I had another post lined up this week. But grief never plays by the rules.
Grief, when you’re in it, feels like an endless swamp, a thing you couldn’t possibly muddle your way through.
But when you’re near grief? When you have a degree or two of separation from it? It makes everything more crisp. Clearer, in a way. It brings your focus to what matters most.
Our little South Carolina town — along with Clemson fans everywhere — is a degree of separation away from grief right now. One of our current football players lost his 15-year-old sister to brain cancer yesterday. It sucked the breath right from my lungs when I saw his post on Instagram. And here’s the thing about small towns: it matters to everyone. I went to a hair appointment, and the entire salon was teary-eyed. I heard other tables at lunch, talking about how to support this family who’s enduring unspeakable loss.
Death is a thief. And when you’re the one robbed, it’s a weight you feel like you’ll never shake. Lately, I’ve watched too many people I love be robbed in this way. It has me thinking, soberly and seriously, about what we should do — those of us a degree away, those who are suddenly, unexpectedly focused on what matters because we’re bearing witness to something awful. When grief strikes near me, here’s what I’m learning to do.
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