It’s another special day, the date of birth of someone dearly loved … Josh Brown. It is also the birthday of many others who are loved, but, of course for me especially I am thinking about Josh.
Recently the classic song "To Love Somebody" written by Barry and Robin Gib and released first by the Bee Gees has been in my mind. I’ve played through it a few times on the guitar and today especially the words seem to resonate as I think about the great love stored up in me for the person whose birthday it is. “You don’t know what it’s like Baby, you don’t know what it’s like To love somebody To love somebody The way I love you.” I initially think…that’s so true. No one can know what it’s like to love him the way I do but then I take a second look around my friends, community and even people I’ve been sharing a grief journey with and I realize that indeed other people DO know what’s like. They know what it is like to love someone greatly. This person could Josh (his friends and family) but this same depth of love is what another might have for their parent, sibling, friend or spouse. Can someone feel exactly the same as I do for Josh? Probably not, but they can still relate. The beautiful and hard element of grief is that the depth of our love for the person is what causes the grief to hurt so much. It is what has us feeling alone and convincing ourself that no one could possibly understand how I am feeling. The truth is, in our grief we can relate one to another and we are bonded in a unique way. As I celebrate Josh’s birthday, I am encouraged to keep loving other people. It doesn’t have to be a comparison of how much I loved him compared to someone else - it can be whatever it needs to be. What a joy it is to love and care for someone else and to celebrate their life both here and in Heaven. On this day, I took a moment to light a candle on water as a way remember this love - not that I could forget. It was a good pause on the day. Keep loving friends! ❤️🕯️ And of course, happy 47th birthday Josh.
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Across from my campsite site on this 5th anniversary sits the Branson Belle. This tourist spot is your typical attraction with sing, dancing and overpriced food. The last time I was on it was in March of 2019. Josh and I, with my aunt Brenda, uncle Dan, and cousins spent time playing around and also talking about ministry and life changes. Of course, we had no idea the next month would include a brain cancer diagnosis.
While I have been looking at the Belle from my campsite for a few days now, there it was again this morning as I sat drinking my coffee, wondering why I decided to spend time reflecting on this sad date. In a way, I am just torturing myself by dwelling on the sorrow. On the other hand, I think it is important—especially this year. Often, due to culture and our own desire not to feel or wrestle with grief, we avoid mentioning anniversary dates like this. It just seems awkward, and at times, it’s too hard—too hard to explain, too hard to process, etc., but date markers like this are part of the story; they are part of us. This year especially, friends and family have commented, “How can it be 5 years?” I agree and for some reason #5 feels weightier. I have no idea why, but it does. I admit I didn’t want to just sit around being sad all day staring at the water, so I also spent time having fun by going to a theme park (Silver Dollar City). This was a good way to honor Josh, as our lives together and apart always had a mix of joy and sorrow—laughter and tears. It was a great afternoon soaking in the attractions, looking at the many, many pumpkins, and riding rollercoasters in good company. Returning to the campsite for one last night, as the campfire flickered and I could still see the lights of the Branson Belle faintly. In the photo with this post from 2019, I wondered if, somewhere in the background, you could see the campground (but I couldn't tell). To close out this day, there’s not much more to say but, “Wow! It’s been a season!” I expect Oct 1 (and the beginning of day 5.1) will offer some new elements in my grief story. I know there will continue to be healing. My prayer: Lord, let me lean into your love, faithfulness, and comfort in new ways in this next section of time. Again, thank you for a life and story with Josh by my side for many years. One more day . . . it's a common phrase uttered in life. Could I have just one more day? This is especially true when thinking about a loved one that we want to spend another day with.
Looking back I ponder, "Would I have changed anything about Sunday, Sept. 29, 2019, if I knew it was the final day?" (Sidebar: It’s interesting that this year is also a Sunday). I can’t think of anything I would have changed. At the moment I was trying to hold strong and give all I could to support my husband's needs. Friends and family were right there too encouraging us in the best ways they could. So here we are today! And I find myself pondering how the past five years have went both fast and slow. I analyze how these years have impacted me emotionally, spiritually, physically and mentality – and yes it's impacted every part. Interestingly, on my drive to the campground tonight I listen to a perfectly-timed sermon from Dr. Barry Jones (thank you!) titled Moving Toward Healing. He talked about the great comfort God offers each of us, and how we, as people wounded by the hurts of this world (grief, etc.,) can offer comfort. “He wants to use your life and mine as part of his process of bringing healing and comfort to others. . . . We who have experienced the wounds of this life, are unique positioned to be used in love’s service. To bring God’s comfort to those around us.” What a challenge and such rich truth. From the beginning days of sharing our journey to continuing to write about my grief process, my heart and desire has been to be an encouragement through honesty. To be a space where the weight of grief can be acknowledged and shared. Diving deeper into what it means to be a Wounded Healer is a beautiful challenge on this eve of Sept. 30. It is also one that God has brought to mind many times over the years. Even as I attempt to do this, I know it is easy to get stuck with the questions of “But how? How often? Am I helping?” But maybe it’s more simple (less overthinking). To be a wounded healer simply means acknowledging the hurt and grief when we see it. It's following through on that Holy Spirit prompting and simply asking someone if they are ok. It means continually pointing people to the source of all hope and compassion. Looking up at the night sky this evening while sitting by a campfire, the Big Dipper constellation took center stage. Resting in the idea of Christ being my source of comfort, the thought came to mind that it's like a big scoop. I imagined God scooping up all my hurts into the rectangle. Then I imagined picking up any remaining (stubborn) hurts by my fingertips and placing them into the Big Dipper space – essentially giving these to God one by one. I know this is an abstract way of thinking about it, but I think God’s comfort can show up in so many ways from a perfectly-timed sermon to a constellation in the sky. I hope God's great comfort is evident as you rest or wrestle with your grief. “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in ALL our troubles." – 2 Corinthians 1:3-4 I am writing this 2-day-before post really early one one day before because every single moment of the second day before filled up. What is most interesting about this day is that nearly everything that I did happened because Josh isn’t in my daily life. That sounds incredibly weird to say. I started the morning with kayaking, something I did not do until after Josh died. Then I sent to a MSU Bears ballgame to watch my boyfriend’s son play in the band - clearly I didn’t have a boyfriend before. (And yes dating again post loss is also a wild thing to navigate). Then I played a music gig until midnight with some friends who I have met since doing Open Mic nights on a regular basis over the past four years. None of these people I knew before 2021. I wouldn’t have imagined even doing this before. It was quite the night of music and having people parachuting in behind our band. Quite epic. Maybe this post echos of the things I have learned post from Day 5, but these are all unique elements I have taken on as new pieces of my life and story. Yes Josh was a big supporter of me in my love for music and I am sure he attended some Bears football games when I played in college but I am not really sure. I do remember even when he was pretty sick with brain cancer, he came to my final performance of a girls singing group that I was leading - it was a special memory. In general, he was a huge supporter of my various endeavors – whatever they might be. Today, many other people pick up pieces he played as my cheerleader and sidekick. It’s a unique and beautiful collective of people who are part of my story today. Honestly, I feel like I need every one of them, and so many of them don’t even know how much I do. This is part of the abstract, yet important, community that God is often talking about that we need. I can help but think It looks a little bit like an impressionistic dot painting (pointillism I believe it is called). Encouragement dots. As I selfishly soak up this encouragement it is also a challenge to keep being that support to others walking in grief (of various kinds). Let’s cheer each other on more often! Trust me, it makes a difference. In the countdown to Sept 30, this day was lovely all around. Even in the midst of reflecting on grief intentionally, I realize there is much beauty to grasp in the day-to-day life. Out of curiosity, I looked back at what was happening on the days leading up to Josh’s passing. I found a post from Sept 27 about fall decor, pumpkins and Josh’s love of pumpkin pie concretes. I remember the weight of emotion as I sat in the tentative space of not knowing when my final moment with him might be. I hoped, loved and hurt all at the same time – as many caretakers do. Today, life is lighter. I enjoyed time with friends and leaned into the independence and confidence I have found along this widowhood journey. I hooked up my camper and headed to the perfect campsite right on the water at Table Rock Lake. The cloudy day with windy water and drizzle had its own beauty to behold, but then God put an exclamation point on it with a double rainbow and an array of colors along the shoreline. I couldn’t help but feel gratitude for this moment. It seems along with the heartache of grief one can find gratitude as a nearby companion. Maybe it’s not always easy to emotionally bring the feeling to the surface but it's there waiting for acknowledgement. Much like a rainbow moment, we can even miss the opportunity for gratitude if we are distracted. (I literally almost missed the rainbow because I was goofing around inside the camper). Of course, finding what to be grateful for in grief can be a challenge - because the hurt is real and it stings sharply. Time helps with the hurt but doesn't erase it all. I'm still not "happy" about losing Josh from my life, but know that experiencing grief has given me a strength and perspective that I wouldn’t have otherwise. Everyday I strive to understand it more and pray it makes me a more compassionate person (and on many days it does). As this day ends, gratitude is on the front burner. I am thankful for encouraging friends who sing silly songs with me, friends who text and check on me, and who call me with random ideas about life. I’m thankful for ideal campsites, cute adventure dogs, rainbows and duct tape (which is currently holding parts of my camper together). Above all, I am thankful for a God who sees me through it all and loves me just the same. One week prior to September 30, I had already considered how I might process the upcoming anniversary. This year marks five years since my beloved Josh left this world. It really is wild to think it has been 5 WHOLE YEARS! My grief blog these days is a bit more sporadic, but there are still moments of emotion that come out of the blue. Processing and writing about these helps (at least me!). I continue to process how I feel about Josh’s physical absence from my life (his spirit seems to still be in many places).
Approaching this anniversary (of sorts), I decided to write a blog post everyday starting five days before the 30th. This would mean starting on the 25th and posting each day. Yet, as the 25th came, my day filled up with work, Bible studies, dinner and various conversations. I got home at a reasonable time in the evening with the idea in mind to sit down and write but instead found myself cleaning various paper piles and reorganizing TV and speaker wires unnecessarily. Writing about my aching heart that I still carry with me did not seem appealing – even to someone who loves to process and write. So here I am a few minutes past the fifth day writing with this thought in mind: What have I learned in five years?
With the marker of Sept. 30 in mind, I find myself explaining why I am taking off work next Monday. In doing so, I wonder why I feel weird setting aside this day - is it still needed? There are things to do, projects to focus on, distractions that could be welcomed. It has been 5 years after all. Yet I hold steady to the planned pause for the 30th of September as an element of self care. Resting in nature and thinking about all the layers of good and hard related to Josh seems fitting. During the past few months as I have helped facilitate grief groups I've heard people share frustrations after being told, "Don't you need to get it together, it's been 10 months, a year, etc.." Yet here I am looking at 5 years and still know I need time for processing. In wrestling with all of these thoughts and feelings what I realize is that as a culture we are quite busy, it is rare to really take the time to pause, reflect and remember. We put all kinds of phrasing to it - some well intended, some not . . . “They would want you to keep going” "That's just life." "Keep on truckin'" ... so we do. We keep going and we forget to pause or just skip over it. Of course we don’t forget the people we loved, we don't want to, but we might forget that we are still carrying a wound with us in some way, a scar that aches like a former broken bone might when the weather changes. It's just harder to see those inside scars. We may not even know why we feel more tired or emotional after certain times. If we take time to rest when we feel a little achy or tired physically, why not do the same emotionally. It's really ok to give permission for rest and remembering in a unique way. It doesn't mean you have a mental issue if you still tear up even after years. I’m currently in a study of Psalms, and this week the study talked about how the Israelites would return together to remember God’s faithfulness. It was annual pilgrimage to remember. They would sing Psalms - like modern day hymns - to remember together. I expect there was much to remember, including people who had come and gone. The Psalms include message of hope, lament and everything in between. Maybe in this now 4-day countdown I am still trying to convince myself that there is still good in the absence of Josh. At the same time I am trying remember that honoring my grief is also good. Thank you Lord for the memories of Josh and times with friends recently have who also brought back to life memories I had forgotten. "My soul is downcast within me; therefore I will remember you from the land of the Jordan, the heights of Hermon – from Mount Mizar. As the fifth September since Josh’s passing looms closer, it seems this year I am even more emotional. There are probably many factors to the feelings, starting with my friend Scott who once shared an office with Josh. He and his family are relocating to the Ozarks and he will be working at my church with me. I have not seen him in about five years and when he entered my new scene, he tossed out Josh and Jenn so casually that it caught me off guard. People in my new work world don’t lump us together in the same way because they never experienced “us” in the same way. From day 1 it was just Jenn.
That seemed to start the spark of the string of funny feelings leading into this 5 year marker. Around the same time, I decided to train to be a facilitator for a new grief group - which led to more talking about Josh in new spaces in new ways. Sitting in room of people who are freshly experiencing the grief is also heavy. I explain all this as the root of a math equation in some way. Maybe all of this adds up to the reason for my complete crying meltdown as I was practicing my guitar on a Saturday afternoon. Singing a song that had the words “Me and Jim” I subbed in my mind, me and Josh, and the tears began to fall - soon I was in a whole mess of a crying situation, trying to snuggle with my dog for comfort. Just when I think, it’s been 5 years, I’m doing ok, a day/moment like this hits. And I realize I am not so good. My heart still hurts something fierce. I miss Josh so much. As much as I want to love again, I wonder can I really. Is there room in my heart for another, really? Maybe it’s already too full of love, doubt, fear and sorrow? These could-be song lyrics cross my mind, “No matter what I try I can’t get over you by my side. I just want you here.” Some might say the more you hurt shows how deeply you loved. That’s tricky in many ways thinking of the future. The words aren’t really a comfort. It just makes me dive deeper in to self analzying. I do admit, this is a real and raw piece of writing, that maybe is too personal to share but grief is real and raw and very personal. So many times, we don’t talk about it. It’s easier to not tell anyone about our secret, at-home, (or in the car) meltdown moments but they happen. (Feel free to give yourself permission for them). So I share it to remind anyone else that they are not alone in their tears, or even in the feeling of “Am I crazy?” Should I STILL be crying like this? There is no right or wrong way to grieve. As someone shared in the grief group this week, as long as you are not hurting anyone (that includes yourself …e.g. destructive behavior) you can process the emotions as needed - for however long. A good cry for no reason is definitely ok. I say this to myself also for reassurance…as I am definitely feeling a bit weird about it all. I'll be a little less weird feeling in a day or two but who knows what next moment might catch me. |
Author: JennHi! It's Jenn Brown, writing my story that is now slightly different as we enter a season of new grief. On September 30, 2019, my dear husband Josh passed away after battling brain cancer. Archives
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