We’ve all experienced grief from the things lost over the past year, though some have lost far more than others. Over the course of the year, it’s been a common experience to hear people minimize their grief, however, in light of the great losses of others.
We’ve seen people we know and love devastated by the virus, by the political upheaval, by the loss of work or businesses. It’s been brutal. We all have something to grieve, even those of us who have had it easy this year.
Grief is a rich soil. As we continue to grieve what’s been lost, we are sowing a new garden in which we can decide what sprouts next. We can plant seeds of bitterness and despair, or we can plant a new harvest filled with hope. Processing through what we’ve lost and what we’ve learned can help us determine what we’re sowing as we move into this next year.
As you reflect on the past year, what have you lost? What people did you lose, lose contact with, lose relationships with or lose respect for? What plans did you have that were cancelled, big or small? What normal rhythms do you miss? What hopes did you have that were dashed?
These losses of every size are significant, regardless of what other people have lost. Lamenting your losses doesn’t diminish the grief of someone else; it gives you space to acknowledge your own sorrow.
Grieving your losses doesn’t preclude gratitude for all that you have, either. Allowing yourself to recognize and lament what has been stolen from you is an important part of healing. And, as we heal, we grow stronger, and we can become grateful for the way those losses shape us.
As you reflect on the past year, what have you gained? What lessons have you learned? What relationships have grown closer? What discoveries have you made? In what ways have you matured? How has the pressure of the past year forced you into a new rhythm, and what’s good about that rhythm? What will you retain when things become more normal?
Colleen Cook works full-time as the Director of Operations at Vinyl Marketing in Ashland, where she resides with her husband Mike and three young daughters. She’s an insatiable extrovert who enjoys finding reasons to gather people.
I’ve been extremely lucky. My losses were few and small, mostly taking the form of disappointments and postponements. We have stayed healthy, and so have our immediate families, though our extended families suffered some devastating losses from the virus. Our jobs were unscathed, and even our children’s school returned mostly to normal with only protocol changes this school year. Yet, even amidst those great blessings, I have things to grieve, too.
I lament the loss of normalcy. I long to worship normally at my church. I sorrow over the way that Christians and the evangelical church have hurt people, especially over this year. I ache to be in a group of friends, one of the most energizing things in my life. I hurt for the deterioration of relationships that I thought were closer and truer than they turned out to be. I grieve the impact of the pandemic on our children, and the way that might shape them into adulthood. I mourn the irredeemable nature of our current “cancel culture” and all of the dysfunction that led us there.
Yet, I’m grateful for the way my eyes have opened this year. I am thankful for the clarity I’ve gained about so many things: the relationships that have deepened and drawn closer, the priorities that have been realigned, the new practices and voices that are shaping me. I’m proud of the healthier rhythm of our life, one that’s less frenzied and filled more intentionally. I’m grateful to know who we don’t want to live without and who doesn’t want to live without us. I’m grateful for the hard conversations that needed to happen and the growth in all areas.
I hope you will also take some time and allow yourself to lament, reflect and practice gratitude for this long year. I hope, whatever hand you’ve been dealt, that you’re able to begin to process through it all and give yourself the space and permission you need to begin to plant new seeds in the rich soil of your grief.
