Sorrow is Joy's Open Hand

I am not afraid to be swallowed by the chasm beneath me… For, after all, what is it we call that? A “natural disaster,” yes? How natural— that I endure the aching in my red, quivering, animal heart.

Aug 06, 2024

A butterfly flutters away from an open hand, moments after we consecrated the ground in which Ezra’s body will rest.

At the time of this writing, it has now been three weeks… Three weeks since the unexpected and heartrending death of our beloved Ezra, my cousin Amber’s son. As I sit here typing this, my eyes continually glance up at the wreath lovingly crafted by his grandmother— my mother’s sister. It is laden with the objects of Ezra’s earthly delight: mini plastic trucks & construction vehicles; Lego blocks; berries. I notice my heart pounding and begging to spill over with tears, as I approach the necessary ritual of conveying seemingly inexplicable feelings through words.

In the surreal, sacred, and otherworldly period immediately following his death, my cousin and I sat at her kitchen table. The table at which— countless times— Ezra had cheekily smiled at me over an array of food, or coaxed his sisters & parents into uncontrollable laughter. On a solemn and broken night, Amber & I sat within this incomprehensible shadow.

Wary of attempting to “fix” or persuade her out of it, and wholeheartedly endeavoring to dwell amidst this Valley with her, I shared a saying, “Sorrow is Joy’s open hand.” I remember her eyebrows rising and her hushed exclamation, “I love that. I want that up on my wall.”

In times when I have felt buried beneath crushing weights of despair, this saying has flown to join me there— and most importantly, empowered me to give it all up. “Sorrow is Joy’s open hand.” If this personified being of “Joy,” were to have hands, surely the hands must open to give way to Sorrow. Surely these two are companioned, they are in a holy Union, and there cannot be one without the other.

My aunt, Leslie, tenderly hanging Ezra’s wreath at his funeral service.

An open hand signals surrender, an offering of peace

Surrender has been a frequent topic of conversation in the last three weeks. In alignment with our family’s faith, we continually ask ourselves & each other not, “What would Jesus do?” but, “What DID Jesus do?” Within the stories recounting His night in the Garden of Gethsemane, we who strive to follow His example are gifted a strong model for surrender. The following is an excerpt from a letter I wrote to my precious cousin a few weeks ago:

“I think of Christ’s hands, laying open upon His bended knees in the Garden. In His perfect knowledge, He must have foreseen Their pierced and bleeding state. Staring this horrific torture in the face, He called to His wise and loving Father, ‘If it be possible, let this cup pass from me: nevertheless not as I will, but as thou wilt.’1

From this beaten and surrendered place, with His face lain in the dirt, did Christ model for us this perfect and devastating trust in God’s will. Even while knowing that it would bring immeasurable pain and terrible anguish, our Brother Jesus Christ made the choice to surrender His will.”

We cannot fake surrender

It simply resides in us or it doesn’t— we simply act according to its influence or we don’t. In the hallowed halls of this agonizing loss, I have been humbled again and again to witness the acts of surrender from my family and those who love us. Hundreds of God’s beloved children traveled from far and wide to “weep with [us] that weep.”2 People sacrificing their time and pouring love into our sadness. Children and adults alike, communing with Joy & laughter— amidst the deepest Sorrow.

Beloved friend, Emma, reminiscing with my dear aunt & uncle.

In my own heart, I have noticed a softening unlike anything I have known. I continually practice a gesture taught to me by a 12 Step “old-timer.” Facing my palms to the floor, I embrace all that I am clinging so desperately to. Turning my heart toward God, and my hands up to the sky, I offer it all up— again and again. This physical “mantra,” has led me to a familiar sensation: I feel no fear when encountering the immensity of this grief.

“Come unto Me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

Our souls came here to experience this very Valley— together

As painful a pill it has been to swallow— as mind-splitting and reality shifting it is to experience— I, and many members of my family, believe that our souls chose these trials before embarking on this mortal journey. My heart has felt unfathomably shattered to remember this… “How could this have been the plan, God?”

But I know, deep in my bones, that not only did my family choose one another’s souls to journey with— but we knew this tragedy would occur. Sinking into this gnosis, I feel freedom from the fear of facing it.

I am not afraid to feel my heart shatter over and over again. I am not afraid to be swallowed whole by the mighty chasm beneath me… to traverse the Underworld yet again. For, after all, what is it we call that? A “natural disaster,” yes?

How natural— that I should be motivated to face my own grief and that of my beloveds with tenderness. How natural, that I should endure the aching in my red, quivering, animal heart.

I have a sense that before I came to this body, my spirit craved it. My soul yearned to fulfill its own destiny of wailing back into Source.

When I recall a favorite poem, its question of, “how can a body withstand this?”3 My heart responds, “isn’t that what I came here to find out?”

Just some of the rocks our family painted, which will be laid around Ezra’s grave.

A chair for our Grief

The sensation I feel in the absence of fear is welcome. Since I am not scared of our grief, I welcome it with open arms— and a chair set aside for its repose. Atop this chair our Grief sits: an amalgamation of all the Joy, Sorrow, tenderly-held memories, and heartbreaking love.

I imagine this creature staring down, at open palms, relieved to finally be offered a place to rest. Between its palms pass Grief’s own inner parts of Joy & Sorrow— and Grief is at peace, knowing that both have been allowed to exist.