Grace

There is more grace in grief than we realize.

I woke up this morning acutely aware of the feeling of grace. I’ve felt its presence almost every morning for the last few years.

Is it because the project of keeping the kids alive, fed and reasonably happy has succeeded once more? Maybe.

It could be the extraordinary peace that comes from a morning without catastrophe. Cats, kids and dog are all still breathing, the roof hasn’t fallen in.

Or maybe it’s because I feel us being held by something greater than all of us put together.

What’s even more amazing is I can feel the grace. It’s tangible to me, planted squarely between me and the mountain of stuff I need to deal with today. I stretch, I doze, feeling a sweet divinity that is just here, in the air. I know that I’m held in a magical space of “everything is OK, stop worrying!”

Grief gave me that.

Before Terry got sick, when I was stuck in bed with a bad flu and finally surrendering to my grief over losing my Dad, I wrote:

"There was a wonderful heavy rain falling outside the bedroom window. Even through the glass it sounded more beautiful than any rain I had ever heard. As sleep approached I reached to open the window so I could hear its song. When the glass slid up the sound filled the room with incredible music, like the song a shaman's drum makes when its rhythm carves a path between the worlds…I had never heard a song so achingly beautiful. I was at once pierced and lifted by its chorus, my grieving heart bathed in its rushing music.

For the first time in my life I was grateful for grief, it had revealed the rain's hidden song.” - from Wilder Grief, Rediscovering the Song of Life After Loss

The great crisis of our lives can create room for us to realize grace. Weirdly, it’s the deadly potholes, the ones that pop a tire or break the axil, that bring us to a place of feeling the grace in life more than almost anything else.

Going through the loss of my wife, watching my kids go through it, has made grace a tangible part of my daily life.

Writing about grief cultivates space for grace. Even when what I’m writing about is soaked in tragedy, grace always finds a way to make an appearance. Writing has become an indispensable part of moving grief for me.

We need to do the work of making room for grief to make room for grace.

We’re all storytellers. We can all stir this cauldron together.

Has grace shown up for you in your grief? Has your creativity helped you create more space for grace? LMK!