Grace for Childlike Grief
Recognizing my own referred grief over the absence of my best friend prompted me to consider how I might comfort a child experiencing something similar. How might I mother myself through my grief?
Guest article by Karli Von Herbulis
The realization stopped me in my tracks. I was meandering through the park in the chill
of the morning, sunrise colors still lingering over the tree line as birds stretched their vocal cords in waking—my favorite slow way to greet the day. But amid this sleepy gentleness, the adrenaline coursing through my veins told a different story. It was as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes, revealing a blindingly bright moment of truth. It was all about my grief. Every part of it.
——
The summer of 2022 saw me wave a tearful goodbye to many people I had come to count as family. We had done life in Rwanda together for over six years, and I had always envisioned us leaving together. Wouldn’t that be easier? Could we please plan for that? Yet, as each discerned it was their time to exit and move on, my husband and I felt a persistent peace that we were to remain. And so, we faithfully helped family after family, friend after friend, pack their bags and sell their belongings, and whisked them off to the airport to begin their new lives—while we stayed.
In addition to this unrelenting social upheaval, the new school year brought a huge shift for our family. We’d been homeschooling for a few years but decided to enroll the kids in a nearby international school’s homeschool partner program. Friends! Specials! Kid-free time for me!
Or…not.
While the partner program has been a welcome addition to our kids’ social lives and has been an answer to prayer in multiple ways, it has logistically turned my life upside down. After years of having my afternoons to myself for counseling, writing, self-care, shopping, and socializing, I was suddenly thrust into a completely different lifestyle of chauffeuring my children to and fro with barely a moment of solitude. I had optimistically thought the busyness might help distract me from all the changes in my life, but instead, I was drowning trying to figure out the logistics of how on earth I was going to have time to make my life happen. When could I go to counseling? When would I eat lunch? At what point was I supposed to make dinner? Was exercise even a possibility? Working and writing weren’t even close to being on the table. What was meant to be a pleasant distraction felt stiflingly heavy as it all played out. I felt myself shutting down.
——
As I walked the quiet, misty paths of the park that morning, careful to watch my step for fire ants and stealthy chameleons, I vented away in a lengthy voicemail to my best friend, who had left just a few weeks before. I had been so proud of myself for “giving myself time to grieve her exit,” as I told my counselor, “so I could move forward healthily.” And yet, I was hearing myself having a complete breakdown to my friend over my inability to make a lunch date with anyone because of my new schedule. What was going on? Though she was sleeping half a world away, I cried to her. “I don’t know how to make new friends if I can’t meet anyone for lunch!”
And with that exclamation, in a moment of divine clarity, it all snapped together. My preoccupation with not being able to have a lunch date wasn’t about the schedule at all. It was grief. It was all about grief.
You see, lunch dates had been our thing. We’d go through seasons where one day of the week was our sacred lunch day, reserved for the venting and gentle accountability and swapping business and branding ideas we both craved. In busier times, we would make a point to try new restaurants that had popped up around Kigali, writing mental reviews and sharing insights with our friends on Instagram. Sometimes we called an emergency meeting of The Bougie Lunch Club, which meant going somewhere fancy for lunch and spending more money than we probably should’ve in the name of self-care.
Lunch dates were our thing. And now, they couldn’t be.
——
“Uh, is there such a thing as referred grief,” I heard myself shakily ask into the phone after a few moments pause, realizing I was still leaving the never-ending voice note for my sleeping lunch buddy. “You know, like referred pain? Where you feel pain in a part of your body, but the injury is actually elsewhere? But like, an emotional referred pain? I think that might be what I’m dealing with.” My thoughts came out half-formed, words stumbling, but the burgeoning idea had somehow both awakened my spirit with a jolt and soothed my heart like a balm. Everything made sense.
When children go through transitions or grieve something difficult, they usually don’t come right out and say, “I am sad about this specific thing I am going through.” Instead, the grief manifests itself in many different, sometimes seemingly random, and unrelated ways. Children are likely going to have a hard time sharing their toys or having people in their space. They may refuse to eat dinner, or resist things that feel new or different. They exercise what little control they have over their lives, often at inopportune times. They may break down into tears more easily or for seemingly no reason at all. Anger could even be their default. Or silence. Or withdrawal.
“They are having a hard time,” we say. “A lot of big feelings.” Sound familiar?
But how do we handle the grief of our children? Do we put them on a timeline? Expect them to be okay by a certain date, and then be all healed up and ready to tackle the next adventure? Ask them to compartmentalize and emote only when it’s convenient for everyone?
Of course not.
We are gentle and understanding with our children’s grief. We know the fallout will encompass much more than just the relationship or situation specifically. We know it can manifest in many different, sometimes even peculiar ways. We expect there will be good days and bad ones. We give it no timeline, and we don’t rush them through. We provide them the tools they need, we equip ourselves to handle however their grief decides to come out on any given day, and we move through it together. We are generous with our excuses for them and gracious with our words. Recognizing my own referred grief over the absence of my best friend prompted me to consider how I might comfort a child experiencing something similar. How might I mother myself through my grief?
I’m asking myself:
Where can I be more gentle?
Am I expecting too much of myself, others, or certain situations right now?
How can I allow my body and brain to rest and heal?
Am I working to process my grief well, with a professional if appropriate?
What tools are needed to support my life right now, even if just for a season?
Who can I share this grief with, to be a listening ear and an understanding presence?
Have I placed a timeline on my grief? How can I work to remove this?
Do I need a break?
Am I okay today?
Perhaps, if there is a reward for childlike faith, we can make space for childlike grief as well. When Jesus tells the disciples to “let the little children come,” He doesn’t qualify their emotional state.
His grace abounds for them, just as it does for us, even in our messy grief.
So, as we move through this season, may we be gentle and understanding with our grief.
May we know the fallout will encompass much more than just the relationship or situation specifically.
May we be ready for grief to manifest in many different, sometimes even peculiar ways, and patient with ourselves when it does.
May we expect there to be good days and bad ones.
May we give grief no timeline, and not rush ourselves through.
May we provide ourselves the tools we need, and equip ourselves to handle however our grief decides to come out on any given day, and we move through it with tenderness and self-compassion.
May we be generous with our excuses for ourselves and gracious with our words.
And may we lean fully on Christ, as we grieve fully what we have lost, and look forward to the journey ahead.
This guest article was written by Karli VonHerbulis. She’s a wife, mother, writer, and host of the Third Culture Thriving Podcast. She and her family live in Kigali, Rwanda, where they homeschool, work with rural farmers, and run a popular ecotourism destination. You can catch Karli getting up before the sun, throwing themed parties, making lists, reading all the books, and pointing out cool birds.