A Year of Negotiating Grief

THE OTHER DAY, during a Zoom call with my younger sister, I said something that sounded harsh—maybe even inappropriate. “You know, there’s a part of me that is honestly glad Mom isn’t alive during this pandemic.” She was quiet for a moment, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

With untreated COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) and her radical hospitality, my mom would not have listened to public health officials’ guidance on the coronavirus. She would have visited her friends to check on them, taken meals to elderly neighbors, and watched over her grandchildren, all while smoking half a pack a day.

Mama, strong and resilient for more than 60 years, would have thought herself impervious. So, Mama would have caught the virus. And, because she and Daddy were tied at the hip, she would have passed it on to him. Daddy, with his emphysema, high blood pressure, a heart that endured two strokes, and a penchant for salty, fatty foods, is definitely vulnerable to COVID-19.

But Mama died from a sudden heart attack in February 2019. Daddy is at home during this global pandemic. Our brother cares for him and a nurse checks in. Daddy is safer and Mama is no longer suffering. We, their children, don’t have to navigate the heartbreak of losing parents during a global pandemic, of not being able to say goodbye properly.

This has been a year of negotiating grief. The only way I’ve learned to do this is to be unafraid to talk about it—in all its ugliness and inappropriateness. Talking about grief allows me to live with it.

Lent is an invitation to have a conversation with grief, in all its expressions. Jesus shows us that grief is part of the human experience. Scripture says that Jesus was a man of many sorrows, that he was acquainted with our grief. Jesus wept. He was rejected. He was betrayed by friends. He grieved over systemic and relational brokenness.

Yet, he puts words to his grief. He is not afraid to express it. “Father,” he prays, “let this cup pass from me.” His tears and blood mingle to reveal the intensity of his grief.

“Couldn’t you stay awake with me one hour?” he asks, heartbroken and surprised by his friends asleep in the garden.

From the cross, Jesus says: “I thirst” and “My God, why have you forsaken me?”

Lent is our time to reflect on how Jesus embodied grief. One of the gifts of Lent is the encouragement that Jesus gets it. We are not alone; we are not unseen in our grief.

Last year during Lent, I began a daily practice of breath prayers. It started as a way to be subversive and prophetic—I’ll cultivate a spiritual practice that relies on my breath, I thought, to combat the grief and anxiety caused by a respiratory virus.

The practice of breath prayers involves praying a short, five- to seven-syllable prayer. On the inhale, you pray a name for God that is meaningful to you: “Nurturing Mother,” “Kind Savior,” and “Gentle Healer” are some of my favorites. On the exhale, you pray your request: Give me peace; hold me close; be near me in my grief. Breath prayers have been the spiritual practice that has sustained me and given me words for my grief.

The day Ahmaud Arbery was killed, I prayed, “God of Justice, hold me close.” On the day I learned that the novel coronavirus was ravaging brown and Black communities, I prayed, “Wounded Healer, protect the vulnerable.” On the day there was rioting in my neighborhood after George Floyd was killed, I prayed, “God who hears, respond to our cries.”

Putting words to my grief in a simple, short prayer not only has empowered me to press through the pain, but it has given me a way to connect with Jesus, who gets it.

Wherever you are this Lent, say the true thing about your grief. And, if you can, say it to God.