Taking out the trash reminded me how transition and grief are messy and complicated
I move four dusty pink vases, two glass candy dishes, and an old cigar box off the brown microwave cart. I check the drawer and cabinet. Empty. Some of the many things I find are going inside to be packed and donated to Goodwill and charities that fund their work with unneeded and unwanted items. Other things — the broken, damaged, molded, and rusted things — will remain in the garage on their way to a final resting place in a dumpster. And yes, likely a landfill. This makes me uneasy.
Meanwhile, I’ve learned I can place five “bulky items“ at the street for each weekly garbage pick up. So I begin slowly rolling the brown microwave toward the door. It goes easily enough at first. But when I get to the driveway’s first serious bump, the cart stops suddenly and tips a little. I look down to see a wheel and a triangle of pressed board on the ground beside the cart. As I try to steady the whole contraption, the top half of the cart comes off in my hands.
Balancing the cart on three wheels, I carefully match up the pegs and holes to reattach the top. The June sun is beating down on me. I’m sweating profusely and hoping I can make it the final 15 yards to the end of the driveway. I plan to park the cart next to a 40-year-old mattress and box springs from the twin bed I slept on for half of my childhood. As I continue to hold the cart together and roll it gingerly toward the street, doors fly open, it lurches sideways, and I fear another wheel is about to go.
One person’s trash…
I finally deposit the cart in the grass next to the street. I make another trip to the garage, and I carry down a dilapidated workbench. Every single board on it is broken, all the metal is rusting, and every joint is loose as a five-year-old’s baby tooth. Finally I add to the collection an adjustable office chair that no longer adjusts with a back support that hangs sideways no longer supports. I prop everything up neatly as the pictures demonstrate on the waste management website. Then I maneuver the full and heavy trashcan down to the street, making sure it is four feet away from the bulky items, so the garbage truck can lift and dump it in the morning.
By seven the next morning, the broken chair and rusted work bench are gone. I am reminded that one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. And vice versa. I think, “they are going to be so disappointed.” Then I replace the items with a collapsing wicker lamp and a metal box the function of which I cannot determine.
Layers of transition
In the last three months I have been consumed by unearthing treasures and taking out the trash. These tasks are just two layers of multi-pronged transitions and crises in my family presently. Sorting through, distributing, rearranging, and letting go can be overwhelming (to understate the situation).
With crises and transitions come loss and grief. My sadness and frustration have also been punctuated by laughter arising out of both absurdity and joy. It’s not all dragging broken things down the driveway.
Nevertheless, letting go of things can be hard. Each decision it’s own challenge. Things wobble and fall apart emotionally as well as physically. At some point in my childhood, I was attached to many of these things, and they stir up a swirl of memories.
I am exhausted by the demanding and emotional work of transition. And I feel the ripple effects of loss and grief. I am weary from making decisions more numerous than sands on the beach (a place I fantasize about going). But I also draw strength from help I am receiving. I am so glad to not be doing this alone.
I’ll take the pictures. You sell the furniture on Facebook. I’ll supervise the packing of dishes and glassware. You pay the bills and track the accounts. I’ll take this load to the antique dealer. You take that load to the dump. These books to McKays. Those bags of clothes to Goodwill. On and on it goes.
First world problems and everyday realities
To some degree having decisions to make, and treasures and trash to sort through are all first world problems. Yet they are part and parcel of the lives we live, and not something we can simply ignore. My brother, my husband, and I are part of the large current generation of adults who are working, caring for children, teens and young adults, and also looking after our aging parents. We spend a lot of our energy and time helping everyone in our lives with big transitions.
Even the best transitions (graduation, new jobs, new schools, and moving to new places) create challenges and stress. They come with losses as well as gains. Those losses are easy to ignore until you hit a bump in the driveway and everything you are holding onto seems to fall apart in your hands.
Four years after the start of a global pandemic, we have still not collectively found ways to cope with our losses. That unattended grief amplifies the challenges of everyday losses and transitions. Young people are in trouble with their mental and emotional health and grasping for a sense of hope. So many of them are struggling. Our elders are suffering with decision overload, declining health, and managing many end-of-life decisions.
Each of these transitions and griefs also run like a river through your congregation or faith group.
What have you noticed about grief among the people in your care?
Questions about transition and grief
If you are reading this and you are a minister, chaplain, religious educator, seminary professor, or engaged church leader, I invite you to consider these questions:
- How am I supporting people in my faith community through their grief? Who might I call, text or visit today?
* What rituals and deliberate work of pastoral care are we doing to attend to loss and grief? What upcoming services are fitting places to sing, pray, name, and honor our losses and grief?
- What rituals and attentions to grief are needed in this new era of ministry?
How many losses since 2020 remain unnamed and unprocessed? Concrete and measurable losses, ambiguous losses, vocational grief, and losses that don’t even have a name. Although griefwork may not sound pleasant or inviting, it is the work of ministry.
Attending to what we have lost and what we are grieving is essential. We can’t force new dreams and hopes or make new plans for renewal, if we are unwilling to address what has passed away. I invite you to take a little time this week to think about how to address loss and grief with your community of faith.
And while you are at it, ask yourself… How and with whom am I naming and processing my own grief?
