone.

You do not cry alone.

And now let me leave you with these words of hope.

As Pastor Debbie and Carol were talking yesterday, I happened to notice a small, black butterfly land in the leaves behind Carol.  It’s not that I had never seen a black butterfly before, I had just never seen one so small.

And while Pastor Debbie and Carol continued to talk, I stood up and walked carefully over to the tree, hoping not to disturb the butterfly.

And then I slid my phone out of my pocket and turned the camera on.

I have taken many butterfly pictures over the years, but I had never seen this particular butterfly before.   It wasn’t black at all, really.  Its body was a bright orange and its wings were speckled with a rich indigo.  The rest of the wings were that bluish-black color that you always read about but rarely see.

Pastor Debbie and Carol suddenly stopped talking as they watched me and as they watched the butterfly.

Carol is a butterfly enthusiast, the keeper of butterflies, the protector in her butterfly garden and even she had never seen this one before.

Later, when I got home and identified the butterfly and let Carol and Pastor Debbie know what it was, Carol sent me back an article she found.

It’s called an Atala butterfly.

And for a while in the 1950s, it was thought to be virtually extinct.

But it has since thrived in south Florida and has apparently been migrating its way north and finding us.

What a blessing to see it yesterday.

What a moment.

What a God moment.

What a moment of hope that in these dark times, the world can still come out of the darkness and thrive in greater and more awesome ways. 

Never underestimate God.

TODAY'S PRAYER

This Hidden Grief

Lord, how is it possible

to trip and stumble

even when the ground

is smooth?

Or to still wake exhausted

after a long night of sleep?

How is it possible to weep,

but not know why?

Lord, why am I grieving

though no one has died?

Lord, it seems impossible

to hide from oneself,

and yet, here I am, hidden.

Hidden and lost, suddenly

so far off the path,

the light to guide me home

seems like just a flicker,

a wink, in the night sky.

But I am not hidden from

You, Lord.

I am not lost to You, Lord.

Your light Lord is not a twinkling

star in the blackest night sky.

Your light is the summer sky

at midday, a sky so bright, so white

that all I can do is close my eyes

and let Your warmth envelop me.

With You, Lord, I am not lost.

With You, Lord, I am always home.

And so, Lord, please hold me now.

Here, take this cup,

and take this weight.

Take my hand, Lord,

and walk me through this grief,

this spiritual sadness that rocks

my very soul.

Let Your love carry me.

Let Your love carry us all,

this day, and all days,

and in all ways, always.

Amen.

Psalm 90:14