Even the Vines Weep
It was a beautiful, unseasonably warm day in the middle of January 2021. My heart was heavy, and I was doing what I often do when my heart is heavy… I was driving around wine country in my fun car. I don’t know if it’s the hum of my convertible or the beauty of the vineyards (or both) that soothes my soul, but it works for me. Passing A. Rafanelli on the left, I turned on Wine Creek Road and wound my way along the not-quite-large-enough for two vehicles road until I came to Michel Schlumberger. I love their Spanish colonial design and French-style wines. Maybe I was drawn there because the architecture reminds me of my Guatemalan roots, I don’t know. I didn’t even go in for a tasting, but I drank in the beauty for a moment, then turned around, heading back along Wine Creek Road towards Mounts.
Right about then, my dear friend, Beth, called to check in on my heart, so I pulled off the road and stopped the engine to be fully present to the conversation. Among other things, we dove deep into the pain of missing my daughter and grandkids who had moved far away. Then, we talked about Cindy, my developmentally delayed sister with many underlying health issues, who had COVID and was all alone in a hospital in Arizona where no one could visit. I really didn’t know how much more I could take, but I tried to draw strength from her empathy and the beauty of the vineyard around me.
After we said goodbye I sat in silence, wrapped in prayer, for a few minutes on the side of the road. That’s when I became aware of a soft sound. Something like rain, but not loud enough to be rain. Plus, the sky was clear blue, so it couldn’t have been raining. I got out of the car and crossed the narrow road to investigate. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Every vine as far as I could see in the vineyard was weeping. Out of every point of pruning, tiny droplets were forming and dripping to the ground. The quiet drip… drip… drip…. filled my soul and my own tears began to flow in sadness and in awe. It was as if God had ordered the vineyard to weep with me in that moment.
The weeping of the vines is a paradox.
On the one hand, the vine is joyfully pushing water up from the roots to the branches testing the newly formed xylem system of straw-like cells in preparation for new spring growth. On the other hand, the nutrient-rich sap leaves the vine through the cuts of pruning, dropping to the ground like tears, and healing the wound in the process.
In the same way, grief is a paradox. We sink into grief during times of loss and pain. The deeper the loss or the more difficult the pain, the deeper and longer the grief. But we must endure and even embrace the grief because it clears the pathway for the next season of joy and flourishing. We can’t try to skip over or shortchange the grieving process, even if it’s long. We must let grief have its way, and one day the wounds will begin to heal, and the new buds will break.
Hope and grief are intertwined, even symbiotic.
In some ways hope is a container in which grief is allowed to exist, and in other ways hope grows out of the soil of grief.
In my last post, I suggested three movements to help us hang on to hope during times of loss and grief.
Pause – stop, rest, observe… and let the chaos of grief settle into more clarity.
Protect – guard your mind and heart from believing this current state of loss or grief is permanent or pervasive.
Persist – Keep going. Hope is developed through adversity.
I made a note with these three words and have it sitting on my desk as a helpful reminder to practice these movements during times of overwhelm and loss. It seems our world is swirling with trauma and loss—the grief is palpable — but we can move through grief to hope.
“Trauma leaves us feeling stuck but grief has the power to move us.” (Megan Fate Marshman)
“Maybe during this season, we could plant our whole community in a container of hope and weep together, like the vines in a vineyard.”
My sister died a month later—complications from COVID—and it wrecked me. I still miss her cheerful, daily text, “GM I love you,” but allowing grief to pour out of my soul somehow healed the acute wound and supported the new growth of hope.
On Wednesday, February 26, at 4 p.m. Pacific we’ll gather online to consider the wisdom and the hope embedded in a winter vineyard. RSVP below.
With you on the journey of grief… and hope…
Susie
P.S. Starting March 5, we will be sending out daily readings for the season of Lent. Whether you have observed Lent for many years or you are just curious about Lent, I’d love for you to sign up and follow along.