I've come to know the company of grief in my life. I'm not afraid of it, I'm not adverse to it. I find myself in these days as I enter a soul darkness, that there is comfort in what is known. The emptiness, the ache deep within my heart, the tears that find their random moments. The wanting to just be and let life rush past without my contribution or participation. To languish in the sacred space of a darkness just for the sore soul. Knowing this journey will take time, I can breathe. Time before the light becomes great again within. Time before I really want to engage beyond me fully. Time before the ache subsides as it sits now. Tears will always randomly come, there'll be a memory, a story, a smell, a line spoken or action lived that will plant me on the edge of this dark space of grief. For now it is raw, it is fragile, it is horrible, and I welcome it. I have a desire to fall within and let it wrap me in a comfort and depth that can only be known when we enter this space fully. I am not alone in this space, I share it with my sisters, and my Mum. We each carry a light with us. A light of faith, of hope and of love. Together we will fumble around, cry, laugh. We will ache for the presence of one we love. We will feel the loss together. |
Together we will hold who we are. While the space might be dark, we aren't alone. And it is okay to be here. The Easter story allows us to fully enter this space. Because God was here and is here too.
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We are learning their uncomfortable story and hearing of the motivation behind such atrocities. On a day like today - ANZAC Day, I also hold, those many Aboriginal and Islander men and women who lost their lives trying to defend their country, their ceremony, their culture and their communities. May we remember.
I also hold those who went to serve too - and were not allowed to come home because of the colour of their skin. Who remained overseas barred and isolated from their family, community, culture. Those whose honour and respect has not been shared until recently, when this has to come light in greater detail and acknowledgment. May we remember . . . For the families, the communities, the people who've carried much pain and grief, who bear physical and mental wounds, whose graves we stand beside and names we see engraved on plaques, we give thanks. We hope and pray for more peaceful ways to dialogue about differences, instead of taking up arms. Lest we forget . . . May we remember . . . .
At the moment when death came to be his companion, a tear came. He was saying goodbye in a moment roused from decreasing consciousness.
Today is Good Friday. I took my Dad hanky with me. Today I would lean into the raw edge of grief and let it touch me and me touch it. I would hold Dad's hanky, and let it catch the gentle tears, and collect the snot. We were invited to help pack down the worship space. I knew I wanted to blow out the candle. To pick it up and place it in the box. I stared the light down, knowing I was about to snuff it out. Death had come. Death had taken life, light. Death had taken expectation, breath. But what death doesn't take is love. Today we sit with the colour purple. But on the other side of purple is white. On the other side is grace. On the other side is love that reaches back across the divide of death. My Dad hanky is close by today. A day when the raw edge of grief is touched.
Restorative, breathing, stilled. As long as it needs to be. We will have all the time we need for the hush, the pause.
Whether we have taken a long journey with the intensity of being a parent, of being with a loved one through extended illness, struggling to find our feet in a changing world, making sense of our identity, or a craziness of life's activity, God will invite us to times of rest. These are important times. Lean into them. Fall into them. Stumble into them, be awkward with them if you have to. Even if you fear it, be carried into those moments. Let God take you on a sacred journey within in those moments of rest. You will need them. I need them. The people I live with, work with and share life with, will need me to do so. And they will need to that sometimes too.
We enter a different season of life where the light has changed. Death's shadow has fallen across a place where there once was life. I now need to pray differently. I now need to hold a different prayer for my Mum. For the side where I traced a prayer for my Dad, I cannot step. Maybe to give thanks to God for all the gifts that Dad brought - in time perhaps. But for now a shadow of a changed light sits in that space that had been for Dad. A regular habit and expression of love I could give to my Dad from a distance, from the space between visits. A holding across the geography, yet close.
The light changes, the praying changes, life changes. Love held deeply, now held differently. |
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