When grief goes for a walk

Last year around this time, we shed our layers as the warm sun met with the skin of our arms and faces again. Our days were rhythmic, filled with a few precious things we counted on, things that hemmed us in.

Each morning we’d visit a different trailhead, and took our time moseying along the crunchy limestone path. He might start in the stroller, but after enjoying a snack he’d climb out and run full speed on those little wobbly legs of his (I was always sure he was about to take a tumble, but he didn’t). Somewhere along the way, there’d be a stick in his hands, flowers he’d picked and placed carefully in his shirt pocket. 

I was never in much of a hurry. Instead, I found I was absorbed– I marveled at the way he was discovering the world right before my eyes. A tiny insect or dandelion was of great interest to him. A bird overhead caught his eye; he’d watch it soar with rapt attention.

We both felt at ease with an open sky stretched out above us, trees all around us, a trail ahead of us. There were plenty of worries and cares I held, and I know he did too, small as he was. But this was a place and time for breathing deep, letting peace settle on us.

As we neared the end of our daily shared existence, I grasped for these moments the most. The thought of losing this routine, with this kindred quiet child, made my heart ache. Finally, the dreaded day came, and the boy whom we had spent seven months loving needed to return to live with his mom.

We spent the half hour car ride home in somber silence while dark clouds drifted in, rain pelted the windshield. We opened the door into our darkened house, already keenly sensing its emptiness. We trudged up the stairs to stare at his room, went limp and crumpled in the hallway, weeping on the carpet.

The month or two that followed is a bit of a blur. Outward expressions of emotion do not come naturally to me. I was desperately sad and lost, but my sadness presented as more of a vague numbness (a good cry would’ve been preferable). I struggled to do much of anything. When I’d try to pray or read God’s Word, my mind was entirely elsewhere. Folks would ask me what I was doing now, whether I was “keeping busy,” and I didn’t know how to answer beyond a blank stare. I find that people aren’t quite sure how to address the ambiguous grief that accompanies foster care.

The rhythms we had been living alongside our toddler were suddenly removed from our lives. Our wake ups, breakfast, trail time, lunch, naps, play, early dinner, bedtime story and song, had all gone out the window. There was nothing to anchor my days. At some point, I realized that this was a loss, too. Every scrap of the normalcy I’d grown accustomed to was gone. 

I recalled our daily time at the trail, how it filled me up. It hadn’t occurred to me that I could go by myself. But I needed to throw down an anchor somewhere. Reinstituting trail time seemed like the best place to start. At this point, the blazing heat and suffocating humidity of mid-summer had descended on Columbia. I would have to get out first thing in the morning to escape the worst of it.

As I continued to sort through my grief and loss, the trail became a refuge for me. It turned out to be the most conducive place for me to be with the Lord. My mind, which had felt hazy and distracted for weeks, was a lot clearer when I was in motion. I’d listen to the Psalms read over me from my headphones. I poured out my own heart to God. 

I knew that he was near; felt the comfort of his presence. I saw beauty all around me, it snapped me out of the sleepwalking I’d grown accustomed to. Slowly, possibility re-entered my world. Inspiration was abundant. I remembered my love for words again, and sought to use them as tools for my healing.

I didn’t want to put the pain out of my mind anymore. Avoiding my grief was the habit I’d leaned on for years as a person who values peace. However, the sort of “peace” it achieved was not real. It couldn’t last. Eventually, grief runs us down, catches up, comes out sideways.

So I stopped running. I didn’t want to bypass the pain, because that would also mean avoiding thoughts of our sweet boy altogether. Instead, I sought to stay awake and alive to all of it, acknowledging both the beauty and the ache of lives that, for a time, were intertwined. 

As more time passes, I’ve grown accustomed to being on the trail without my little buddy. Still, on occasion a memory will surface, and I try to give it room to breathe rather than pushing it away. He is worthy of my attention.