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Discovering Grace in Grief

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It was dreary all day, and I couldn’t help but think of my other home 3,000 miles away where dreariness is a feature not a bug.

For a long time after Rob died, church was a place to which it felt impossible to return. My faith was still bedrock to my life; in fact, it had become more precious than ever before. But weekly gatherings were incredibly painful. Our family visited many area churches, and we found the same thing at every one. Few places were equipped to truly welcome the walking wounded. Most places were more hype club than hospital.

Two years ago, I bought a house on my own. It was a big scary financial decision, to be sure; but even scarier was the commitment it represented to setting down roots. Grounding myself had always felt risky. I’m a bird who likes to fly. But loss had circumscribed my life in ways I hadn’t expected, and buying a house and staying put felt like the right decision at the time.

After Rob died, I gave away almost all of my big dishes. Why did I need that ginormous casserole dish or that punch bowl? I couldn’t imagine hosting parties ever again. Why did I need a stock pot? My days of soup dinners with a houseful of friends were now just memories.

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