Beneath the Mud is the Grief

by Pinnacle Associate Peggy Haymes

As some of you know first hand, Hurricane Helene has scattered destruction across a wide swath. As I've watched the reports I’ve thought about the many layers of grief that are all around us.

First and foremost, of course, is the grief for loved ones, whether family or friends, who have lost their lives in this disaster. There are those who are living in suspended grief, waiting for word about their loved ones who have not yet been able to communicate.

But there is more.

Even if the loss of a way of life isn’t forever (like being able to drive wherever you want to go or pour a glass of water whenever you’re in the mood for one) there is grief in the interim. Right now, for some people their lives are far different from anything they’ve ever imagined. “I want my life back” is a form of lament that is honest and true.

But there is more.

In a time like this, we like to say “Things are just things,” and indeed they are. No possession, not even a house, can compare with a life. However, some things are also more than just things.

My social media feeds have been filled with people grieving lost spaces. They were buildings in which good work was done, whether the work of literacy or the work of art. They were spaces made holy by what took place within their walls.

They were places connected to us by happy memories:

We were just there celebrating my birthday.

We used to vacation there every year.

We stopped to eat there every time we went skiing.

I went to college there.

That’s where we usually celebrate our anniversary.

This is where I chose to retire.

This is where my people are from.

As a native North Carolinian, the Blue Ridge mountains are part of my spiritual DNA. When I needed to get away to finish writing a book, I rented a cabin in the mountains. When I wanted to get away for a special birthday holiday, I headed to the Blue Ridge Parkway.

I know some of you have hiked and biked the trails that are now destroyed by mudslides and flooding. Some of you have walked down the streets of beach towns now covered by feet of sand.

The grief for the loss of these places is just as much of a real grief as any other. If your heart is heavy with grief, allow yourself to mourn and to lament. A loss is a loss is a loss.

Finally, I’ve been thinking of the grief of those who are working night and day to rescue people, to help communities dig out, to help get basic services back online. Often people are drawn to this work because they want to make a difference.

And indeed, they are making a critical difference. Still, they cannot save everyone. For some, they will be too late.

While they are the first step in rebuilding, they are first faced with devastation at its most raw.

Such work can hang heavy on one’s heart.

So, no matter where you live, if you feel a sense of loss in these days, allow yourself to grieve. Even if it was “just a building” or “just a memory.”

If you are a church leader, be aware of the levels of grief that may lie beneath the surface in your congregation.

Allow for the faithfulness of lament that comes with loss.

Allow the courage of hope that comes with action.