On Heading East
Loss, grief, and a plunge into darkness
“The quickest way for anyone to reach the sun and the light of day is not to run west, chasing after the setting sun, but to head east, plunging into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise.” - Jerry Sittser, A Grace Disguised
This evening, the sunset at 5:57 p.m., and in two weeks, in the ultimate act of cruelty, we will purposefully add an hour of darkness to our lives for some unknown and unnecessary reason. That day begins a period of time when the days get shorter until December 21st, the winter solstice. It is then, if only by two seconds per day, that we add a little bit more light to the day.
I love seasons, but from where I sit right now, squarely in the middle of a dark night of the soul, I’m not sure I’ve ever dreaded the impending loss of daylight more. You might have heard this quote—L.M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables famously said, “I am so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.” Aesthetically, I could not agree more. I love the cooler temps, the cozy clothes, and how the trees burst forth with color. The fall hues are my favorite—burnt oranges, reds, and yellows. Even the greens are fading a bit in a gentle effort of letting go. The physical world around us is giving way, falling into the obedience of the seasons—preparing for a time of dormancy—and, ultimately, for renewal. But first, we all must walk through the winter.
It’s been a long time since I’ve sat down to write. My fingers are stumbling a bit, trying to find the letters on the keyboard. It’s part muscle memory and part my actual memory. So much of my writing comes from a gentle dance of reflecting on the past in a way that attempts to make sense of it, and regardless of what that looks like, placing those things in the past in a container that holds hope for the future. This has always been how I process life, regardless of whether I write about it. I suppose I’ve always been a girl whose heart has held onto hope as if it is the very thing that sits inside my chest, regulating my breathing. Rather consciously or subconsciously, I have known that losing hope is losing life. I suppose I’ve avoided writing for a while because that glance into the recent past is so painful I don’t even want to believe that is true. It is true, though, and as much as I would like for all the grief and the pain and the unknown to resolve quickly, I’ve been alive long enough to know that’s not how it works.
A friend gifted me this book, knowing my season well. It’s called A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser. It’s a book about catastrophic loss and the deep down, paralyzing grief that comes with it. In a matter of seconds, at the hands of a drunk driver, this man lost his mother, wife, and one child in a car accident. He writes about it in this book. You may be thinking that most people can’t relate to THAT kind of loss, but he is quick to dissolve the myth that we can somehow compare our suffering. Loss is loss, grief is grief, and regardless of the actual circumstances, when we come to these times in our lives, the moments we mostly never ask for, we come face to face with the darkness. And just as predictably as it is happening in nature right in front of my eyes, in these times in our lives, we can count on a period where it will get a lot darker before we can ever see the light.
I shared this quote because no matter how much we never want to be in these moments, we still get to choose what we do with them. Do we run west chasing the sun, or do we plunge into the darkness until one comes to the sunrise? Do we live in denial, or avoidance, or run from the pain, or do we look at it with eyes wide open and allow the pain and the grief to sit on the same chest that once held our slightly less fragile hope?
I’m finding it’s much harder to breathe these days. I can physically feel loss, questions, and pain pushing back on my attempt to take a deep breath. So many people have asked me if I have been breathing. A few have stopped to carry me through times of prayer, but before we do, I have heard these words. “Take a deep breath. Hold. Release.” Repeat, repeat, repeat. Sounds easy enough, except there you enter the fight for hope. There, you become aware of the things tugging on your chest. There, you are made to sift through that which is still good and noble and true and what is a result of living in a world that is just not right this side of heaven.
THE BODY HOLDS IT ALL (AND YES, IT KEEPS THE SCORE)
In full disclosure, I had to break after writing the portion above. Running has been one way that I move things through my body that feel stuck for as long as I can remember. I used to hate to run. That is until I tore both of my ACLs in high school and came to realize that a healthy physical body is a gift, not a given.
This morning, my run was more of a slog. I can’t even believe I am typing this, but my body is in the process of healing from a miscarriage. At this exact time last week, my body was still letting go of something of what was previously life—and, dare I say, hope. I say that knowing that my body’s history has not been able to carry and deliver life outside of the womb. I need to say this. If you are struggling with infertility, or have had to endure this kind of loss, or have lost a child, I am truly, deeply sorry. I have one friend who has also lost a parent who says to me that this pain is deeper. I have not lost a parent, and grief is so individual, but I can confirm that the pain of letting go of life far too soon is the most excruciating feeling that I have ever endured. It’s not my first experience with this. You would think it may get easier, but for many reasons, it is far, far worse this time. It’s a kind of pain I didn’t previously have a category for and may never be able to wrap my head around fully.
My running is partially an attempt to let go of at least tiny bits of pain my body is stubbornly holding on to. If nothing else, it removes it from the part of my chest up into my throat that, at least as of now, seems to be stopping my tears from flowing. I suppose, in some small way, tears might just confirm how real this pain is, and maybe I’m not ready to feel that quite yet. My body, in some ways, is begging me to release this pain, but my heart, for now, isn’t quite ready to face what is behind it all. I know, at least in part, that there are a lot of questions that don’t have answers, and I would like some answers. There I go again, heading west instead of east.
This past Wednesday, I saw the doctor to confirm that I had passed the baby. He is a gentle, compassionate man. He believes in Jesus and shared with me a bit of the pain he has been walking through. He gave no details, but he said too that it is a pain he didn’t previously have a category for. It may seem weird that my doctor would be sharing these sorts of things, but what I have found in walking through the season that I have is that God will send just about anybody to give you a message of hope, or at the very least, and moment of allowing a compassionate witness to your pain. He shared with me that he left medicine for a couple of years to pursue a path in ministry, but in the end, he was called back to medicine. I told him that I was glad that he was because he ministered to me at that moment in a way that few church services ever have or will.
As a doctor, as one who knows the body, as one who has walked who knows how many people are through this kind of pain, I was struck by the fact that he didn’t seem tired of it. He didn’t treat me as just another patient but as a girl who was scared, sad, and feeling very alone. He was in no rush to put my body through more than it could handle in that moment, and though I’m sure he has more patients waiting, wasn’t in rush to get me out the door.
A NEW DAY
It’s a new day—a new morning. Unlike yesterday, the sun is shining, but the temperatures have dropped. Even still, I am in my favorite spot on my back porch, bundled up in my favorite sweatsuit, having moved my chair closer to the fire that is providing me heat. In the past few days, the trees have moved toward their peak color, and even some have given way to losing most of their leaves. Here, we sit in the moment of great paradox. The wanting to hang onto the vivid beauty of the season, even wanting to go back a couple of weeks and do them over. I typically come up this season with great anticipation of peeping the leaves throughout their entire transition of giving themselves over to the season. I greatly anticipate this time of year, I suspect, because I need the reminder that in life, we will inevitably be holding two opposites in our hearts at nearly all times—light and darkness, joy and sorrow, summer and winter, life and death.
October in my life, as beautiful as it is to look at, has held for me some of my most significant pain. Pain that has touched every aspect of my life - physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I have had the thought many times this week since losing the baby that October somehow needs to be redeemed. That somehow, I need to take back the way I was violated in my early twenties, the way my body held onto that for so long, and how the most beautiful stretch of weeks also has carried that reminder. And now the loss this October holds. I don’t have anything wrapped up with a bow on the top. Hope still sits in my chest, but it’s still hard to breathe. I am still inclined to head west because I’m scared that hope may run out heading east sometime before I see the sun.
Then I gaze over my shoulder. I see a tree line for what it is. Autumn. A season of paradox. I picture myself as just one leaf, releasing itself from the home it has made since the spring—having budded, having lived through the summer, having survived thunderstorms a plenty, and now making itself into a thing of beauty just before it falls gently to the ground. One lifecycle is over, but nature tells us that’s not the end. Fallen leaves recycle. They become organic matter feeding the same tree it once called home. And trees, as we know, live long lives dependent on the work of all four seasons. My hope, then, is that shattered as my heart may be, dark as my days may feel, that pain may somehow fertilize the soil of my life. That something is happening underneath the ground that I can’t yet see. That this season of what feels like death is paradoxically working beyond what I can see to create life. Deep, debilitating pain and grief is my reality, and I won’t deny that. But hope is my currency. As long as I live and breathe, I have to believe I will continue to see the goodness of God, here and now, in the land of the living. (Psalm 27:13, paraphrased)
Thank you for sharing your heartfelt reflection and what you are going through. I am so sorry for your loss. Please know that by reaching out, you have already made a difference in our weary walks, too. May you continue to hold tight to God's promises today and always. All my love and prayers to you, sweet friend.
This is so beautiful, Julie. I am so sorry for your loss and the profound grief you are experiencing. Thank-you for using your pain to encourage my own heart in a time of sorrow. Your words were a balm to my weary spirit. Turning east today . . .
Much love.