Here’s something strange about me…
I hate the smell of roses. Sometimes I think I’m breaking some sort of unwritten rule for the entire female population. All girls love the smell of roses. But I don’t. I haven’t since I was eleven.
When I was eleven I saw a dead body for the first time. It was my aunt. She wasn’t very old. In fact, she was very pretty and young looking for a woman at the age of forty. I didn’t know her very well, but I remember that I always thought that about her.
That day, I remember that I really didn’t want to be there. Not because I was sad, but because I was bored. Instead of sneaking into unoccupied rooms with my cousin in hopes of finding something spooky, I was stuck following my mom around and shaking hands with people I pretended to know. It was all very uninteresting to me, except for the flowers. Red roses- supposedly my aunt’s favorite. Those were very pretty.
I remember the moment I saw her. I don’t know if eleven year olds are supposed to be able to process seeing a dead body, but I don’t think I could. There, lying like a Barbie in a box was the shell of a beautiful woman never to talk or laugh or sing again. I couldn’t say I was sad because, honestly, I didn’t know who she was, but I remember almost wetting myself when I saw her. Looking straight at death from across the room scared me more than the Chucky movie I sneaked a peek of over at my friend Heather’s house. I never wanted to see people that I loved scrunched up in a box, painted like a pale porcelain doll, unable to wrap me in their arms and hug me again. I hated death. I also hated the smell of roses.
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It’s sort of funny how God does things in our lives. I think He does too and He enjoys being a sneaky rascal. He seems to take the very things that make me squirm in my seat, fight back tears, or run screaming in the other direction and have me come face to face with them again in order to do something beautiful. I guess I should see it coming, but most of the time I don’t.
The most ironic thing God has done with me so far is given me the gift of counseling people. I love it so much that I’m earning a degree in it. And you probably saw this coming, but I have discovered that the people I deeply love to listen to are people lamenting some sort of loss. I have fallen in love with grief.
I love it because it forces us to be raw. Completely naked before God. Throwing our hands in the air and weeping from the deepest part of our soul is one of the most authentic things humans can do. And it’s necessary. Without grief we can never experience the complete brokenness it takes to make us fall to our knees at the feet of Jesus. It’s one of the most beautiful things God has given us. It’s as beautiful as music.
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I have this friend named Julia and, in my opinion, she can sing better than anyone I have ever heard. I might be the only person who thinks this because her music is sort of unusual. I think that’s why I enjoy her so much. If I had to use words to describe it I would use words like delicate
and haunting. Her music literally gives me chills kind of Johnny Cash does. One time I asked her why her music doesn’t sound like the girls on the radio.
“I like to play in minor key. It gives the song an eerie feel, but it’s beautiful all the same,” she told me.
I think grief is like beautiful like this. Cold and somber but having the power to deeply move us. Maybe lament can be one of the most intimate ways we can communicate with God. Maybe grief is worship in minor key.
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This past weekend I had some of the best food I have ever put into my mouth. Maybe I was just flying high because my entire family was together sharing the meal with me, but it was probably the food. If you’ve never had vegetable stew made from vegetables grown in the backyard you seriously do not know what you’re missing. All forty of us were packed into my grandparent’s house in Tennessee. I spent the weekend catching up with cousins who have moved far away, looking at pictures of new babies, and blowing dust off of my dad’s old yearbooks in the basement. The reason that all of us put our lives on hold to come together was because my grandma died.
We all came to Tennessee to weep and mourn together over the loss of the most vibrant, caring, animal print-wearing woman we all loved. But it wasn’t all sad. As we looked at old pictures of her, we laughed and told stories about all kinds of outrageous stuff she did in her life. She was, hands down, one of the craziest ladies I have ever known. As I was looking at old pictures of her I looked around at all of the people stuffed in the small living room.
None of us would have ever come together if it hadn’t of been because of tragedy. None of us would be laughing and hugging and getting sloppy wet kisses on the cheek from Aunt Mary. It took death to create this moment.
Even though I still don’t like the smell of roses, I have come to believe that grief has a way of making us see all of the beautiful things in life more clearly. Like the unique bond of family, or the gift of sharing a meal with people, or the miracle of a sunset over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Tears have a way of washing away all of the meaningless crud and free us to let go of things we once had so we can embrace the next gift God wants to give us.
So who knows what God is going to have me look square in the eye next. It’s probably going to be something that makes me want to run as far away as possible. But if God is as good as I’ve come to think He is, He’s going to make the sweetest music out of it.
