Sabbath Devotional: Permission to Grieve

In just a few days, my bouncy, blond 5-year-old daughter will walk to the bus stop in her shimmery unicorn backpack and head off to kindergarten. She is my youngest, and I know she’s more than ready for a new school and new friendships, but I feel a tug in my throat and a weight in my chest when I think about closing a chapter of motherhood — the baby/toddler/preschooler chapter I have been immersed in for 18 years — and moving forward into a new, unknown one.

Just a few months ago, I closed a different chapter of motherhood as my eldest child graduated from high school. (I still remember her kindergarten backpack!) I am excited to cheer her on as she ventures out into adulthood but

also feel that same throat tug and heaviness in my chest as I think about her childhood past.

Days before my eldest’s graduation, my father-in-law passed away after a short and brutal cancer journey. The sorrow leading up to his death and the grief and loss our family have experienced since then has been palpable and overwhelming. While I am grateful my father-in-law is free of pain and suffering, I have experienced deep sorrow at losing a man who had been so strong, healthy, and vibrant before his diagnosis.

During this season of my life, I have tried to embrace grief more fully than I ever did during my previous years. This has been a big shift for me — recognizing that grief and sorrow can exist without being signs of a lack of faith. Through the losses of my young adulthood, I often thought: If only I had enough faith, I wouldn’t feel such crushing pain over the loss of a loved one. If only I had enough faith, I wouldn’t feel so sad about moving from one phase of life into the next. If only I had enough faith, I wouldn’t have any doubts. Jesus overcame death, after all, and so why should I be sad or afraid? I felt like I should be comforted by the gospel. But I wasn’t always. And that made me feel guilty.

Watching President Gordon B. Hinckley express his grief over the loss of his dear wife, Marjorie, after her passing in 2004 was something of a revelation for me. A prophet of God could publicly share his sorrow and be seen as no less faithful. What did that mean for me? My feelings of guilt and uncertainty persisted, however, until recent years when I learned to accept that grief, sorrow, and doubt were not the antithesis of faith, but normal aspects of a faith journey.

Part of this shift happened when I was introduced to the work of Duke Divinity School Professor Kate Bowler and learned about a concept called “spiritual bypassing,” which refers to “spiritual ideas and practices to sidestep personal, emotional ‘unfinished business.’” One example of this is using the saying “everything happens for a reason” not to provide comfort alongside grief, but to sidestep grief or other unpleasant feelings. Instead of letting ourselves experience the uncomfortable emotions, we slap on a platitude band-aid and try to move on.

I want to be clear here: I believe spirituality and faith can be deeply healing and grounding for many people experiencing grief. But for me, they often did not give lasting comfort because I was avoiding pain. I have had to learn to give myself permission to grieve — permission to sit with doubts, with anger, with confusion, with loss, and turn to the Savior to find a guiding hand through it all.

The Savior himself was “a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3). Even He, with His perfect knowledge, did not platitude His way through deep sorrow. He felt pain deeply, expressed it, and tried to lean on His friends. On His way up to the Garden of Gethsemane, He said to two of His disciples: “My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me” (Matthew 26:38). His grief was not the antithesis of His faith, but a part of the experience of His perfect life.

God calls us to experience our grief and pain as part of our life’s journey. And the Savior’s example shows us that it’s okay — and perhaps sometimes even necessary — for us to express it in the community of others. As part of our covenants, we have been asked to “mourn with those that mourn” and “bear one another’s burdens, that they may be light” (Mosiah 18:8-9).

With that, I want to invite you to take a few minutes and ponder what grief you may be holding right now. What causes the lump in your throat, the tears welling behind your eyes, or the heaviness in your chest? Perhaps it is a new chapter of motherhood, or the absence of it. Perhaps it is the loss of a loved one. Perhaps it is unfulfilled expectations or a life that turned out differently than you hoped. Perhaps it is watching the grief and suffering of others. Give yourself permission to feel and express that grief. Talk to a friend or loved one, write a journal entry, or say a prayer.

I leave you with this blessing written by Kate Bowler:

God, this. This is impossible.

This grief is too much to bear.

If there was a tight order

to the world that you made,

it’s come unspooled

and no one will wind it up again.

God, I feel it coming,

that ache for the stories that will never be told.

And an anger rising

when I remember

what never should have been.

Worst of all — God, could anything be worse? —

it is so beautiful

the way this grief is a language of love.

I am lovesick with this much sorrow.

Teach me to speak this new mother tongue.

Show me how to memorize

who I can never forget

what they gave and what is gone,

and what we were owed

by a world robbed of their presence.

Hold me by the edges

for I am coming apart.

And nothing but love

will find me.

Bless you, and bless us all, in our times of grief.

. . . . . . . .

Photo by Mike Labrum on Unsplash

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Meredith Gardner is the director of media literacy at Mormon Women for Ethical Government.