Blur seems like an appropriate word for that first holiday after the loss of a loved one. Nothing is clear. Nothing is certain. The world goes on around us at a dizzying pace. In our foggy, shaky, blurry-ass reality, shock can, thankfully, dull the pain somewhat. We are forced to move slowly, to feel our way, slogging slowly through each exhausting moment, day, week, month...
Years later, when I wrote Back to Happy, I wanted to offer practical advice for the newly grieving, such as making a daily list of simple tasks to complete, e.g., brushing your teeth, making your bed... For me, checking completed tasks off a list offered an instant dopamine hit. It was practical. Practical advice was what I needed. Writing that little book was one way to make meaning out of the incomprehensible. There are other ways.
Grief is a wilderness, and God is endlessly creative. God meets us there in a variety of ways. God comes in natural ways; in the scent of a real, freshly cut Christmas tree, in the peaceful silence of the first snowfall. God comes in the form of fellow humans who sit quietly with us, bring us meals, pray for us, and love us back to some semblance of our former selves. God shows up in supernatural ways, too, often with an intensity that takes years to process and assimilate.
Grief is a blurry-ass wilderness— you have permission to sit this Christmas out if you need to. But do stay open to the possibility of Emmanuel, of God with us.
And do brush your teeth.
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