See Me, Be With Me

"Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak, 

knits up in the overwrought heart and bids it break."

- William Shakespeare, Macbeth

"See Me - Tahlequah" - Lori Christopher

     A few weeks ago, I saw this image surface on social media. I was encapsulated by it. I had heard the story of the Mother Orca carrying her deceased baby for over 10 days. This was an action that many Orcas have done, but never for this long. Science was explaining the hardship behind this event: Orcas were not surviving birth, Orcas are becoming fewer and fewer, but Orcas also grieve these things. Science was telling, but not nearly as telling as the follow-up stories that inspired this image. 

     Tahlequah, the mother Orca, had been carrying her baby to keep her baby afloat. Without doing this, the baby would sink to the ocean floor. She was not yet ready to let go of her baby or of her grief. Yet, this process was holding her back (she wasn't able to swim as fast), it was using up all her energy. Grief does this to us. It holds us down for a while. It exhausts us. In the grief I have experienced, I can look back and acknowledge that the tears and the sadness often lead me to sleep or the desperate need for a nap. I can acknowledge that my grief kept me from moving on. Grief. I can name it. I can see it. I can acknowledge how it has held me back. 

     In her process of mourning, Tahlequah was strong (she carried this baby for so long). Yet, she was also weakened. The female Orcas in her Pod began to take turns and carry her baby for her. Giving her a break from carrying her grief. Yet the important thing to note is that they never took her baby away from her; they never took away the grief. They simply carried her grief for a while. Tahlequah's grief was holding her back and draining of her energy, but her Pod did not act as if she needed to get over it. Instead they allowed her to grieve and in doing so, helped her grieve instead of helping her get over it. 

    Eventually, after many days of mourning, grieving and carrying the grief, Tahlequah laid her baby to rest. When she was ready, her pod helped her do so. When she was ready....her pod helped her do so. 

      Grief is no stranger to me. I think I can thank my Dad for that; he never hid grief from us as kids. I can remember going to many funerals as a children and teenager, wondering why, especially if I did not know the person well. That was before I understood the Catholic call to "Bury the Dead." My Dad didn't hide his tears when he buried a friend or a family member. He was not afraid to show grief. And in that, we learned how to grieve. We didn't hide it; from others or from ourselves. And so grief is no stranger to me. I have let grief come and sit for a while. I have embraced grief, just as I would a dear friend. I have allowed myself the beauty of tears and the gift of grief. However, this is not often a concept we can say we know or have seen. 

     During a particularly trying time in my life, I went back to Scripture and began reading the stories of women in the Bible who have experienced pain, heartache, and worse. I noticed two things: it is rare that this women are said to have cried and it is rare that these women were given the words to express their grief. Many women in Scripture have lost their children and yet, they are not given that option to grieve. Many women have suffered innumerable heartache and physical pain; they do not cry. I believe the writers left those parts out, because as a woman who knows many women, we certainly mourn and cry and grieve. Yet, even today it seems, women are not given the chance to do these things (and neither are men, for that matter). 

     This enraged me. I was looking for comfort among the women of Scripture. I found similar pain and heartache. Yet, I was overwhelmed with tears and sadness and wanting to curl up in a ball and not move from the safety of my fortress of blankets and pillows. I began to feel weak; these women did not do this, so why am I? But quickly, I stopped myself from swimming in those thoughts. I was not weak; these women were not overtly strong for not crying. They were not given the chance; so I must mourn now for them and with them. I must conjoin my heartache with theirs. And when I saw this image, I thought back to these reflections. This is TRUTH. 

     The story of Tahlequah gives us many reflections but two that are particularly important to me. First: the Orcas knew the power of grieving. The never once, in their carrying of the calf, showed disregard for Tahlequah's grief; they did not toss it aside or get rid of it for her. She needed her grief in order to make sense of things; she needed to carry it for a while and be with it. She needed to cry and mourn and lament. Her sisters knew this and allowed her to do so. We must acknowledge grief; we must sit with it and allow it to change us. If we hold onto it and keep it in and never acknowledge it, it will break our hearts much later. When we are sad, cry. Be not afraid to embrace the pain and the tears. It is a part of us, especially for women, and we are stronger having expressed grief. When we embrace our pain, we are better as a result. Invite grief in. But do not let it stay too long. 

     And secondly, as women, we must be there for each other. And we must not dismiss the beauty of another's pain. Many people are afraid of grief and in moments of grief, theirs or another's, they tend to shush it, push it aside and say things like, "it's okay, you will get over it, you will move on." In the end, yes, we will move on but not as we had before; there will be something missing. In those moments of grief, if we choose to embrace it, we do not want to move on, we do not want to get over it. We want to sit with it; we want to be sad. And the best thing to do in those moments is to not speak at all. Instead, simply hold another's grief. Perhaps that means holding their hand, embracing them in a deep hug, or holding them in your arms. Connecting your hands or arms with them allows you to breathe together, one with pain and heartache, the other holding it. Just as the Orcas surrounding Tahlequah held her grief, we must hold each others. The Orcas did not, in any way, force Tahlequah to move on quicker than she was ready; they journeyed with her for 17 days. They did not speak to her of shared experience; they simply traveled with her until she was ready to let go of her grief. 

     There are women who have done this for me; who have been my pod. I know that I can go to them and I do not have to say a word for them to know that all they need to do for me is to hold me and sit with me while I grieve. So many instances have these women, upon meeting me, asked me how I was and I was unable to respond because tears had filled my eyes and choked my words. They simply open their arms for me. And there have been many times when I have been called upon to do this for others. Despite being a writer, I know that at times, the best thing to say is nothing. I am constantly telling my students, the women of courage who surround me daily, that when they are sad, or frustrated, or grieving, to let themselves feel it. And I sit with them; I let them cry or vent or whatever they need. We sit together, we carry each other. This is what being a woman is all about. Seeing each other and simply being with each other in times of need. 

Counting The Tears

"Don't ever discount the wonder of your tears. 

They can be healing waters and a stream of joy.

Sometimes they are the best words a heart can speak."

- W. Paul Young, The Shack

     "You have a history with 'Mikes'," she said to me. "Yeah, I guess I do," I answered wiping snot and tears off my face. I had been curled up in a ball on the last seat in the last row of chairs in Chapel when she walked in. I was literally sitting in the fetal position, with my head down, sobbing. Not even five minutes before another sister had walked through the "magic door" and found me there. She gently came over, stood beside me, with her hand on my shoulder and said, "Cry, just let it out. I'll pray. You cry." Five minutes later, my dear sister walked in and found me. I hate, hate, hate crying in front of people, especially people whose idea of me is the "tough as nails" girl. Yet, I just continued to sob as these two sisters walked in and sat with me. It was the type of crying where you can't really breathe right, or even talk higher than a whisper, because  the tears are just continually running down your face. It was the type of cry, where I just wanted to fall into someone's lap and stay there, protected from the horrible news I just heard. As I sit here to write this, I sob again, mourning not only a friend, or a fellow parishioner, but rather, someone who was like another father to me my whole life. 

     He was a sarcastic man, with a brutal sense of humor. You had to learn to understand him. He was a rough and tumble type of man, like mot people from Croydon. He never took any crap from anyone. He came off as mean and bitter and wicked, but we all knew that was just Mike. Inside, he cared more about you than he often let on. I know this for a fact because he always told me that if anyone tried to hurt me, he'd have to use a lot of self-restraint not to kill them. Truth is, he probably would. He wasn't afraid to tell people how he felt, or what he thought, even if he was wrong. It often seemed as if he was made of cast-iron and maybe some brick, too. Yet (and he'd kill me for saying this but it's true...), he was marshmallow soft instead. How do I know? He told me my voice was good enough to make a grown man cry, tears of awe. And after he said that, he told me if anyone but me sang at his funeral, he'd jump right out of his casket and raise hell. These are all direct quotations, I promise. He made me promise with my whole heart that I would do all I could to make sure I sang at his funeral. I never thought I'd have to do it from my pew so soon. 

     Most people don't get the close-knit network my Parish has. It literally is like I have so many fathers, so many mothers and so many brothers and sisters. The sign of peace takes forever, because we HAVE to say hello  to everyone. The saying, "It takes a whole community to raise a child" definitely applies to EVERY SINGLE KID that grew up in Croydon. We are all so close with one another and so right now, we're all mourning with one another. I can't tell you how many Facebook messages and texts I've gotten from my parish family members, all of us in tears, just sobbing over the phone or the internet. Losing Mr. Frat, is losing a part of my family, losing a part of myself. People shake their heads at how upset I get when something happens to my parish, but they just don't understand. This is family. This is what sustains me in prayer and love and faith and humor. And the hardest part about being away from all of them right now, is that I have to cry alone physically. I know spiritually and emotionally, they are all carrying this sorrow with me. But it's hard. I just wish I could be home. 

      This is a lesson in trust, I know. I have to trust God on this. And I also think this is God telling me, I'm getting soft in my old age. I mean, I seriously just told the whole world I'm sobbing and mourning. I've got to really trust God in this situation. I've got to trust that He knows what He is doing. And I've got to trust that He'll send me someone here with big open arms, willing to get their shoulders soaked, and hold me in a long hug while I try to count my tears. 

       Thanks all for the prayers and support. I know the family really appreciates it.