Grief Group came again last night. This is the hardest one, the day when they tell their stories. You can see it in their eyes as they walk through the door, how they have been turning their words over and over like rocks, sifting and sorting, trying to find the right ones to tell of love and a lifetime.
How do you do this in a room full of strangers and only a few moments? But they do, brave souls, they do.
In the telling there is pain, yes, but also a striking beauty. Because although they speak of death, they mostly speak of life. They tell stories–funny ones, sweet ones, long ones, short ones–about the brilliant moments shared with the ones they love.
What strikes me about these stories, always, is that they are so very ordinary. They talk of things like fishing, friendship, building a family. Last night several of them said with voices full of emotion, "They taught me so much of what it means to live life."
That sentence swirled around my heart long after I got home. There is such glorious simplicity in it. Because this teaching comes not through grand accomplishments, fame, or fortune. No, the lessons come in quiet moments, the touch of a hand on a shoulder, a long laugh with a child.
Really, learning life comes so much more in being than in doing.
I needed to be reminded that although love is a verb it's not so much about action–at least in the way we tend to think. More often it's about stillness, togetherness, sharing life that seems insignificant but turns out to be the very best of what's left behind when we're gone.
Those stories blended together and sang my heart a song. Some high notes, some low, all having a place and purpose. And if you were listening I think this is the chorus you would hear…
Most of all,