The Gift Buried Inside Grief
How processing my grief gave me room to enjoy my memories again.
I am writing this to offer you a glimmer of hope if you are grieving. Before we continue, there is something I need to address. Grief sucks.
That breathless feeling as you struggle to keep your head above water. Unreasonable resentment that the world goes on while time stands still for you. I am not here to sugarcoat the devastation grief brings to your life. Mourning the end of a life, a relationship, a career, or a dream, is tough stuff. The last decade has familiarized me with the heavy, thick blanket of loss.
Now for the hope. I am here to share how helping a stranger, hearing “Love Is Like a Butterfly,” and the changing leaves helped me find the gift hiding in grief. What does grief have to do with a Dolly Parton song? Typically, nothing. On this morning, absolutely everything.
I ran into the grocery store, hoping to grab a few things, while the orthodontist adjusted my kiddo’s braces. Air conditioning and music from the 70s blast me as I walk through the automatic doors. Grabbing a basket, I turn my head to acknowledge the greeter. But he is not at his station.
The greeter is kneeling beside an older gentleman by the vitamin racks. He is struggling to lift the man back to his feet. I walk over, asking if I can help. They both look relieved and agree.
“I’ll count to three, okay?” directs the fallen gentleman.
We each take an arm, and the gentleman counts us down. On three, the man is back on his feet. Thanking us both, he seems more embarrassed than anything. He mentions his son is picking up medication from the pharmacy, so the greeter goes to find him. Still worrying about his stability, I volunteer to stay with the gentleman. We make small talk while waiting. Several times, he addresses me as “young lady.” Bless his sweet heart for looking past the silver streaking through my hair. We say our goodbyes when the greeter returns with the man’s son.
Noting the time, I hurried to collect the items on my list. Moving through the aisles, I notice my mood shifting. Melancholy seeps in, coming out of nowhere. Shaking it off, I refocus on my shopping. Collecting the items on my list, I feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes.
What in the world is happening?
On the last aisle, a song breaks through my concentration. “Love Is Like a Butterfly,” plays throughout the store. Suddenly, I am three years old, climbing into my parents’ bed to watch the “Dolly” show with them. My parents adored Dolly. Her music was the soundtrack of many family road trips.
“Love Is Like a Butterfly” always makes me smile and sing along. But this time, the song directly connects to the melancholy swirling inside. A lump of grief fills my throat and tears threaten to fall. This grocery store is certainly not the place to process these big feelings. I promptly head to the front, quickly checking out my items.
I sit in my car, letting myself feel all the feelings. The deaths of both of my parents keep coming up. After a ten-year-long tortuous battle with oral cancer, my father had died. My mother died from COVID-19 during the global pandemic. I had lost both of my parents before I turned fifty.
There would be no more obnoxious wake-up calls with my parents singing “Happy Birthday.”
I was a bit jealous of that gentleman’s son. Helping his father reminds me I could not help my parents as they aged. I cannot lend them my arm as we walk. There would be no fussing over them. No pestering them to remember to use their cane. Taking a deep breath, I wipe away the tears and go pick up my child.
Driving home, the explosion of vibrant autumn leaves caught my attention. They are a welcome distraction. A memory sparks of driving with my mother down the same road. She had lived in South Louisiana her entire life. The autumn colors of Michigan gave her endless delight. Clasping her hands together, she would declare, “Look at God’s paintbrush at work!”
“Look, God’s paintbrush,” I say aloud. First, my teen side-eyes me, and then we both start giggling. I can feel my mom all around us, remembering how we would tease her childlike awe of the autumn leaves. For just a moment, she is in the car with us again.
Helping that gentleman, Dolly Parton’s song and the fall foliage had led me to the gift inside grief. First, it wrenched my heart with sadness. After I let myself feel the grief, it opened itself to show me the deep connection that would always remain between my parents and me. A reminder that the memories of experiences or people we have lost can bring joy again.
A random string of events reminded me that grief is love’s other half. Grief guides me to the enormous well of love I have for my parents, allowing me to take a sip. We connect again, even if only for a spell. Processing my grief reminds me that love never truly passes away. It is safe within our memories. Walking through my grief, instead of resisting it, has given me room to experience that joyful love that will always exist between us.
