Into The Canyon

People have different ways of describing loss. Some describe it as a "gaping hole" that was once your life, and others say it's like "staring into an abyss." Some call it being "in a tunnel without being able to see any light at the end." Everyone comes up with some analogy that seems to suit what they are feeling in the wake of their grief and emptiness. But none of these analogies seem to speak to me. None of them appear to aptly describe the feelings I've had in the last several weeks as I've tried to figure out how to incorporate this loss into my life.

I've received my fair share of texts from concerned friends, asking if I'm "doing any better" or saying they're sorry that I'm "still grieving." It's only been three months since I learned of my friend Alex's death. It was as if a light in my life went out. The pain has been, at times, intense and excruciating. There have been moments where all I've done is collapse on the bed and sob this sorrow right out of me.

You ache because you've lost because you love. And grief isn't something you can measure or gauge how you'll handle it. One must walk through it in order to find out. 

On so many occasions, I've sought to figure out an answer for these caring and concerned people. How to tell them how I feel when they're looking to measure my progress through the pain? How to tell them what brings comfort when the wording often falls short and feels empty and insensitive? How to let them know that you don't "get over," you "grow into." That you don't "move on," you "move forward with." How to tell them that I'm really and truly okay with not being okay for now?  When it seems like they're uncomfortable with my pain and hesitant to get close to it, when all they'd like to do is take it away and make it all better, when all they'd like to say is that they're sorry I'm not happy and they just want to fix it for me...how do I give them a picture of what it's really like inside my soul?

As I thought about all the analogies and asked myself why I didn't feel any of them fit my own experience, I came up with one of my own. I realized that the "gaping hole" example implies that one can walk up to their loss, can survey the emptiness of their loss, but that there's a perimeter around which one can walk and then go from their loss and never return. An abyss is a sort of bottomless pit which implies that one, in a sense keeps forever falling deeper into grief and never experiences a rise from it. The tunnel sort of indicates that one doesn't have any idea what one will find on the other side of grief which, to a certain extent, is true but the idea just didn't click with me. Then I thought of a canyon.

A canyon often has no beginning or end in sight. It divides one side from another, leaving an endless split between where one is and where one hopes to be. It's way out of the way to try to look for a route around the canyon, so one often looks for a way across or a way through. Unlike an abyss, a canyon has a bottom where, once one has reached it, one feels small, trapped, hemmed in. While one can fall no further, one must discover one's own way out - either by continuously walking it’s length and hoping there is an exit, or looking for a path or rope that allows one to somehow reach the other side.  If there was a bridge, it would be easy to measure one’s progress across the divide but in this case, no bridge exists. One must descend in order to eventually ascend. And so I took to my personal journal the other day and wrote this:

"I'm beginning to view this journey of loss like that of coming to a canyon over which there is no bridge. Loss is not a gaping hole so much as a canyon which you cannot walk around. The only way forward is by rough trail down into it. Once at the bottom, having descended into the darkness, one must begin to explore what is there. Armed with a small flashlight (the light and Word of God), one must look for the trail on the opposite side that leads out. But this usually means walking for some distance down the center of the canyon, often alone or with few to enter it with. Along the way, one discovers the intimate companionship of others who are in the canyon, too. And then one day, at a time of God's choosing, you find the trail that leads you out. But you are never the same." 

There is my answer: I'm currently in the canyon. I've already descended into it and am currently making my way down the center of it. I can look up and see the daylight above me, telling me that there is a God who sees and that I will one day make my way out of this place. But for now, I'm still exploring the depths of the darkness. Plumbing the extent of this loss and trying to make sense of what a new normal without Alex will mean for my life. And I'm searching for the trail out, but I've yet to find it. Somehow though, I'm not anxious to get out of here just yet. I'm okay continuing to trudge on and take in the scenery below - as if I know I've much to see here in the depths. As if I behold a strange glory in this darkness which God himself is making known to me. I will one day make my way out. But not right now. 

Maybe you're in the canyon of loss yourself. If so, welcome to this place. We are travelers in this space and whatever tragedy got us here, we are walking this darkness together. Others in this canyon meet us in our grief, as well. We will make a home here for a time until we arrive at the way out. And we'll all team up with our flashlights to look for the trail out together. It may take awhile, but we shall become friends as we go.

Maybe instead you're up above the canyon, looking down and making out the hidden figures of those below you and wondering when they'll emerge from it. Please be patient until that happens. You cannot hurry us. You cannot set a timetable and expect us out by a certain point. You cannot throw a rope or tell us a shortcut. We must find our own way through this at our own pace. God is as much in this dark place as He is up where you are. So let Him take care of us, and you just aid Him by your prayers.

As I stare up at the seemingly insurmountable walls that tower above me, I know that the person that I entered the canyon as will not be the same one that emerges from it. And somehow, I think I truly want that.