Somewhere between Memphis and Chicago, while driving north on the Interstate, I realized that music was going to play a key role in my grieving.
We were just two months past Niecie’s death and still trying to find our new way as a family. I had been asked to attend a meeting in Michigan, and the kids and I decided that a road trip would be good for us.
I journaled about it from the road one night—
Part of the pain of this trip is seeing places that remind me of previous trips when, of course, Niecie was still with us. So many places prompt memories: restaurants where we ate, hotels where we stayed, and even rest stops where we took breaks. Just driving down the highway brings so many memories . . . and tears (which I’m trying to hide from the kids).
At one point today I turned on some music and a Steve Green song came on that I’d never heard before, “Safely Home.” The lyrics, though mournful, are rich with truth . . .
Their pain is past now
They rest at last now
Safely home
They are strong and free
They are safe with Me
For a few minutes, my thoughts turned away from my pain and to Niecie’s joy. She is home. Her pain is past. She really is at rest.
➢
Oh, the life-giving beauty of good music. It is a gift from God.
There have been other songs along the way that have reached underneath my sadness to lift me. In those early days, it was songs like “Were It Not for Grace,” “Be Strong and Take Courage,” and “O Love That Will Not Let Me Go.” Later, “I Can Only Imagine” and “No Need to Fear” were added to the mix. Lately I find myself drawn to songs like “Christ Is Mine Forevermore,” “He Will Hold Me Fast,” “Raise a Hallelujah,” “His Mercy is More,” “Is He Worthy?,” and “I Will Wait for You.” (This list could get really long, so I’ll stop now.)
I’m so very grateful for songs that are rich in truth and meaning, songs that draw me forward and upward, songs that remind me of the greater realities of the life that is coming.
It’s not lost on me that many of these songs, and others like them, are written by people who have walked through the valley of shadows themselves. Through their music and their writing, they are doing exactly what 2 Corinthians 1 has asked of them—they are passing along the comfort they have received.
To them all I say, Thank You! You have given words to what I could not say but desperately needed to hear.
In our grief we often need silence, solitude, and stillness.
But sometimes we need a song.
“The world that is whispers of the world to come.”
—Andrew Peterson (Adorning the Dark)
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
I broke one of my own rules.
The whole thing started on a Friday afternoon when a high-priority meeting had been called for the staff of the organization where I worked. Attendance was mandatory, a hint that big news was coming.
Once we were all seated, the CEO stepped to the microphone and quickly ripped off the bandage; he announced that we would be relocating our office to Florida. We would have as long as a year to make the move, but only two months to make the decision. (That’s more time than many get in similar situations, so I’m not suggesting this was an unfair timeframe.)
Up to that moment, I’d been enjoying a normal day and looking forward to the weekend. But in the span of five minutes, I was facing a huge decision and the possibility of a major life transition.
During what turned out to be a two-year season (I chose not to make the move), I encountered staggering disappointment and feelings of uncertainty second only to those I had known in the days of my wife’s dying. The familiar sensation of despair stalked me day and night for weeks.
The way I handled that disappointment, and the way it handled me, is what led me to the rule breaking I mentioned. You see, through my writing and speaking, I had sometimes described the contrast of grief and disappointment like this:
Grief is the sadness we feel when we lose someone we love.
Disappointment is the sadness we feel when we don’t receive something we hoped for.
These are incomplete descriptions, for sure; they are simply the basis of how I understand grief and disappointment. But . . . I had let this tidy bundle of wordplay lull me into breaking my own rule against comparing my sadness to that of others. Before my harsh bout with disappointment—which proved to be a valley of shadows in its own right—I had essentially seen the community of the brokenhearted as having senior partners (the grievers) and junior partners (the disappointed). I had reasoned that if your sadness hadn’t taken you to the cemetery, you just weren’t as bad off as I was.
How foolish.
So, to the disappointed ones, to those who are bleeding internally because of some devastating blow to your hopes, I am sorry that I ever belittled your pain. I am sorry that I looked past you. After all, if anyone should understand the need to be heard, to be seen, to have pain acknowledged, it is we who have traveled a similar road.
I see that now. I see you now.
I see that disappointment is sometimes even more troubling than grief, because there is no visitation for departed hopes, no memorial service for dead dreams. There’s no formal way to let the world know that a terrible thing has happened to you and you’re not okay.
If that is you—stunned by a broken engagement, shaken by a diagnosis of infertility, confused at being passed over for the job, betrayed by a friend, threatened by false accusations, . . . (Oh, the many horrible ways we can get hurt in life)—I extend my sympathy to you and sincerely hope that someone will care enough to see you and to acknowledge that your pain is real.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.
—Proverbs 13:12
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
I’ve been thinking a lot about legacies, probably because last Friday marked the seventeenth year since my dad’s passing. He still means so much to me; I’m still learning from him.
Like all father-and-son relationships, ours was spotted with a few imperfections—but not too many and none that ever drove us apart. My memories of him are 99% positive. Thomas Grissom was a good man.
Some people try to establish their own legacies by putting their names on buildings, scholarship funds, and city parks. There’s nothing wrong with any of those, but in my opinion the truest form of legacy is an extension of the life the person lived, not an addendum to it. It’s a continuation of a reputation earned, not a salvage operation.
So, when I think about Dad’s legacy, it‘s all about how he lived in his small corner of the universe. In his case, it’s pretty basic stuff, really: work hard, live within your means, try fixing it before replacing it, be honest, be helpful, don’t retaliate, and make time for fishing and watching baseball. Quietly strong. Humbly influential.
I loved that man.
➢
I read a story about a store clerk who was known for being lazy. Whenever there was hard work to be done, he’d conveniently disappear. When a regular customer noticed that the clerk wasn’t there one day, he asked the store owner:
“Where’s Eddie? Is he sick?”
“Nope, he ain’t workin’ here no more.”
“Do you have anyone in mind for the vacancy?”
“Nope. Eddie didn’t leave any vacancy.”
One way that grief serves us well is by putting us in touch with our own mortality. The death of a loved one reminds us that our days will come to an end too, that our lives will become legacies . . . and will hopefully leave vacancies.
It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting,
for this is the end of all mankind,
and the living will lay it to heart.
—Ecclesiastes 7:2
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.