And here's the thing. I thought I was ready to not be fine, but I wasn't.
After a run and multiple zoom meetings, around noon I headed over to the church to consecrate more bread. For a number of years St. Thomas has been serving the memory care ward of an assisted living home twice a month bringing Eucharist. Each time I go I am amazed at the comfort the familiar prayers bring to people who cannot remember many things but recite the prayers with me. Their faces light up as I distribute communion recognizing their bodies crave the Eucharist.
Last week, as the building was shut down to outside visitors, I took a communion kit to my friend and parishioner, Amy (whose father was an Episcopal priest) who works there. I dropped it at the door; she sanitized it and took it in. Today I was going to replenish it. I also realized it was probably the last day for a while I was going to be able to do that, so I wanted to make sure I brought enough for several weeks.
Truthfully I thought I was going to be incredibly sad doing this and that I would probably cry. But I didn't. Yes, it was hard to see Amy through the glass and not be able to hug her, but I felt a sense of peace. On my drive out to the facility, I was listening to one of my favorite radio shows--The V Show on ESPN 680 (and yes Bob, the host, and Nick, his son, the producer are also parishioners and friends). Not only is Bob awesome to listen to as he talks about sports, but he also talks about and writes about life and living. He is calming, compassionate and reassuring. He reminded us to follow the guidelines put out for social distancing and self-isolation because it would help and we would be able to return to "normal" one day.
As I drove away I decided to go to the jewelry store where my grandmother's charm bracelet had been repaired. It wasn't going to be cheap to pick up, but I really wanted it. I was thinking about how Gangan lived through the depression, at the age of 64 she buried her mother and her husband within 3 weeks of each other, a month later she sold her home and yet continued to live for another 30+ years. Not only did she continue to live, but she lived a life full of love and joy. I wanted to wear her bracelet to remind me of her strength, to remind me of how she modeled living even with great loss. I just wanted the bracelet.
I knew there was a chance they would be closed. Well, my head knew it.
I drove up and the lights were on--SCORE (still listening to ESPN) one for me! I got out of the car and there was a sign on the door. They were closed. I thought about banging on the door. Instead, I got back in my car as tears seeped out of the corners of my eyes. I didn't like it, but I respect Royal Jewelers for doing the right thing. I started the car and then looked left. Nothing Bundt Cakes was OPEN! I felt a little joy returning as I jumped out of the car and headed over. I would bring bundt cakes home to my family! YESSSSS!
But the door was locked. The woman behind the glass door that was keeping me from bringing joy to my family motioned I needed to call. Back to the car, dialed the number and the message said, "You have to order online." (Guess she wasn't able to pantomime that.) No problem, I'll pull up the website, order, have them bring them out to me and shazaam, on my way home to spread joy. Except....
FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! YOU HAVE TO GIVE THEM TWO HOURS NOTICE!
And then I did start crying out loud--really loud. I was sobbing and shaking and beating my steering wheel. This went on for a good while. (I might have scared the woman in the car next to me who WAS getting her order of bundt cakes.)
And I realized right then. It wasn't about the charm bracelet (although I still want it) or the damn bundt cakes which I also now wanted.
It was about my aunt dying in Charlottesville, and I was planning to visit her this summer. That might not happen.
It was about not being able to worship in person. It was about no March madness. It was about seeing one of our Godchildren and having him blow kisses to me instead of wrapping his arms around me. It was about not being able to see friends and family. It was about no wonderful Wednesday. It was about anger at those who weren't following the recommended guidelines. It was about loss--some temporary, some permanent. It was purely and wholly about grief.
This morning I am sitting at Gangan's desk getting ready for more zoom calls (bet she never thought that would happen from this desk). I am reading psalms of lament to honor those feelings of grief. Yes we can do hard things; yes we can get through this; yes God is present in our sorrow, and yes we can name it. We can name our loss. There is power in naming. And grief, well grief is part of living and it can be and is holy. Grief is part of living; we are still living.
Name your grief, own your loss and keep living.
Oh, and I just ordered some bundt cakes--
2 comments:
Oh my friend....been there done that already! Only it was over an old stuffed (with flax seed) cut velvet decades old frog animal, one of the last things my sister gifted me before she started on her downward spiral of addiction and heterosexism, Ribbit helped me through countless thunderstorms and fireworks and his weight was very helpful as I have become more neurological handicapped.
Couldn't believe we could no longer fix him....he started leaking through his fabric(!) And so, after a tearful re-reading of Velveteen Rabbit and a trip to the dumpster, my spouse promised me a weighted blanket.... that hasn't stopped the tears but the memories and love have helped.
We have the faith ability to get through the hard stuff.... a hug at a time....
Grief. I had been telling my patients and their families that they were grieving, but hadn't realized I needed to apply it to myself at this time. Thank you for reminding me to name my own grief. God bless you.
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