Things that cause us grief, and how we learn to cope by Emily Owen

Things that cause us grief in life, and how we can learn to cope with them

‘Grief,’ said Queen Elizabeth II, in 2011, ‘is the price we pay for love.’

On April 17, 2021, the world watched as she paid that price.

At the funeral of her husband, the Queen sat alone, a picture which resonated around the world.

Grief can be isolating, an isolation emphasised by coronavirus restrictions.

The Queen represented many who have sat alone, literally and metaphorically, in grief.

Perhaps she represented you. Perhaps she represented me.

We grieve for what is, yet should not be. We grieve for what is not, yet should be. We grieve for what was, we grieve for what will be.

We grieve for lost health, lost jobs, lost homes, disappointments, changes in life and expectations.

Some years ago, I sat in an oncology waiting room. I was there with a friend and, as she waited for her next round of treatment, I had the privilege of waiting with her.

I recently read an article in The Times (8 May 2021) about someone else who had been diagnosed with cancer.

A family member called, and asked: ‘How can I help?’

The answer? ‘Just come and live with me.’

In other words, be there, in all the ups and downs.

Just come and live with me.

If grief is the price we pay for love, then love is the reason we grieve.

‘How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.’ A.A Milne.

I lost my hearing at the age of 21, and a question I am repeatedly asked is, ‘Do you wish you’d never heard music?’ In other words, do I wish I’d never known the fullness of music, so that I didn’t know the emptiness of its lacking?

No, I don’t.

I miss music. I grieve for the music I will never hear, or play, or sing. Music is a memory for me now; a memory I hold dear; a memory I’m glad I don’t need to grieve. The remembered music I hold in my head is still there. I still sing in the shower.

For me, living with loss is about learning to hold grief in tension with the recognition of what I still have. Were I to deny either, I’d be standing with feet of clay.

I have learned that, in response to my wrestlings, uncertainties, and attempts at coping, grief offers me a suggestion: ‘Just come and live with me.’

Grief is not something to be ignored but nor, have I found, does it constantly overwhelm, if I give it space in my life: acknowledging it is a valid companion rather than an intruder.

Grief is the response to loss.

The pandemic has thrown our world into grief.

At the start of the first lockdown, I met with my niece and nephew (four and six) on Zoom, to teach them sign language. One day, my nephew simply signed, I’m sad. As he looked at the sudden changes in his little world, ‘the new normal’ overwhelmed him. He couldn’t express that verbally, so he did in sign language. Tears spilled from his eyes.

Grief is often a place that can’t be spoken. Grief is also a place that doesn’t need to be spoken.

Isaiah 53:3 tells us that Jesus was a ‘man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.’

Jesus knows what it is to grieve. Three times in the Bible we read of Jesus’ anguish: over Jerusalem [Luke 19], at the grave of Lazarus [Luke 22], and in the Garden of Gethsemane [John 11].

Grief expressed through tears when words run out.

Jesus wept for the world, he wept for what others went through, he wept for what he himself faced.

‘For we have not a high priest who can not have compassion on our infirmities…’ [Hebrews 4:15 Douay-Rheims Bible]

‘Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering…’ [Isaiah 53:4a NIV]

His tears mingle with our own. And each tear is seen. ‘You have collected all my tears in your bottle.’ [Psalm 56:8b NLT]

To quote the Queen again: ‘I, like so many of you, have drawn great comfort in difficult times from Christ's words and example.’

Jesus’ words are, ‘Take my yoke upon you.’ [Matthew 11:29a NLT]

Come and live with me.

Jesus’ example is tears.

Mary, in the garden after Jesus died, couldn’t see Jesus. [John 20]

He wasn’t there.

Grief pressed in on her, the grief of what she missed.

Perhaps she represents you. Perhaps she represents me.

Though Mary’s eyes were blurred by tears, and there was loss in her heart, she kept looking.

Until, through her tears, she saw Jesus.

May the same be true for us.

Emily Owen

Emily is an author and public speaker. She began writing following a medical diagnosis which turned her life plans unside-down. In 2018, Emily was awarded the ACW Award for Outstanding Contribution to Christian Publishing. In 2021, Emily published My Diary, which details her story for young people, and 30 days with Ruth, the latest in her 30 Days series. For more about Emily and her books, please visit www.emily-owen.com