On December 30, I sat in the middle of the pew at the back of the church with tears slowly coursing down my cheeks to say good-bye to and to celebrate Jeff, Stephanie’s husband. He had died on Christmas Eve. Stephanie and I have been friends since the previous century, and I was their wedding photographer eight years ago. We’ve been through a lot together including the deaths of parents, but this was something new.
Not surprising
Two Books, a Movie, and a Funeral
This winter break has been filled with the themes of fire and ash, so it was no surprise that it ended the way it did. I re-read Eldest by Christopher Paolini, I read Heir of Fire by Sarah J. Maas, and I saw Avatar: Fire and Ash directed by James Cameron. All had fire. All had ash. And, so did I in real life. Again, not surprising because that’s what happens when you live.
Because Jeff had experienced multiple medical events in December and was eventually admitted to a hospice home, I had time to “prepare” for his death. I gathered three presents to give to Stephanie for her to open whenever the time felt right for her. One gift included the poem “Rest” that I wrote specifically for her.
Rest
Rest. Know that no manual on your grief exists.
Rest. Know that your grief will appear and disappear like mists.
Rest. Grieve. Rest. Believe.
Rest. Feel the darkness. Rest. See the starkness.
Rest. Cry. Rest. Mourn.
Rest. Laugh. Rest. Be torn.
Rest. Be sure you can’t go on.
Rest again and sing a song.
Rest. Breathe. Rest. Lean.
Rest. Feel your heart break. Rest. Have some cake.
Rest. Cry some more. Rest. Go to bed at four.
Rest. Don’t talk to anyone. Rest. Tell his stories to everyone.
Rest. Know that love is near.
Rest. Know that I am here.
Ember inside
No Finish Line
When I say rest, I mean DON’T listen to that voice in your head that tells you ...
~ you’re being lazy
~ you aren’t strong enough
~ you should be “over” this
~ you aren’t brave enough
~ so-and-so is OK, so you should be, too
~ it’s been long enough; stop your grieving!
These statements are never true. I don’t care how many years after the loss it is; no finish line exists in this race.
Grief changes you in ways you cannot imagine and yet you still have a heart. You can love all the more freely because you have grief flowing through you. And, maybe you aren’t ready for that yet. And, that’s OK.
When I say rest, I mean allow the grief to flow (no pushing it back or pushing it down or pushing it away), allow the tsunami waves to knock you down, if necessary, and then stay down for a bit and rest. Yes, you’ll get back up again, but you don’t have to jump up and carry on immediately. Sometimes, carrying on means staying down and opening your eyes to what you see from that perspective.
Rest means letting your mind go where it will without fighting it. Rest means staying grounded: touch the grass making sure that you feel the grass; touch a tree making sure you feel the tree; look at flowers making sure you see their colors and smell their fragrances. Then, do some resting and let that ember inside of you glow.
Maybe for a long time
The Eldest?
But, maybe right now, that light in you isn’t an ember, but a fire of rage that makes sense for where you are in this moment. Don’t listen to that voice in your head that demeans you for the anger you feel. Anger is a part of being human, and you are human.
Instead of listening to that voice that is not helping you, create a different voice to listen to, a compassionate, kind and gentle voice that tempers the flames of rage by allowing the rage to have a safe container to burn itself, but not YOU, out. Please know it’s possible that “the fire of hate gives way to the ash of grief” (Avatar). And, grief proves we are alive and loving humans.
However, maybe right now, you don’t see or feel any light at all, but “only ash and an abyss” (Maas, p. 6). That’s, perhaps, scary as hell, scarier than the burning rage you feel sometimes. Rest so that you will some day have the energy to do something else, feel something else. Rest so you can allow the grief to hit you again and then flow through you and ebb away.
Maybe for a short time or maybe for a long time, you will be like Eragon in Eldest walking “between the candle and the dark” (Paoloini, p. 427). By rest, I mean sustain yourself by eating foods, listening to music, reading books, doing things that bring you joy because sorrow and joy can live together when you allow yourself to rest.
The day after Jeff’s funeral service, my family received notice of another death. My aunt Barb, who was my mom’s older sister, died at 7:20 p.m. New Year’s Eve. The last time I saw Aunt B. we were dancing at my sister’s Fall Bash (see October 2025 blog). I can see the joy on Aunt B.’s face that day in my memory. She loved dancing when she was young and danced quite a bit until she couldn’t any more ... until the Fall Bash. Now, on that side of my family, my grandparents are gone and my mom and her sisters are gone. That makes my siblings and me what? Old? The Eldest?
Candles still burning
Sorrow and Joy
Also, on the day after Jeff’s service, my family received more family-altering news – the birth of a boy who came almost three weeks early at 7:25 p.m. New Year’s Eve to help us look forward to the future. As it says in Eldest, “The candle still burns” (Paolini, p. 660).
Thus, when life continues for us even though we feel overwhelming sorrow, we can choose to find “only cobwebs and ashes” in our hearts (Maas, p. 104) or we can choose to rest in sorrow AND joy, keeping our home fires burning for those we love past, present and future.
Asking you to rest, really rest, because it truly is for the best,
Angela Jane
(I am not a professional counselor, so please seek help if you need it.)