"Even when I walk
through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me.
Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me." Psalm 23:4 (NLT)
I know it’s been a while since my last post; I’m really not
good at this blogging thing… or maybe I just had nothing to say up until now. (Not
quite true… because actually, I came across a draft post I wrote for this blog –
but it turned out to be a complete rant against my GP, so I didn’t publish it;
I’m glad I didn’t, because over these last few weeks since Dad died, she’s been
amazing.)
Most of the following came from what I can only term a ‘waking dream’.
Since Dad's death I’ve not been sleeping very well; I can get to sleep, but wake
up after a couple of hours, and that’s it for the next 2 or 3 hours. So during
these occasions, sometimes I get up and do stuff, sometimes I pray/think, and sometimes I lie there pretending to be asleep, in the hope it becomes a reality! On this
occasion, I was thinking about how grief feels, and what analogy would best
describe it, and God showed me the following picture.
Some valleys are wide, some are narrow; some are deep, some
are shallow; some are light and bright, others are full of shadows. Psalm 23
talks about ‘the valley of the shadow of death’; I don’t think it’s a valley –
I think it’s a chasm. Imagine one of those films where our hero is walking
through Antarctica, when all at once, a great chasm opens beneath him, and he
falls, tumbles and slides his way deep into the chasm. Once there, there’s no
way back – the only way is forward. That’s how grief feels to me.
On 5 January, five weeks ago yesterday, my father died
unexpectedly. I was plunged into an overwhelming grief that felt exactly like
that chasm in the ice, which I just described. It’s as if I slithered into another dimension,
down an ill-kept, bumpy, rocky, and steep helter-skelter (with all the pain and fear -
and none of the pleasure), tumbling and sliding over and over, ending up in a bruised
and bloody heap at the bottom; then looking blurrily around, wondering where I
was and how I got there.
Before me lies a well-trodden, wide path, from the
footprints of all those who walked this place before me, and in expectation of
all those waiting to come after. From this point on, the path is a long steady
uphill climb, which winds its way along a river of tears. To my left, the
river; to my right the steep chasm wall is sometimes close by, and sometimes
separated from the path by scrubland, where very little grows. As I walk along,
there are occasional springs of sweet water rising up, or dropping down the
walls, offering a small oasis to stop and rest, and stare up at the sky far
above, and the sunlight, which never quite reaches down this far, but which lights
the top edges as a guiding light and beacon of hope.
Occasionally I meet other people also walking the path. Some
are almost sprinting along, eager to reach the end; most of us offer a helping
hand to one another, to get us over a rough patch, before being separated once
again. One or two tell tales of how they tried to climb out of the chasm by
going straight up the walls, only to fall back even more bruised and broken. I
even saw one person curled up in a little ball, caught up so deeply in their
own keening grief that they were oblivious to all those who passed by, or who stopped
and offered a hand.
Sometimes voices are carried on the breeze, from friends
high above in the sunlight. They offer encouragement and love. Other voices
whisper from the deep shadows in the cliff walls, telling me there’s no hope,
or offering me a quick way out. But exceeding all this, is the invisible hand
of Jesus, supporting me when I stumble, lifting me when I fall, carrying me
when I’m weak, drying my tears when I cry. It’s his voice I want to hear most
in my ears, offering me words of encouragement, peace, love, care, and rebuke;
words of serenity, support, promise, guidance, admonishment, and healing; words
of rest, refreshment, stillness, direction, and assurance.
It’s not as if I’m a stranger to losing people; I’ve walked
this path before, but never so deeply or painfully. The totally surprising
aspect to come out of all this, is the positive effect grief has had on my
eating. For the first couple of weeks, I went through the phase that most
people go through of not feeling hungry, not wanting to eat, and feeling like I
was forcing down every mouthful. I sort of expected that – and it isn’t what I’m
on about.
The first surprise is that I didn’t immediately revert to old
patterns, and try to assuage the grief with food. Second, despite reservations,
because I couldn’t concentrate long enough to cook, or even decide
what I should eat, I resorted to a few ready meals. But already I’m getting
back in the habit of cooking instead of using these, so that’s a major step
forward (and in truth, they really don’t
taste as good as I remembered!). Third, despite experiencing an extra-strong
craving for chocolate, I found I was able to buy a handful of small bars, and then
ration them out to one (or occasionally two) per day. Mary says that I’m moving
away from many of my old habits, and making far more connections to the new
habits I’m trying to develop. She feels that although this was happening before
Dad died, his death has speeded up the process.
So it seems that grief can
have a positive effect… who knew!
I hope these thoughts help you and bless you on your journey out of the darkness, and
into His most glorious light.
