On fear and grief

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."

I've known C.S. Lewis said something of this kind for who knows how long. But it wasn't till I encountered it today that it struck me, hard: yes, or fear like grief. I have had a few griefs in my life, as is common to the human condition. Nothing as monstrous as I expect Jack was referring to--the loss of his Joy. I have only experienced the loss of my lower-case joy. The loss of dear relatives; of beloved people of mine who really saw me. Of safety-nets. Of feelings of invulnerability. Of relational ease, physical stamina, peace, a certain innocence. I've lost a certain amount of motivation and mental agility that, to me, was startling and unnerving.

But what I think I'm trying to say is that I've often found it difficult to grieve in a sort of way that makes sense to myself or to other people. I feel it as weight, heaviness, stress. And eventually anxiety, which is a type of fear. I had an irrational aversion to change as a child, as well as deep and consistent struggles with a dread that I could neither explain nor control. I can recognize these now as anxiety, which brings some understanding, as I continue to deal with adult-level anxiety now.

And that leads to my other point: that anxiety too, can feel a good deal like grief. Often when it crosses this line, it is called depression. And I know that I have struggled with that for many years as well. The many weights of grief, and the heaviness of this world. The stress of life's challenges, and the strain, the painful strain in the loss of safeties, tethers, comforts, and wholeness. These can lead to panic-inducing aches, and lingering anxieties. And sometimes, those lingering anxieties look to other people like fear. Like an unsteadiness, a lack of grounding, unbelief.

And I can't tell you that it isn't fear. I can only tell you that it feels like grief. Like an aching loss in the pit of your stomach. Like a death, but of who or what you couldn't say. As if you've been pummeled and then left bereft. Like the London Blitz is happening inside your chest. A sundering so violent, that any attempt at wholeness feels empty, useless, and excruciating. I have in those days experienced a grief that I had never felt for any death or illness. Or perhaps I should say, the pain of every death, illness, and brokenness that my heart has known, came to bear on these times.

...

I can only tell you this because I am not there right now. I hesitate to use words like anymore, as I never promise myself these times won't come again. I don't harbor convictions that all is over and done with. That another valley of shadows couldn't come. But I look back at the despair that I felt not many months ago, and realize it is gone. That the place of shadow and pain that I spoke from (as true and faithful as I could make it) as a felt reality, is no longer felt.

I am aware of the devil's black desire for me to founder, and I don't doubt I have felt the clutches of it. But flounder as I did for lack of light, I did not sink. I couldn't do anything like drown, for the hand of the Lord was on me, day and night. Even in my bleakest forgetting, and blackest confusion and pain, I could not lose the conviction that my God was Good. The deeper reality (from before the dawn of time) was my tether through the harsh felt-reality I bore.

And now I can see again and feel again, what I only clung to, not so long ago. I can cherish the beauty and clarity of now. The lack of crushing weight. The eyes to see how green and gold is this September. To welcome with open arms these chill and rainy days. To read and think and hope and talk. To pull out my hat and scarf and walk miles in the rain, to a cheerful, bubbling coffeeshop full of life and college-students.

I'm happy. At this moment, I am quite content. The aches in my back and congestion in my head don't matter. I actually look forward to the chill, wet wind of the walk home. I look forward to tonight, and a drink with a friend. I am excited about this weekend, moving into my new home! I am hopeful I'll get back into letter-writing, and habits of walking the neighborhood and praying for the people behind each window and door.

I can see and notice and feel again, the glories of every day. Growing plants and dripping eaves. Coffee dripping and tea steaming, and something to eat. Thoughts and ideas, writing and poetry, books, authors, quotes, and artwork.

And long, complicated thought-processes like this one. Bless C.S. Lewis, and bless our almighty Father of Light. And peace I leave with you, my peace I give to, as you navigate the valleys, and rejoice over every pastoral hilltop. May your arms, your heart, your eyes be full, and your mouth filled with praise. Hope is calling you. Love is coming for you. Believe it.

Further up and Further in.