Life, Spiritual

Grief, Growth, and an Empty Grave

by Sarah Baran

I thought long and hard about a flamboyant catchphrase to open this post with, but the truth is, my sarcasm tank is empty and I find myself lacking the words to begin.

What do you say when you’ve been gone for a year, when everything has changed but nothing is different, when the familiarity of your old internet space feels like a stranger’s home?

I guess I should start by saying hello.

Hello, friends. It’s been a while since I’ve shown my face on ye olde blog. I missed you. Truly, I did. And I’m sorry that I return only to say I don’t know what to say. 2023 has been a strange year; 2022 was even stranger.

My grandmother died on January 1st.

(Good job, Sarah. Talk about cutting straight to the point.)

I knew she was dying, of course. She was diagnosed with cancer last year. Her passing was slow and painful. The last thing I told her was “I love you,” and the last thing she said to me was “I’ll see you soon,” as she hugged me with fragile hands, as I walked out of her house, as I looked at her smile for the last time.

To be honest, part of the reason I procrastinated on returning to the blogosphere was because deep down inside, I wanted my return to have weight. I originally left to give myself space to mourn someone not yet gone. Now I’m back, and my return comes on the heels of her existence being ripped from my life until eternity claims me. I wanted to write something about it – I wanted to delve into my journey through grief as only a writer can, processing pain by telling a story and using words to label the untouchable mess in my head.

I thought I could do that.

I wanted to do that.

But here I am, and I find myself incapable of even beginning. It’s been six months. The pain still aches like a fresh injury. This is the first thing I’ve ever published that she won’t read, and it feels pointless, somehow, to keep posting when my very first follower and most faithful reader is gone. Even now, as I write this, my brain instinctively supplements information the way it used to; take out that joke, Granny won’t get it; add this picture, Granny will think it’s funny. Sheer habit prompts me to imagine how she’ll react when she reads this, only to be struck again with the terrible reality.

I thought, after all this time, I would finally be ready to talk about it, and her, and me, and all the complicated ways her existence is so intrinsically tied to mine that they’re impossible to separate. But I’m tired, and I realize, as my fingers hover expectant over computer keys, that I don’t have the words.

Laughable, isn’t it? A writer who’s lost her words.

So in the meantime, I’ve been hiding behind my jokes, resting in the familiar comfort of humor. Humor, my safe haven, the last black-eyed, bloody-lipped sliver of my soul still kicking up a fight. I lived in transient, in-between spaces (mostly social media), appearing with a quip or crack, and just as quickly gone again. I’ve been a phantom, impossible to pin down. Sometimes I ghost friends for a day, sometimes a week, sometimes two months. Then I’m back, quick-tongued and apologetic, tossing around jokes and excuses in the same breath.

I’m existing on minimum energy, too much caffeine, and a smile plastered wide on quivering lips – as all the while, my mind settles into a dull chant:

I don’t want to hurt anymore but the pain means I loved her so I don’t want the pain to leave but I want to heal but healing means the pain goes away and if the pain goes away I’ll forget her because the more I hurt the more it means I care and I don’t want to feel pain but I don’t NOT want to feel pain and all I know is that I want her back I want her back I want her back I want her back I—

Rereading through my journal this morning, I found an entry written the day before her burial.

Yet even in this, He has victory.

I am reminded again of the the night of her funeral, after everyone had left. I stood by her grave, in the dark and the cold and the rain, feet sucked deep into the salt-slick mud where she was buried. Flowers scattered over broken earth where the gravestone had not yet been placed – only a card, cased in plastic and tucked into the mud, marked the spot where her body lay.

Everything glistened in the light of the headlights. I stood alone, drenched, muddy, and surveying the place where she wasn’t.

She wasn’t there.

Not beneath the rain-soaked earth, not in her casket, not in the cemetery that held generations of my relatives. The grave had a body, but she wasn’t there.

Even in that silent, haunting place, on a night that will remain branded in my memory for the rest of my life, the peace of eternity muzzled the fangs of Hades. With nothing but her name on a card and her body below the earth, the shadow of Christ’s cross filled that lonely graveyard.

She was not there.

She is not there.

Even in this, He has victory.

Over the past six months, I’ve often fought to keep myself from sinking back into the mud of that desolate night. I’m tired, so tired – tired of trying, tired of the things I used to love, tired of putting one foot in front of the other, over and over, day after day, without end.

And yet, I can’t seem to stop. This is the work God has done in my life, the steady shaping of weeks, months, years. Every time I want to succumb, to surrender, to admit there is no joy left, that tiny, bruised, bleeding part of my soul struggles to stand (over and over), clenches its fists, wipes the blood from its lips and says – no.

No.

This is the primal scream of my soul, desperate to be heard: There is goodness in the world, and mercy, and beauty, and grace, there is a lifetime of little blessings left to be found. This darkness seems eternal, but it will not steal my hope.

As Nehemiah said, “The joy of the Lord is my strength.” As the Psalmist wrote, “Where can I go from His spirit? Where can I flee from His presence?” O grave, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?

I reread some posts I’d written several years ago that documented my struggles as a teenager to understand joy and contentment. Back then, I’d kept a “happiness journal,” a book where I recorded the blessings from each day, no matter how trivial. I believed I could Pavlov train my brain into rejoicing always, as if joy was an instinct I could shape, if given enough practice.

“It’s strange,” I told my mom, “how instrumental that journal was in my life. Yet here I am, 21-years-old, and I haven’t written in it since I was a teenager.”

She looked at me with that cunning, motherly light in her eyes. “I don’t think it’s strange at all. You don’t need it anymore.”

(And oh, I will never forget what she said next, seared into my memory the same way that muddy grave is seared into my heart—)

“You are the happiness journal.”

(The happiness journal did what it was meant to do.)

Joy is not a feeling; joy is a conviction. Joy is a remembrances and a knowing and a prayer. Joy is the taste of salt in your tears and the ache of grief in your chest and the cry of “how long, O Lord?” because joy isn’t happiness, but the peace that passes all understanding, the thing I can’t describe even if I tried because until you’ve experienced it yourself, you’ll never understand – the hope in grief, the peace in pain, the light in darkness, the comfort in despair, the triumph in a graveyard, the whisper of she is not here, she’s found her home in Glory.

This is the promise of life after death. This is the truth I will cling to with bruised knuckles, that will hold my chin above the mud, that will drag me through each day, one step at a time, over and over, without end:

He is good, He is good, He is good.

He is good, He is good, He is good.

HE IS GOOD, HE IS GOOD, HE IS GOOD.

So here I am. I will keep telling my jokes, and making my quips, and letting my laughter loose like an unbridled horse, free, unstoppable. With each moment of despair I will fight my way back to see the goodness in each moment, the blessings in each day, the beauty in brokenness, for these are the greatest weapons I have: unfettered joy, the sense of humor that has been my dearest comfort all these years, and faith in a God who knit my soul from the fabric of His words

It is not a perfect journey, nor am I a strong soldier. I lose more often than I win, and some days, I can’t even think to pray for the darkness that clouds my heart.

But oh—

Oh.

He is good, He is good, He is good.

I can’t promise I’ll return to regular posting. In fact, I probably won’t – not yet, at least, not until I can sort through the menagerie of chaos in my heart. Writing (in all forms) has been a struggle this year; I have too much going on in my head. But I wanted to pop in and say the things I’ve wanted to say for months. Hello, I love you, I miss you, I’m still here, please wait for me. The Sarcastic Elf (both the person and the blog) have not yet succumbed to the void. We’re alive and kicking.

So with that—

Hello! I love you! I miss you! I’m still here!

Please wait for me.

~Sarah

18 thoughts on “Grief, Growth, and an Empty Grave”

  2. I am truly sorry for your loss, but I applaud your steadfastness of faith through this turbulence. It’s never east losing a loved one, I’ve seen my fair share of this too, but it does get easier as time goes on. Keep the faith and God will guide you to happiness, just as He did with your grandma.

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  4. I’ve never read something so heartfelt and beautiful. Keep kicking, girl. Joy is hard, but worth it – and the joy you bring to others is as well. We love you. We miss you. We’re still here. And we’ll wait for you. ❤

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  5. Sarah I know I’m not as much of a regular face on your blog, and I’ve only been blogging for a year and half to your many years. But I’ve been reading your blog for a long, long time, and enjoying it, and first off, I just want to tell you that I have been and will continue to happily wait for the day when you return. This little internet corner of humor and truth, goodness and beauty is a huge contributor to why I decided to create my own little internet corner, in hopes of creating the same sort of place. And I’ll always be grateful, and a happy partaker in whatever you decide to put up.
    However. The greater reason why I’m leaving this comment is because I understand all too well what you’re going through. My father passed away when I was 8, after a prolonged battle with cancer. 8 is young, but we were very close, and I have a very good memory. Too well I know the desolate numbness, the fear of forgetting, the weariness of weeping, and the desperate wish to have them back at all costs. I wish I could tell you all those things go away. I’m nearly 21 now. I still miss him, and think about him almost every day. He’s dead, but the part of me that is him is still alive and struggling to survive with its roots departed.
    But there is hope, too. I’d like to adjure you not to try to forget, even though there’s a part of you that wants to. What I’ve discovered is that the secret to closure is in NOT letting go. In understanding that just because your loved one is dead doesn’t mean that you have to kill the part of you that is theirs. You can love her still. It is good to love her still. And she loves you still. Because Heaven is goodness incarnate, and it is good to love what is given to you—so surely those in Heaven awaiting us have not forgotten. You are still hers, even if she can no longer say it to you directly. And that is well. In other words, whatever people might say, don’t try to move ON. Move forward–and take her with you.
    And while the heartache will never go away, I promise you it will get easier. It doesn’t stop aching but you get used to the ache. It becomes only a little bitter, instead of being a mortal wound in your heart. And I know you might not want to hear that right now, but I just feel obliged to say it. Very few people said this sort of thing to me, you see, and I was instead required to forget. Been there, done that, can verify that it is IMPOSSIBLE to forget somebody as intrinsic in life as a father or a grandmother, and it makes things infinitely worse to try. I know it’s excruciating right now, and the most excruciating thing is how hard it is to carry on. “Seems when you lose someone…no one turns off the sun.” But please–be kind to yourself. It’s okay to be tired. To feel desolate. To cry in a corner, and to have some days when you feel you’re the one dead and buried. Don’t beat yourself up for that, and don’t feel guilty. God, your grandmother, and the dear people in your life will love you still, and will be patient with you even in the hard times. All will be well. And all manner of things shall be well.
    And as far as the blogging thing goes, to reiterate, I think I speak for a lot of us when I say I’ll be here even if the content changes, or is longer in coming. If there’s one thing I’ve discovered in my own blogging it’s that people are kind, and patient, and will happily enter into even blogging at length about depressing subjects, if that’s what you feel you need. (shoutout to my blogging friends for putting up with my own grief-processing via my rambling meditations/memoirs, ha).
    And finally, I wanted to say thanks. As much as I just rambled in attempts to share with you what I have learned, I also found what you wrote above to be beautiful, and right on the mark. I…really appreciate that. So thank you.
    God bless you, Sarah! I will keep you and your family in my prayers. And my apologies for the behemoth comment. In case you can’t tell, this quite touched me and was serious food for thought, ha.

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  6. “For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”
    – Romans 8:18
    Fight on, sister. You’re in our prayers.💕

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  7. I’m not sure what to say exactly…only that I am so sorry for your loss. 💔
    And I’m grateful for your honesty and your willingness to talk about hard things. Your words have encouraged me so much today. Thank you.
    //
    “There is goodness in the world, and mercy, and beauty, and grace, there is a lifetime of little blessings left to be found. This darkness seems eternal, but it will not steal my hope.”
    I’ve been holding onto this truth in recent hard days…you’ve said it so beautifully. Thanks again. ❤️

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  8. These are truly beautiful words. God is using your gift—for Him, for others, and for you—even in your pain. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with us! Praying for you.

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  9. We welcome you back with arms ready for hugs and words ready to make an attempt at comfort.
    You’re brave, Sarah. Darn brave.
    I’m so glad you’re going to still laugh and write and blog and draw the humor out of this world. I think your grandma is too. ❤️

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  10. Welcome back, Sarah ❤️ “Even in this, He has victory” is so much of what life is, the joy in the pain, and I pray your joy will stay strong and keep growing. Thank you for sharing this with us.
    And we will wait for you. 🙂

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  14. I am so sorry, Sarah! But thank you for sharing all of this, it was beautiful. And I am so, so glad you’re back. I love hearing from you, and your blog has brought humor and light into some really tough days. (And I’m really excited to read Aeterna, and have really enjoyed reading the little snippets of it you’ve put in some of your blog posts. Your characters are just amazing.) I am praying for you!

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  16. I am crying tears of bittersweet sorrow—bittersweet because I am both so heartbroken and so grateful that you were able to express the pain this way, that you understand grief and all it’s second-guessingness and agony and not knowing what to do or how to do it. I love you, Sarah. May you always feel loved in the midst of every emotion on this journey. 💕

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  17. So sorry that I’m only getting around to reading this now, but let me tell you, your thoughts *moved* me. You sound like you were a similar teenager to me, grasping for joy in every moment, striving to make it a habit. It was a good fight, it still is. Having lost my grandfather over Easter, the second grandparent to go home around that season, hearing about your grandmother only made me think of that. My feelings are very similar, and it’s been a journey to heal from it.
    But please know that your presence on other social media has not gone unnoticed! I’m always delighted to see your reels and your stories on my Instagram and get that little feeling of !! *It’s my girl!* !! It always brightens my day. Your return has more weight than you realize, and even in your absence you were never inactive, and I’m glad to see that. Don’t worry about weight, you could crush a star with all that importance.

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  18. I’ve been thinking about this post a lot and unable to properly comment. I don’t know what to say. So I will say thank you for returning, thank you for writing out words that reach me and make me mourn and hope, and I’ll read your blog no matter what or how often you post. Thank you, Sarah. : )

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