Is Your Grief Hidden Away?

A grief buried is not the same as a heart healed.

Several years ago, I was hiking in the beautiful forests of Great Smoky Mountains National Park when I noticed a tiny path veering away from the main trail and off into the woods. Wondering where it went, I decided to follow the narrow track for a short distance. Cresting a hill, I gasped when the forest opened out onto an unmarked historic cemetery. The crumbling stones dated back to the era before the national park existed and several of the markers were for babies, lost before their first birthday. The sight was unexpected and felt out of place in what looked like a pristine wilderness—a heartache hidden away, deep within a national park.

There are actually over 150 cemeteries located within the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Some are large and well-known, like those along the Cades Cove Scenic Loop. Others are small and secluded, like the one I stumbled into. The National Park Service maintains the gravesites, preserving the history of those who’ve gone before. They also provide access for families to visit the graves of their kinfolk, particularly for observed Decoration Days, a longstanding tradition in Appalachia and throughout the South.

Since this particular graveyard doesn’t have a sign and isn’t noted on the trail map, most tourists walk right past. They enjoy the peaceful scene and never realize that people lived and died on this plot of land. It’s hidden away from view, a lovely final resting place deep in the mountains. A story untold and forgotten.

This past February, I attended an online class on self-care taught by a friend. As she walked us through some basic stretching and relaxation techniques, I felt my muscles uncoil and the tension that normally held me together melted away. I enjoyed the sensation until, unexpectedly, my eyes welled up with tears. Swallowing hard, I tried to push down the sudden flood of emotion, but a sob climbed up my throat. I slapped a hand over my mouth. Thankfully, my microphone was muted, and the rest of the group hadn’t witnessed my distress. I’m an easygoing sort of person, and I rarely cry. Where had this come from?

A seed of sorrow was buried deep in my heart, hidden away and forgotten, not unlike that mountain cemetery.

You see, I lost my dad last year after a lengthy illness. Though it was heart-wrenching to say goodbye, I was also relieved to see his suffering end. I loved him dearly, and I resolved to remember his smiles and mischievous nature rather than his illness. I covered over the pain with happy memories and forced myself to appreciate those around me.

Until that moment at the self-care class, I thought I was grieving well. In truth? I was burying it.

Just like the forest had grown up and hidden the cemetery, I was gating off my heart to grief. Not only was I afraid of feeling my loss, I wanted everyone else to think I was doing well. They would see me smiling, as always, and be completely unaware of the sorrow I’d hidden away. But when I dropped my guard, it bubbled up like a spring of water. Somehow, my friend had found the overgrown path to my hidden grief, and I walked back into my grief.

Months have gone by since I opened that gate. I’ve cried some more, and the release has brought up even more good memories. I’ve talked to God about my sadness and loss because I know he understands. I’ve also offered prayers of thankfulness for things my dad taught me and the love he poured out over his lifetime.

My father was a professional photographer, and I often see beauty and honesty in the work he left behind. One lovely black-and-white portrait he kept on display in our home showed a gray-haired man wearing an old, battered hat and stooped over a cane. Beyond the twinkle in the subject’s eyes, deep lines of age scored his face, accentuated by the lighting my dad had chosen for the image. When I asked why he’d shot it this way instead of trying to make the person look younger, my dad said he loved the weathered lines on the fellow’s face. They told the story of a life well-lived. Smooth and unblemished skin was for the young and inexperienced. But wrinkles, shadows, age-softened skin, stooped shoulders, silver hair—those spoke the truth of years gone by. Of laughter and tears, loves and losses. He could have used his camera to hide what the world turns away from, but he preferred to shine a light on the truth and celebrate it.

Would my father want me to hide my sorrow and simply smile through my pain? I don’t believe so. He was quick to smile and to laugh, but he also knew loss. There is a simple beauty in a life lived, and we need to open our eyes to see it. Shine the light not just on the joys, but on the heartaches as well. Tell the stories. Reach out for help.

Our hearts don’t heal just because we stash our grief out of sight.

I’ve got a ways to go, but I’m walking the path. My mind goes back to that secluded graveyard again and again. As a writer, nothing is ever wasted, and that quiet scene with its timeworn stones has become fodder for my imagination. It’s woven itself into the stories I write and the life I lead.

It also makes me wonder how many other things we’ve hidden away in our hearts. Maybe it’s time to walk down some of those winding paths. I think you’ll be glad you did.

Karen Barnett is an author and speaker, and was formerly a park ranger with the National Park Service and a park naturalist. Her other books include The Road to Paradise, Where the Fire Falls, and Out of the Ruins. She’s also a hobby photographer and is heavily involved with both Oregon Christian Writers and West Coast Christian Writers. She and her family live in Albany, Oregon. Visit Karen online at karenbarnettbooks.com.