Stepping Into the Light

Yesterday was the funeral of a friend who died suddenly in a car accident earlier in the week.

Her death was absolutely unexpected. Unexpected deaths have an extra layer - dealing with the shock. It requires an extra amount of time to reason with your mind that a person you love isn't there because you hadn't ever considered that they wouldn't be. Not now, anyway. Not yet. 

Alisa and I were newer friends. I met her at a mutual friend's fortieth birthday party. We knew so many of the same people as part of the Mormon Church, yet we had never met one another, even with all of my time living in Oklahoma before the most recent move back. We covered a lot of ground that night: children, birth, divorce, marriage, religion, etc. Over the last year and some change, we stayed connected on social media, through texts and, within the last couple of months, some in-person conversations and events together. I valued our blossoming friendship.

Her life, her very being, exuded love and light. I am terrible at small talk, so it was wonderful to have someone with whom I could skip most of that and dive straight into vulnerability. She asked good questions and kept an open mind and heart for the answers that might come. The point at which I met her was a time of immense learning and growth for her. A year before I met her, the familiarity of her life had been interrupted. She was on her own journey of discovery. Meeting her on that path was inspiring to me. Despite the difficulties she faced, and any fear of the unknown in what lay ahead for her (this path was terribly difficult sometimes), she had a warmth that was enveloping. And I think that warmth and love and light became bigger and brighter and warmer with each faithful step she took.

Last month, Alisa and I attended a program sponsored by the Jewish Federation of Oklahoma City. Rabbi Steve Leder was there discussing his book More Beautiful Than Before: How Suffering Transforms us. I got two tickets last minute from another friend. When thinking about who I should take with me, Alisa came to mind. I was glad she was available. She came to my house, and we drove to the event together. The program was a profound look at pain, suffering, and grief. We were both writing away taking notes. Afterward we sat in the theatre and talked, then continued talking on the ride home, and didn't stop talking for quite some time after I pulled into my driveway. 

A new angle on grief that we both appreciated is the idea that grief is nonlinear. Leder said that every once in a while we are hit with a rogue wave of grief. And when that wave comes, it's best to lay down and float with it. Trying to stand up against it will only send you crashing and rolling; it will topple you. Grief doesn't follow a straight line. It can feel less enshrouding over time, but it doesn't mean it won't come back into your company and desperately require your attention from time to time. There is no timeline. Leder made a distinction about something those who are grieving often hear. He said it is a lie to say "It won't always hurt so much." But a more accurate telling of grief is that "It won't always hurt so often." 

Leder said much about light that night as well. 

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 

He emphasized through. We walk through the valley of the shadow of death. We don't stay there. And a shadow is always evidence of light. A shadow cannot exist without light. At some point, as we keep moving, we will emerge back into light. The light that was there the whole time. Blocked by a valley. Blocked by our suffering, our sorrow. Our grief. 

I was thinking about light yesterday as so many came to love and celebrate and grieve together. I left the church at dusk and made it back into my home in darkness. The shortest day of the year. The week of Alisa's death has been a descent through emotional and literal darkness as we crept toward winter solstice. I have developed a fondness for that day. Developed is the key word. I used to be so resistant toward extended darkness. I love the sun; I feel the effects of less light. And in that sensitivity to both darkness and light, I made a pact. "Okay, Darkness, you can have your day, but tomorrow we start moving back toward the light." 

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