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There is a memory forever etched into my mind
of a particular drive home one rainy night in August of 2021.
That evening, I was visiting my coworkers at the gym where I coach gymnastics. As I began the twenty-minute commute home, a smile lingered on my face as I registered how dearly I had missed both this job and these people while I had been away for the summer.
After ten weeks of camp ministry alongside the best servant-leaders I know, my body and mind had been aching for the adventure to come to a close. This was true even if that departure meant jumping right back onto the crazy-train of both teaching third grade and coaching gymnastics.
The delighted readiness in my chest was like that feeling you get when you’re arriving home from an enjoyable but exhausting vacation. You know, when you’re anticipating the comfort of your beloved, albeit similarly chaotic, haven you call home.
I
was coming
home.
Well, my home away from home, at least. (Sorry Mom.)
Driving along the familiar road that I did not expect to bring such nostalgia and comfort, my fingers wrapped the leather of the steering wheel.
My palms welcomed the subtle rumble of the rubber tires on pavement. Although the rain fell softly, lightning danced overhead like summer fireworks. My “Night Vibes” playlist resounded satisfyingly through the speakers of my new 2018 Ford Fusion. The pleasant aroma of strawberry lemonade emanating from the dash topped off the cozy ambiance.
As I took in the spectacle of white roots that flashed across the sky, in this exact moment,
I felt joy.
And then, like an unexpected first drop of rain on your face before a storm,
a thought
jumped out at me.
By no exaggeration,
it came within the same breath and heartbeat during which I realized how blissful this scene was as it played out around me.
Not only did the thought surprise me, but the heaviness of the emotion behind it was particularly jarring:
“My heart is so sad.”
Most people who know me also know that I’m…a “wordy” person.
Evaluations from any job I’ve ever worked have always boiled down to the same enlightening feedback:
“Use. Fewer. Words!”
I’ve been working on that for over seven years and yet here we are, with you probably thinking the same thing as you’re reading this. I guess I’m a slow learner…
At any given moment, my brain is running at a thousand miles an hour with SO many words. I even “feel in words” in the sense that I talk about my emotions more than I am able to actually feel them.
This year, I’ve been…“feeling” my way through something that’s been impossibly challenging to put into words.
However, “polyphony” (puh-LIFF-uh-NEE)
is a word
that has stuck with me.
In “polyphonic music,” two or more independent melodies are played simultaneously, each one distinct in its own rhythm.
In a way, each underlying statement seems to tell its own story, but they also overlap to form a larger narrative. True polyphony can feel chaotic, but it all comes together in a mesmerizing sound when expertly composed and performed.
I’m learning
that grief
is a lot like polyphony.
At the time of writing this, almost six months have passed since my sister Sarah was hit and killed by a reckless driver, three weeks after her college graduation.
In grief, it is as if there are at least two coinciding tunes reverberating from within one’s soul:
one of pain and sadness,
and the other
of joy and peace.
This includes, of course, the range of emotions that might accompany any person’s unique experience with grief.
Now, humor me with this analogy. If it sounds clunky, or if it sounds like a bit of a stretch, stick with me. It might make sense eventually. Maybe.
Anyway, sometimes they harmonize with each other, these emotional movements in the polyphony of our heart’s song. They might even parallel one another during certain refrains. By contrast, in the liveliest sections of the piece it seems as if they are in opposition. Intermittently, one strain comes through louder than the other. Occasionally there are rests in one, and the alternative steals the spotlight for a moment. Now and then, one is more erratic, while its complement drifts along more steadily. The listener’s ears might struggle to hear the entire composition and instead vacillate between the tag-team of motifs, but
this does not change the fact that both melodies are still in motion.
Something one of my third graders said this week made me laugh.
We were watching the Pixar movie “Inside Out.” If you’re not familiar with the film, it personifies everyone’s temperament and mood with their own little team of characters in their head, who each represent one of the core emotions.
At one point, a spirited boy named Jeremiah said, “Oo, I’m the red one!” (The red one is Anger.) I laughed and tried to explain to him how we have “the whole team” in our heads. Despite my good intentions toward this light-hearted teachable moment, I don’t think I changed his mind.
Later on, however, I realized that his naiveté about emotions isn’t far off from the black-and-white versions we sometimes perceive when we reflect on our own journeys through life. This is true especially when it comes to the treacherous portions of our odyssey that bring suffering to our traveler souls.
Am I supposed to be sad all the time?
Angry?
Hurt?
Is it wrong for me to ever feel happy?
If I give any space for the actual weight of the pain and grief just under the surface,
won’t it shatter me?
I guess that’s why this analogy of grief and polyphony is meaningful to me.
Because now I understand that all of the emotions will, or rather they must, play their tune.
It’s easy sometimes to find ourselves overwhelmed by such a complex symphony
in our heads
and in our hearts.
The internal commentary covering our daily performance for the masses might sound something akin to this:
“Am I playing this part right?”
“Am I in tune right now?”
“Do they like what they hear?”
To bring all of this metaphor talk a bit closer to home, perhaps these words strike a chord:
“Don’t ask me why I feel this way. To be honest, it’s taxing to sort out what I am feeling. I feel like I don’t even recognize myself right now. Am I still me? What am I even supposed to feel, anyway? Can someone please just tell me what I’m supposed to do? This is all too much, and I feel like I can’t get any of it right!”
When we slip into this headspace, we have misperceived or at least forgotten what our role really is.
Some things we can control. Some things we can make happen. Other matters in life are simply things that happen to us.
To be clear, I’m not dismissing the legitimate obligations we have in the labor of heart-work. Yes, we should seek to grow as individuals. The same goes for allowing others to help us. Certainly, it’s critical to refrain from passive complacency or total resignation.
However, when we find ourselves in the valley, I invite that we do retire from the exhausting process of creating what we think is supposed to be the “right response” of our heart.
We might find
that the peace we so desperately pursue
already awaits us
if we just slow down enough to actually receive it.
And we can receive it
by making space
for anything
and everything
that needs room to be
and to breathe.
On occasion, “making space” does require an active and focused effort to unpack baggage. More often, however, we must remember that we are human beings, not human doings.
Let the joy come.
Let the sadness come.
Let them dance with each other.
Let them do their own wild thing apart from each other.
Just observe.
Dare to embrace.
Thankfully, when it comes to grief and the trials of life, we are not responsible as neither the composer nor the conductor.
We don’t even have to be on stage.
We hold
an invitation
to exist
as merely members of the audience.
The only thing we can control
is how we respond to the music.
So sit back.
Take it all in.
Accept
every note, every silence, every rhythm, and every refrain
in the polyphony
of your life.
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