Mar. 22, 2021.
By Assistant Minister Rev. Christin C. Green.
There comes a time in life when we bear witness to deep grief that shakes us to our core. We may be the one grieving, a listener, a friend or family member looking on. Grief often brings up discomfort and may even scare us, causing us to fight or deny it, try to escape the feelings, freeze or even shut down.
On my journey to become a minister, I served as a chaplain intern for an entire summer at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, CA. I was part of a cohort of chaplain students from different faiths: Jewish, Buddhist, Christian, Muslim and UU. We practiced our skills in the field each day by entering patient rooms, introducing ourselves and inviting them into conversation. We were reassured by our teachers that our presence was powerful and enough. Still, many of us struggled to cope with the desperate desire to say the right thing. I remember going home each day feeling drained from trying to reach for the right words.
Some of the patients would apologize for their complaints, sharing the blessings they were trying to count. Others would reassure me that they were people of faith, that they had been praying or that they tried to get to church as often as possible. I felt the patients reaching for the right words just like me.
Along the way, something clicked. I gave myself a simple phrase that embodied the presence I wanted to provide. I thought of it as a kind of script I could go back to when I felt like asking the scene director for my line. I began to say, simply, “I will stay with you as you grieve.” The relief often appeared first on their faces, became audible in a sigh and salty tears sometimes began to flow. I could feel the grief rising, but I no longer stretched to find the right words. I rested in the space between us – my own commitment to simply stay and witness – and the beauty of a shared human experience.
I wrote this poem originally in 2016 as I was beginning seminary, but adapted it (as poets do) for this moment in time. I hope you enjoy reading. I would love to hear your own reflections and your personal commitment phrases that you are able to use in lieu of always trying to say the right thing.
“Grief Rising”
Written October 2016, Adapted March 2021.
by Christin C. Green
What is another better word
for the kind of hope
that I don’t need right now?
That distraction hope that
actually feels a little sore
to think about.
In that kind of moment
when it is better to breathe
deeply
and exhale
through the sting of the situation
than to begin
picking up
the pieces
to regroup. Things aren’t okay
all the time
and that’s not something
that needs to be fixed. Things aren’t okay
and there is a time to grieve.
A time to unlock
the doors to each stage
of grief
carefully
as to not disturb them.
To sit with each different ache
and love on it.
To hold each of them
like grown children
brought to their knees.
What is a better word
for that purgatory
of not knowing
if it’s going to be okay?
That state of limbo,
of catching my breath
and dangling like an auburn leaf
on a maple tree in October.
Grief is transition
and longing
and effort
and stillness
and plunging
and rising.
Rising like the moon with each cycle
out of the darkness
reflecting the Light Force.