A Reflection on Grief and Hope
My family and I returned Monday evening from our annual vacation that followed directly our time in Navajoland. And, though the uninterrupted time away with my most beloved ones was truly, as it is each summer, a blessing full of rest and play, it was also clouded by the sense of grief, worry and helplessness that we all felt following the devastating floods experienced both in the Kerrville area and right here so much closer to home. It was hard for me to be away from you knowing that you and so many in our larger community were suffering, and it was hard for me to be away from your love and care as I too was suffering. Like in my own family, I know we all have connections to those who have experienced unimaginable loss, whether by just a few degrees of separation or even closer...more personal. Though, globally speaking, the loss of human life, wether in natural disaster, mass violence or warfare, is both ubiquitous and constant, when such loss is so close to home it should and rightfully feels different. The pain is more acute. The ever-present sense of sadness harder to push aside. The desire to do more to help without knowing exactly how to help feels weightier and deepens our discomfort. I suppose I want to simply acknowledge our collective pain, and let you know that I suffer alongside you.
In many a funeral sermon, I have suggested that our grief witnesses to our capacity to love. In a sense, our mourning says, whether I knew you personally or not, "See how much I love you...you matter and make a difference...and you will not be forgotten." Jesus experienced grief. He wept for Jerusalem. He wept at the death of his dear friend Lazarus. I would argue that the gospels are full of expressions of grief, even if not named as such, for at the middle of our sacred story stands a cross that not only reminds us of Jesus' death...but all death and suffering experienced backwards and forwards through time and space. And, though Jesus is clear that the things that grieve us are not caused by God, he also reminds us that God is with us in our grief and knows our grief, as only a beloved parent who has lost a child can know our grief. And, as God is with us in our grief, I have come to find in it...gifts. That may sound strange, and I do not mean to minimize our suffering and especially the suffering of those who have themselves lost children, loved ones, homes or livelihoods, as some of my own friends have. But, still, I believe their are God-given gifts to be found in our grief.
There is, as I have already named, the opportunity to affirm our own capacity to love deeply and entirely. There is the chance to lean on each other in our grief and, in doing so, fall more in love with each other. There is the chance to lay down our differences, even and especially deeply held differences, and care together for those who are suffering by helping rebuild homes and lives. There is the chance to grow our empathy muscles and care more deeply for those suffering like us in other parts of the country and world. There is a chance to choose to be more forthcoming with our expressions of love, gratitude and affection for each other. There is a chance to choose to live more lovingly and productively moving forward in the reminder that each day is a gift. There is a chance to help build up and recommit to communities like St. Julian's that hold us when we suffer and feel alone and give us resources to direct our desire to help. There is the chance to reprioritize our lives, our time, our resources such that we can do the most good we can with whatever we have. There is is the chance to remember the power and importance of prayer that sustains us and others in natural and supernatural ways. Thus, even in our grief, there is a chance to find and fall more in love with God...for God is, indeed, with us in it.
And, all of these God-given gifts discovered in the midst of our grief, remind us that there is more to life than loss...that there is "life after loss". For a cross may, indeed, stand in the middle our our sacred story but, friends, not at the end our sacred story. For, at the end of the story stands resurrection alone...love stronger even than death, which stands for all time and for all people. Easter promises that God is always ushering us through our grief into an altogether new sort of life that both honors what and who has been lost and that looks hopefully forward to the love that awaits all of us in the fullness of time.
But, in the in-between time that we live through now, with all of its sorrow and joy, I hope we will seek God's presence and the God-provided gifts found in our grief. That we will recommit to our love and care of one another and the building up of communities like St. Julian's through which God heals and brings life. That we will work to lay down differences and serve together those in desperate need. That we will seek to fall more in love with God and each other...and be willing to say so to each other. In the coming weeks and months St. Julian's will be a part of healing and rebuilding efforts, and we will continue to pray for those suffering and pray, further, that God's loving will for our world will be done on earth just as it is in heaven.
I am grateful for each of you, for the love and strength you provide me and one another, and I am so glad to be home among you. Please know that Demery and I are present and willing to be with you, as you seek your own healing, purpose and direction. Don't hesitate to reach out. This comes with all of my love and gratitude.
If you have any questions about anything in our shared life or either of us can be of service, please don't hesitate to reach out to either of us. I hope this reaches you and yours well!
Peace and Warm Friendship,
Miles+
The Rev. Miles R. Brandon, II, Vicar
with
The Rev. Demery Bader-Saye, Associate Vicar