Shalom

Today I really liked our sessions.

We talked about dealing with stress and grief.

It was awesome because Carla asked us what we were grieving, what losses have we experienced in coming over here?

We talked over some of the general things—losing familiarity, relationships, family, security—but it was great because I began to understand there are other things I’m grieving, and that’s OK.

(Now, you may be thinking, Andi, you’ve been there for two stupid weeks. What the heck are you grieving? But you try it and let me know how it goes.)

I’m grieving the loss of information and communication. I’m in a place I know nothing about and there’s no handbook; there’s no googling for telephone numbers or information; heck, there’s no telephone. Things that were so simple at home involve much orchestrating here. It’s tied a lot to independence—I’m grieving that some, too.

I’m grieving having a place to call my own—my home—and being settled.

I’m grieving baseball. Watching the Cubs play on Sunday afternoons after church. Having friends who know the game, know my team, know the status of our All-Rehab Team pitchers. Playing catch barefoot on the quad. I know that sounds silly, but it’s familiar, it’s comfortable for me and it’s tied to all sorts of memories and feelings. And no one knows or cares anything about it here.

Carla had us write down on stick-it notes all those things we were grieving and stick the notes up on the wall, sort of symbolizing giving them over to God.

What she didn’t plan for was that they were Kenyan stick-its, so they were a little ghetto and, as she continued to talk, we watched them fall from the wall, one by one.

It was the perfect thing, watching those things fall. They fell like leaves in the fall, which did a lot to remind me that this is a season—grief has a season—and it will eventually change.