I had a revelation in the dairy aisle recently

I had a revelation in the dairy aisle recently.  With my oldest son away at college, there was no one left at home to buy cheese for.  I loved his habit of fixing himself a grilled cheese sandwich every day after school and I often joined him in the kitchen to catch up and hear about his day.  No one else in the family really makes grilled cheeses, so I find myself with one less item on my grocery list and a little extra room in the fridge.

I’ve been surprised at the depth of emotion brought on by that empty space in the refrigerator.  I feel a mix of emotion including sadness, uncertainty, and even a little relief.  I like my lower grocery bill, but I miss his energy and vibrancy (and even his dirty dishes?) in the kitchen.  I’m happy he’s launched from our nest but I wonder if I left important things unsaid or passed along all the parental wisdom I could have.  It’s a complex stew of feelings for something as seemingly trivial as an empty cheese drawer.

Whether a new space in your home or life is anticipated and planned for or it’s the result of an unexpected turn of events, the loss and grief that arise are worthy of attention.  It is tempting to minimize or pass over some personal grievances.  I think we are all better served, however, by slowing the pace and taking time to consider loss.  In an interview with Anderson Cooper, author Francis Weller says that “if we don’t address our griefs, our personal griefs, our hearts close.”  Our capacity to experience the full range of human emotion is limited when we deny ourselves time to grieve. Weller likens our ability to experience emotion to an aperture.  Refusing to acknowledge sorrow narrows the aperture and therefore affects our ability to experience other emotions as well.  To expand our experience of joy and other positive emotions, we must be willing to let the hard ones enter as well.   We cannot be whole-hearted without sorrow.

We must allow ourselves time to consider loss, to sink in and explore the depth of it rather than speeding through as if waterskiing along the surface of a lake.  I find myself resistant to this.  I’d rather dream up some new possibilities, minimize and normalize loss or rush the process as if there’s a finish line to cross.  It’s more fun to dream up what I might now fill the fridge with rather than grieving its emptiness.  Even with clients I have to check my urges to reframe events in a positive light and push for resolution.

I’ve noticed that something surprising happens when I’m able to resist rushing through loss, and of course I can see it in others before I see it in myself.  A colleague mentioned that he’d started humming to himself again recently. “I’m not sure what it means, but it is something.”  My client who is facing new spaces in her home and life in the wake of a change noticed she’s started playing a game from childhood in her head “I haven’t thought of that game in years.  Where did that come from?”  Playfulness, creativity seems to spring up as they engage the open space left behind in the wake of a loss.

A time will come when I’m ready to engage my own question of what to do with the empty space in my refrigerator.  But before I head to Trader Joe’s with Pinterest recipes and a shopping list, I want to pause here and sit in this space.  I want to pay attention to how I feel about it and what rises up inside of me. Is there a new thing happening? Some creativity I want to nourish and pay attention to?

I came across a ridiculous knitting pattern for an “Emotional Support Chicken.”  I learned to knit when I was young but it’s been years since I picked up a project.  But something about the knitted, stuffed chicken seemed like just the right thing, and I know I need the emotional support.  So, I downloaded the pattern and found what I needed in my stash of knitting supplies.  It’s been the perfect way to stay present with my mix of emotions in this season.  I have to literally sit still to work on the piece, but it’s not so complicated that my mind cannot wander.  The slow process of watching the bird take shape out of a tangle of yarn and needles feels like a parable for how God could order the tangle of my emotions and make something lovely out of it.  He could knit together my sorrow and joy to fill the empty spaces.

Caroline Chambers joined The Barnabas Center in 2020.  She earned her undergraduate degree at Wake Forest University and a Master’s in Counseling at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary in Massachusetts in 2002. Since then, she’s worked with clients and families throughout the life span from early education to end-of-life issues and has recently taken additional coursework in counseling and theology at the Gordon-Conwell campus in Charlotte. She lives with her husband, Matt, and their three children.  Over the years, Caroline has been blessed by being part of many different faith communities, leading and participating in women’s Bible studies and Spiritual Formation groups.  She also enjoys running, yoga, and a good novel.