Carrying Grief

I’ve had a couple of poems running through my mind today, and also a song. The first poem is by Mary Oliver, and includes a line about ‘Daniel, brave even among lions.’ That’s what called it to mind – we’re considering a preaching series on Daniel this summer. The poem speaks to me about how we carry grief, and it strikes me that we are all carrying some grief these days – whether it is for people who have died recently or long ago, or for a loved one who is suffering, or simply an increasing awareness of the brokenness of this world. And my prayer is that we might practice carrying these griefs well, and be gentle with ourselves and each other in this. The poem is below:

Heavy

 

That time

I thought I could not

go any closer to grief

without dying

 

I went closer

and I did not die.

Surely God

had His hand in this,

 

as well as friends.

Still, I was bent,

and my laughter,

as the poet said,

 

was nowhere to be found.

Then said my friend Daniel

(brave even among lions),

“It’s not the weight you carry

 

but how you carry it –

books, bricks, grief –

it’s all in the way

you embrace it, balance it, carry it

 

when you cannot, and would not

put it down.”

So I went practicing.

Have you noticed?

 

Have you heard

the laughter

that comes, now and again,

out of my startled mouth?

 

How I linger

to admire, admire, admire

the things of this world

that are kind, and maybe

 

also troubled –

roses in the wind,

the sea geese on the steep waves

a love

to which there is no reply?

            -       Mary Oliver

 

The second poem came to mind as I was reflecting on our worship service on Sunday – on how good it felt for me to be back in our space and physically present with many of you. And how much there is to be figured out yet – so many changing details, so many adjustments to try to be wise and careful in these days. I can get overwhelmed by the details and by the challenges of continuing to adapt more ‘in person’ commitments while maintaining virtual stuff too. This poem speaks to me of the joy of regathering, and how there’s a lot to be lived into yet, and it’s a lot of work. I hear in it an invitation to move forward remembering that it’s God’s work, and God invites us to rest. It’s a sonnet by Wendell Berry, and one I’ve shared before in sermons:

 

1979 Number X (the Sabbath Poems)

 

Whatever is foreseen in joy

Must be lived out from day to day.

Vision held open in the dark

By our ten thousand days of work.

Harvest will fill the barn; for that

The hand must ache, the face must sweat.

 

And yet no leaf or grain is filled

By work of ours; the field is tilled

And left to grace. That we may reap,

Great work is done while we’re asleep.

 

When we work well, a Sabbath mood

Rests on our day, and finds it good.

 

    --Wendell Berry

 

And finally a song:

 

Come, Lord Jesus, send us your Spirit,

renew the face of the earth.

Come, Lord Jesus, send us your Spirit,

renew the face of the earth.

 

This is the chorus we’re using right now in our prayer time with Teach Us to Pray and it’s become a prayer for me. A prayer to be aware of the Spirit’s presence and nearness, and to see the Spirit’s work renewing me, and each of you, and our world.