New Vistas

I just finished a great run that took me through some recently harvested corn and bean fields, past grazing cattle, and along the shores of a lake. More on that in a moment.

 At the outset of 2015, I had my running and racing schedule for the year all set.  I had registered for two half-marathons and one fall marathon. By March, I was experiencing terrible pain in my hip. By April, I was seeing an orthopedic surgeon, had x-rays and an MRI, and started physical therapy. Running was out of the picture. Doctor’s orders. This was difficult for me on several fronts. One, race registrations are non-refundable. So I was out a few hundred dollars. But even more troubling than that was the prospect that my marathoning days might be over.

This might be difficult for those who don’t run to understand, but this prospect sent me into a period of grief. Running is a big part of my identity. I‘ve got a 26.2 insignia on my car that identifies me as part of the tribe. Running is a spiritual practice for me. There have been many prayers said on my early morning runs. Training plans and group runs give structure to my week. (I call it structure, but my wife calls it obsession.) I was now faced with a future without something that has been an important and identifying part of my life.

It seems to me that the difficult work of grief is imagining a future without someone (or something) that has been a regular, important part of your life. I see this in those who lose a spouse and must make the difficult transition from husband or wife to widow or widower. In times of loss, a new future without those identifying markers is difficult to imagine. Over the years I’ve been with those who have recently lost a loved one and the only thing they could say was, “I don’t know how I ‘ll be able to go on.” 

Contrary to conventional wisdom, the work of grief is not a linear process that moves through defined sequential stages. Rather, it is chaotic, circuitous, and hard. One moment you’re fine, and then for no apparent reason, you’re in a puddle of tears. That’s why I refer to grief as work. But when done well, one can emerge with a new vision for the future.

My wife’s grandmother died last year. Lisa grew up a quarter mile down the road from her grandmother on the family farm and had forged a very special bond under those precious circumstances.  In the months that followed her grandmother’s death, Lisa spent many weekends at her grandma’s home taking care of matters at the house that is held in trust. Those were important times for her to work through her own grief as she reminisced, remembered, and pondered a future without the woman who had such an influence on her life. 

The farm is only 80 minutes away from our house, but I would stay home on those weekends to participate in my Saturday morning long group runs in Kansas City. When the doctor said “no running,” Lisa encouraged me to join her at the farm on the weekends. There was work to be done that could use my help, she said. During those first weekends, we took down wallpaper and painted a couple bathrooms. I then moved outdoors to clean gutters, mow the lawn, and clean out the garage. We planted raised bed gardens that produced awesome vegetables. I soon brought my smoker from home because something had to be done with those briskets in the deep freeze!  On Friday evenings, we spend time at the new Grindstone Valley Winery in town. My weekends become an eagerly awaited respite.

One evening in early summer, I decided to do a little exploring on my own. The Pony Express Lake is nearby, but I hadn’t ever taken the time to check it out. To my surprise, the most amazing vista opened up before me that evening as I entered the conservation area less than a mile away! How had I missed this all these years?  

I’m back to running again. I’m not logging extensive miles, but I’m lacing up the shoes and getting my endorphin rush. That’s how I ended up in a bean field today. The route is a peaceful part of my weekly routine. It takes me through the fields, around some pasture, and into the conservation area. It occurred to me today that this new discovery, this new route, probably would not have been discovered without some loss in my life. In the grand scheme of things, this loss is nothing compared to other losses we all can and do face. But it is illustrative of something important.

This Sunday, November 1, is All Saints Day. On this day when we remember our faithful departed, we read these words from John in the book of Revelation: Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away …(Rev 21:1 NRSV). John’s vision reveals something about the promises of God, especially for those who are engaged in the work of grief. The pain, the anger, and the disorientation that are part and parcel of grief are not an end in and of themselves, but open up new vistas that are made possible by the God who makes all things new.