Hope in the Midst of a Grief Season

I grew up believing November in my home would always be about pumpkin pies, a house full of relatives, and plates of the usual Thanksgiving fare. Instead, we’ve run the gamut from joining friends to quiet days with just the four or five of us.

Four years ago November was the beginning of a brutal time in our family. I’ll forever remember the meal where the pain of an empty chair at the table we should have expected but didn’t blindsided us all. Tears flowed freely. Once the chair was removed, we had a little more peace, but not much. Over the next few months we’d have to navigate our loss, the waves of grief that pounded us all out of nowhere. My nuclear family was suffering with the feeling that no one else could comprehend what we were going through and that others would be quick to place blame.

We aren’t the only ones who have endured the pain of an empty chair at their Thanksgiving feast. Some will forever have a member missing. I’ve heard it described like missing a limb, like phantom pains after an amputation. The dynamics change and we move to a “new normal,” but we will forever limp or feel short of where we were.

No one handles grief the same way. And our season of grief had really started long before, with gossip and bitterness. It was a death of sorts that wove itself into the fabric of our season. At the same time, not all was dark. We celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary with a vow renewal and a second honeymoon we’d saved up for. At times, the sorrow felt deep; other times it felt just below the surface. As we moved through the next two years, it seemed as if our circumstances and losses were increasing in severity. A community tragedy; leaving one job and taking on another, less happy one; losing a faith community, a parent’s terminal cancer diagnosis.

This wasn’t the first time a death came in the middle of celebrations and strife.

My wedding took place less than three weeks after my brother suddenly passed from leukemia. He had been diagnosed only a few days before his death, and he had made it clear that I was to go on with my wedding. Although my first inclination was to postpone, my father insisted we honor Glen’s wishes. Some members of the family disagreed with the decision. I’ve never been given a reason for their dissenting opinion, but there was no way to maneuver those choices and please everyone.

As the photographer gathered my side of the family, he said, “I’ll take some of just you and your brothers.” I remember feeling panic as I looked at my mother and whispered, “They’re not all here!” It was a full-body response that called for a few moments to gather myself so we could continue posing for portraits of our incomplete family.

That day I watched my mom float around in a state she called “autopilot.” At times it seemed as if it was the grace of a loving God that allowed us to have a celebration when mourning was chief in our hearts. Other moments the heartache was substantial. A few years later, at my grandmother’s funeral, someone announced we would take snapshots because all the cousins were there. Once again, I remember thinking, No. We’re still going on without one.

This season you may experience an empty place at the table. The only comfort I can bring is to say this: You aren’t alone. No book, class, or seminar will take away the hurt or fill the void. You may grieve in ways others won’t understand, and vice versa. You may find yourself grieving more deeply than you expected.

What I want you to know most is this: even though your pain will not go away, you will gain strength if you seek it. Don’t expect to have all the answers or to handle the pain the same way anyone else would. Hold on to the grace of the Savior, who wept at the death of a friend even though he knew he would raise him. Those of us who have hope in seeing our loved ones again still miss them here. We still feel the lump in our throats and the tears sitting just at the rims of our eyes.

As you celebrate in the middle of grief, remember this: joy isn’t disrespectful, and laughter is a beautiful response that doesn’t disrespect sorrow. Allow your emotions to be a signal that things in you need attention. Allow yourself to breathe. Some feelings are flags, warning you to slow down and take notice of the ache in your soul. They’re telling you you’re human, and that loss is real. They’re a reminder that someone brought your life beauty and memories that will never be taken away. Most of all they’re telling you that you are still alive. Just as you would give a broken leg time to heal, your broken heart needs time too.

Jemelene Wilson is a passionate storyteller who writes of faith, hope, love, and food. She’s madly in love with her pastor husband and mama bear to two daughters. Grace is a fairly new concept she is exploring with her life and words. Mama Jem believes we should live gently and love passionately. You can find more of her writing at jemelene.com.

Photograph © Veliko Karachiviev, used with permission