Spaciousness in Grief

Tending a Soul Need

The light-dark season of Lent is an invitation to reflect, to notice, to feel, and to attend all that comes to us. Mindful of our Good Shepherd’s voice and his ways, we lean into his invitations, not always knowing where he will take us.

That day at the beach, Good Shepherd and I sat in silence, gazing out the open window, watching the ocean. Waves, birds, rhythm, effort. Repeat.

Suddenly, a bird fell headlong, beak-first, into the ocean. A splash and then it was gone. The bird had made no attempt to avoid plunging beneath the surface of the icy water. It intentionally let itself fall straight on down to whatever depth, where it could not survive if it remained there. I observed attentively, listening.

I recalled a phrase I had previously read or heard, “spaciousness in grief.” I saw the vast expanse of the ocean and the sky. Spaciousness. I heard the Voice of Good Shepherd tell me, “Here is space for you to grieve. Go ahead, dive in. Your soul needs you to tend your grief. Don’t protect yourself from the plunge or avoid the depths. I give you this spaciousness in which to grieve.”

Just then I saw the bird (which I thought was surely dead) pop up onto the surface, righted in orientation and floating securely, stable. It seemed to regroup within itself, and then it obviously swallowed its catch.

I understand the Voice inviting me in, suggesting I intentionally plunge, letting myself fall fully into the cold depths with no effort to stop myself or soften the blow. I felt more of the invitation, and its fullness began to form a clearer image. Go deep, down under the surface. Trust the One who is inviting. Believe he will right me with his own buoyancy after he guides me to my “catch.” Just as the bird trusts the buoyancy of the water as well as its own anatomy and physiology, Good Shepherd invited me to fall into the expansive space of my too-long-ignored grief, trusting him.

I could feel the cold of the ocean waves. I sensed isolation under the dark water, where I couldn’t see, where I couldn’t hear, and where I would not survive if I remained. I did not think I could plunge myself into the depths. I shrank back. Too cold. Too much pain. I might not survive. It was altogether too much. Too big of an invite. Better to keep ignoring my accumulating grief.

Then I saw his face. Good Shepherd’s kind and tender look, his eyes pools of compassion, gently inviting me in, reassuring me I will never be alone. Suddenly, before I could make any effort to protect myself, I let myself fall headlong into the icy depths of grief, and I found Good Shepherd already there. He welcomed me. I was not alone.

It was cold, deep, and I felt I might not fully catch my breath again. I felt pain, and I cried. I wept and I sobbed. I voiced lament, long and loud, telling God my sorrow over many things, many people, and many relationships. I cried out over the hurt people, the pain of loss, and the grief of separation. I lamented sin, wrong choices, and lack of support. I poured it all out in that spaciousness. I felt deep under, and the weight was exhausting. “I can’t  hold this any longer! I can’t bear this load,” I heard myself choke out.

I let go. And right then I realized that Good Shepherd held me in his own buoyancy, and I floated with him. He invited me to relax and rest. I did. Then I roused enough to sleepily invite Good Shepherd to tell me if I caught something while down under, a morsel on which I might feed. “Did I get what you had for me there?” I asked? “Is it time for me to swallow and receive nourishment?”

I slept, feeling loved, cared for, and even carried. I woke sometime later and went out to walk on the beach. I conversed with Good Shepherd, telling him that as I trudged on the soft, sloping beach sands I was trudging through sorrow. I felt depleted. I remained attentive while I slowly made footprints in the sand, prints through the sands of time. I prayerfully waited for my catch, the morsel that would refresh me, for anything I might have caught while plunging deep in the grief of my soul.

My eyes landed on a seashell, newly washed ashore, and lying on the top of the sand. Still shiny wet, it wore a swirly pattern of brown and white, scarred, and unique. I bent and picked it up as I heard the voice of my walking Companion, “Here is a morsel. A treasure seen only in this spaciousness I give for your grief. Swirls of grief can result in something of value to one, and then to many. Scars can add to beauty.” I held the shell in my grasp as I trudged onward, grateful, pondering that I somehow felt nourished and comforted, somehow relieved.

Not long after, something under my foot crunched as I stepped. I looked and saw I was standing on a collection of many little shells, swept in,

and deposited together over time. I stopped. I stooped. I peered intently. Rather than individual little shells, it was a collection of myriad tiny broken pieces of shell. “Another morsel,” I heard. “Beauty created out of the accumulated brokenness. I redeem. I restore. I make new. I bring many broken pieces together to reveal my beauty.”

I stood and pondered, gratitude swelling up and leaking out my eyes. I only noticed this beauty created out of brokenness because I dared to plunge into the depths of my feelings in grief, all within this spaciousness gifted to me.

Though not without sorrow, and though my grief work was incomplete, I was back on solid ground. My heart steadied in Good Shepherd’s  goodness, provision, and compassion. Tending to my soul’s need to grieve, I no longer felt weighed down by what was behind.

The broken pieces within are beginning to reflect the beauty of my LORD.

Grateful that God gives us space to care for our souls and to face what is behind us,

Christine