It was 2019 and I had gotten back into regular counseling. The day's topic was the miscarriage I had recently experienced, and further processing of the sudden death of my cousin's husband a few months prior. I was choking back tears (because even in counseling then, I didn't feel permission to cry) and told her, "I just don't feel like I can really wade into these experiences because how on earth will I trust God's goodness when I do?"

It was a dark season, and my coping mechanism of blind optimism wasn't getting me as far. My heart wanted to mourn all the way, but I was stuck at the surface too afraid to dive in.

"Can I suggest a book for you?"

My counselor always asks before she offers advice.

"Of course!"

Because advice-giving is my love language and that's why I'm here after all.

"It's by this Catholic priest, Henri Nouwen, so it may feel a little different than what you're used to. It was his last book and it's called Can You Drink The Cup. It's short but very profound. I think it will help you navigate some of these feelings."

That was the first book I bought in the parking lot of the counseling office. It got to my house a couple of days later and that weekend I stayed up all night one night reading the whole thing. It was exactly the healing balm my soul needed and helped me to find the bravery to wade further into the grief I felt. I recommend it to everyone.

I'm pretty obsessed with the fall leaves this year. There's something about the brilliant coloring that overtakes a tree as it sheds its leaves. The leaves are actually dying, but they seem more alive than ever in this moment of transition.

Autumn is the perfect time to reflect on seasons of grief because autumn itself is a picture of loss. I'm in another season of grief right now for various reasons. Some of those reasons are obvious and others are not so much, similar to that time in 2019. I wrote this poem at the beginning of fall this year:

The leaves that once
Helped you grow,
Wither then
Fall.
Away from you,
Taken by the breeze
Peacefully fluttering.
And yet
You stand,
Ready for a new season.
What once brought life
And growth,
Falls
To make room for more.

Grief is complex. The reason we grieve in the first place is because the thing we've lost was of great value to us. We don't grieve meaningless things when they go. Wrapped up in the experience of grief is the joy that was and, somehow, also the joy that is to come.

Before I could dive deeply into grief, I couldn't see the joy. I could only see the pain and despair from a distance, so I stood back afraid of what else there was to lose. In one of Nouwen's early chapters he says "(Reflection) requires great courage, because when we start looking, we might be terrified by what we see.

Courage. Reflection. Grief. Joy. Loss. Hope. Growth. Death. Loss. Gain. Wandering. Direction. Drain. Depth. The cup of life, handed to us tenderly by a loving God, who is with us every step of the way, calling us further into the calm, complexity of who He is.

As Nouwen goes on in the book, he uses the metaphor of "drinking the cup" to explain the boldness required to fully investigate the mysterious mix of joy and grief. Near the end of the book, he says this, "Drinking the cup is an act of selfless love, an act of immense trust, an act of surrender to a God who will give what we need when we need it."

Friends, denial, blind optimism, and fixation on an idealized future are not the way forward from grief. Neither is despair, hopelessness, or self-deprecating condemnation. The call of God forward, at the close of a season, is to fully embrace all that was, all that now is, and all that can be ahead. This delicate dance in the present moment is exactly enough to get you to the next.

I pray, this fall, that you are brave enough to shed the tears you need to cry, that you can honor the meaning of the weight of those tears, and that you can embrace the warmth that will fill your heart as they fall. As life begins to shed what previously sustained you, may you see the room being made for what's coming next, without dishonoring or clinging on to that which once was. May you be brave enough to wade into the depths of grief because there you'll find a steady, grounded version of joy as well.

Here's to the fullness of life, if we so choose it, friends.

A Note On Seasons