Few things amplify the weight of grief quite like the holidays. Grief, which has already rearranged the landscape of our lives, barges in once again, reminding us of what we’ve lost, and who we’ve lost. Like an unwelcome houseguest, it intrudes, leaving us newly bereft and broken.
On unfamiliar terrain, we find ourselves dwelling amidst the wreckage of all that used to be. Pain, blessedly ameliorated by grace plus time, flares yet again—an unwelcome souvenir from journeys we never once agreed to.
Life, however, still beckons.
In the aftermath—in the echoes—of what remains, there are choices still to be made. Walt Whitman’s words have been ringing in my mind recently, specifically the last lines of his poem, O Me! O Life!
Both promising and challenging, they say,
“The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?
𝐴𝑛𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑟.
That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.”
The powerful play goes on.
The powerful play goes on. With tears and tenderness and empathy born of my own crippling grief, I feel compelled to remind you:
Our loved ones died, beloved. We did not.
At times, we wish we had. At times, we thought we might, but we’re still here, which means the Author of our stories is still at work. He is still putting pen to paper, as it were. The hole in our story is not the whole of our story. There is so much more ordained for us—so much more that awaits. We may feel like our lives stopped the moment our loved ones’ did, but the play goes on, and God is beckoning us onto the stage.
So, I take my place and ask myself, “What verse will I contribute? What will I do with this bittersweet life that I do not recognize and did not want.”
The choice is ultimately ours to make. God writes away and writes a way, but we still choose whether or not to play our parts and say the lines.
We can let grief consume us—let it carve a hollow where joy once lived. We can give in to despair and allow it to steal the hope from our days and the purpose from our tomorrows. Or we can let it refine us the way God intends, as He redeems our pain and births meaning from our brokenness.
We can learn the art of sitting with sorrow while savoring the sweetness that lingers. It is a poignant paradox, this place where grief and peace collide, but for all its heartache, I remain convinced that life is still glorious and full of wonder.
The powerful play goes on, indeed, and I contribute my verse best by embracing the ones already written for me. Would I have chosen different circumstances? A happier plot? Of course, but I trust my Author to transfigure the tragedy into joy, thus diluting its power to define me. Or destroy me.
In that very trust, I find peace—not in rewriting the story, but in living it well—in freely surrendering to what God has written and promised to redeem. And when the play finally ends and the house lights go up, I will praise the One who painstakingly crafted my story, and offer gratitude for the grace that carried me through each and every act.
“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away.”
~ 𝐑𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝟐𝟏:𝟒
*Fellow grievers, you are not alone. Many know your pain and have walked similar paths. Scripture proclaims that the Lord is near to the brokenhearted. He, who fashioned them, cradles your fragile hearts, lavishing them with peace that prevails, and grace too tangible to be denied. May they be yours in abundance.
Lord, please, for these, have mercy.