my friend, grief

13 years ago today, I met my truest companion- Grief.

She came to me on a Sunday morning when I was 11 years old and she held me as I wept through the loss of a childhood friend. Cancer took him first. A failed resurrection took him second.

We read John 11 on Sunday. Lazarus has just died and Jesus is four days late to see his friend; Mary is pissed. She feels like she gave everything to Jesus- did it all right- and he was still late. And in the end, Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. That’s the deal. We’re honest with Jesus and Jesus follows through on his promise.

That’s the deal, right?

So why not my friend? He was a child.

Grief wrapped me up as my own childhood entered a state of quiet decay. Death and faith, inexplicably intertwined for the rest of my life.

I think of his family a lot on the anniversary of his passing. I think of my own deep well of loss and I imagine how much deeper it must be for his mother. They are faithful. They haven’t let Grief make a fire in their bellies.

And I feel guilty that Grief has become an obstinate pebble in my shoe when his family has healed in a way I cannot seem to. Don’t they have more of a right to grieve him? Why does it affect my life like this?

I got angry today; the fire in my stomach swelling beyond control. Angry at God, mostly, for not keeping up his end of the deal. For abandoning me and my friends, for deceiving us with “hope”’instead of teaching us to grieve.

I know Grief. She burned at the back of my eyes when people I loved defended the January 6th insurrection. She threw a tantrum in my gut when George Floyd was murdered. Grief knotted at my throat when friends died too young, when I realized how much certain people and environments had really broken me. She is there with me when I mourn the way the Church roars against Black Lives Matter, against queer people, against women.

I don’t know if the Grief will ever leave. I feel like the loss has been too great, too formative. Even in joy, she lingers.

And- Hope is a seed, as stubborn as the sadness. I found her in lilac skies, Michigan mornings, hidden coves, meaningful work, deep friendships. I found her in love’s deep brown eyes and in his tender hands on my bare skin. I found her hiding in between the pages of my journals, whispering don’t give in yet. Mostly, I see Hope in the fights for justice and equality all around the world.

Grief and I have been one for a long time. I know her well. Today, I welcome her, and let myself cry about my friend for the first time in years.