Recently, I was asked, “If grief was a person, what would that look like?” And my immediate response was an old crone, not a witch but a reclusive wise old woman.
Everyone has heard of her. Eventually, everyone encounters her. The old crone, Grief.
Out there in the woods. Away from town in her odd little cabin. Folks are afraid of her. They think she’s a witch and a powerful one at that.
But she’s not.
There’s no magic in her. Or in her cabin out there in the woods. There is no great power in her. Only an odd sort of kinship with death that frightens most people.
They say she talks to ghosts out there, alone in the cabin in the woods. Even the woods around her cabin are rumored to be full of ghosts. There are whispers there, soft and low, or it might be just the breeze. Shadows too, glimpsed from the corner of your eye, things more felt than seen.
But those that dare to brave her woods find that her odd little cabin has a cozy spot by the hearth and a warm cup of tea ready. And those that stop to sit awhile soon discover that this gnarled old crone that is so feared and so loathed is actually a great keeper of stories.
She knows them all: tales of ancestors long gone and the loved ones whose graves have just been dug. The great love stories, the terrible rows, the whispered prayers, and the quiet joys. The stories told and retold until they’ve grown into legends.
But more than that, she knows the weight of words unsaid and of the unvoiced wails kept locked away. She knows of the secrets taken to the grave and of the deathbed confessions. Of the apologies never uttered, the promises unkept, the trips not taken, and the things left undone.
She knows of the tears, yes, but also of the wild, raucous laughter of clan and kin. The reels that were danced and the songs that were sung, even now when the music is no more and the voices are lost in the silence.
She is no powerful witch. She is just an old crone who has seen a lot of life. Enough to know that even the harshest winters end in springtime. Even the longest droughts eventually give way to rain.
She’s seen enough of death to borrow some of death’s wisdom. The wisdom that knows it’s not the letting go that hurts so much as the hanging on too tightly. The wisdom to know that everything dies. The wisdom that knows new life follows death. She learned hope through death. The sunflowers gone to seed in her garden were not simply the end but the beginning of a new cycle.
Death catches up with everyone – sooner or later – but still she plants her garden. Maybe she’ll see it come to harvest. Maybe she won’t. But there’s hope in the planting.
Come sit by the fire. Pour a cup of tea. Listen to the stories told by Grief until you can look her in the eyes and recognize this old crone’s true form: Love.
What strange days we find ourselves in right now. The news from all over is ever more concerning. Cases of COVID-19 have appeared in two schools near my home and a friend for the university was exposed to it at their internship. I started to prepare a couple weeks ago by buying paper goods, hand soap, Tylenol, and cold medicines. Still, I was profoundly shocked to walk into the grocery store Thursday afternoon, right after the announcement that schools were to be closed indefinitely, to see the meat case nearly empty. Saturday, I was able to go early in the morning to get meat but the vast array of produce I’m used to so casually picking through was mostly empty. Instead of rows upon rows of colorful fruits and vegetables, there were only empty black bins. It struck me in that moment how spoiled I have always been. I’ve never in my lifetime walked into a store and not been able to buy everything I need for several days worth of complete meals to feed five of us. I have never before seen entire grocery store aisles empty – totally and completely empty – of bread, eggs, milk, juice, meat, frozen vegetables, and fresh produce. In any other time, I’d probably crack jokes: hashtag first world problems, hashtag toilet paper famine, hashtag where’s the beef. But this isn’t like anything I’ve ever faced before and, for once, my dark gallows humor is failing to keep up.
I don’t want to debate dress codes or gender roles or images of femininity and masculinity. I don’t care. I don’t care if she prefers suits and ties to dresses and frills. I don’t care how short or how long she wears her hair. I. Do. Not. Care.
My Morning Coffee With My God 