Good Grief

I don’t know what it is about the grocery store, but this wasn’t the first time I had an emotional breakdown there. Years ago, during the week my youngest child started school, I burst into tears right there in the cereal aisle. That season marked the end of something beautiful—a decade of little ones at home with me. And the loss was profound. I felt it deeply.

Recently, it happened again. Same grocery store. Only this time nobody could see my pain because it was hidden behind a mask.

As the weeks have gone on, the weight of the pandemic has become heavy. Palpable. The reality of countless lives threatened and lost. The impact and heartbreak of lost jobs and families going hungry in our communities. The constant stream of cancelled celebrations and cherished activities. The transition to a new, strange, surreal normal.

Some days it hits me like a brick.

And while I am all about trusting God and seeking positivity, I also know that those things don’t cancel out grief. It is real. It hurts. And it gets better when we look right at it, walk straight through it, and call it by name.

Earlier this week, my family was watching a movie together and there was a scene at a park. Groups of people hanging out, playing volleyball, giving high-fives with huge visible smiles, sitting close together on blankets sharing a meal. It was nothing extravagant, but today those moments seem as glorious as an exotic vacation. One of my kids looked nostalgically at the TV and said softly with a sigh, “Remember that? That was fun.” Later that night, we had a chat about how we’re all holding up, and I was reminded of the vastness of loss. It covers some serious ground. Especially right now.

In an article on CNN Health, Marnie Hunter shares that “Grief can come from the loss of anything we’re attached to deeply.” We might be tempted to minimize what we’re feeling because perhaps, among so much devastation, our personal loss doesn’t seem worthy of grieving. But every single heartbreak matters. Big or small. And allowing ourselves to feel our sadness, and let others feel theirs, is a giant step toward healing.

Back at the quiet grocery store (because my kids are human vacuums), I was aware of having my face covered up again. Not because I was crying this time, but because I was singing. California Dreaming was playing through the store and it put a little spring in my step. I passed a woman who was jamming to it too, and we both chuckled behind our masks. I remembered that wherever there is sadness there is also joy. Where there is fear there is hope. We have been blessed with a whole range of emotions, each serving a meaningful purpose in our lives. And they can all hang out peacefully together, without six feet of separation.

My prayer for all of us—in the midst of embracing our own unique losses—is that we continue to also find reasons to sing and love and laugh and connect and rejoice.

XOXO

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.” Victor Hugo (Les Miserables)

“Be joyful in hope, patient in trouble, and persistent in prayer.” Romans 12:12