Ave Explores Series | Stress, Anxiety, and Mental Health | Week 3
Learning from Our Lady to Live with Grief
by Mary Lenaburg
At 1:51 a.m. on December 27, 2014, my beautiful, twenty-two year old daughter Courtney took her last breath on earth. After a lifetime of daily seizures that led to profound disabilities and a myriad of other health issues, she had finished her race, and God decided it was time for her to come home. She was at peace and finally in the arms of her beloved Jesus.
In one breath, my world came apart. Nothing looked or sounded the same. In an instant, my husband, son, and I were completely overwhelmed by our grief for this beautiful soul who had been such a huge part of our world. Courtney was the heart of our home and the sun in our universe. Everything moved around her and what her needs were for any given day. For twenty-two years that’s how our family worked.
Until it didn’t.
In the beginning, the depth of my grief was so consuming I struggled to function in my daily life. The tears were constant and my body felt like I had been beaten up. I couldn’t sleep. I had no appetite. I tried to control the mental and emotional pain and the negative spiritual narrative that was on repeat in my head, but I failed time and time again. I was mad at God for taking her and leaving me behind. I was lost and had no idea where to turn.
As a faithful Catholic, I was relieved for my daughter that her suffering was over and that she was safely home. But I was still here. I could not imagine how I was supposed to move through this hellish valley. All I felt was pain, and I didn’t have any idea how I was going to survive it all.
I went to a grief support group once. I felt the weight of every parent’s grief in that room. I didn’t get out of bed for three days afterward. I spoke with a grief counselor but found it to be too traumatic to relive the details of my daughter’s death or expose my pain with someone I did not know well. I knew I had to find another way to cope
When you love so deeply, the grief of that loss is deeper still. Grief is fickle and unpredictable. It felt like I had stepped on a bear trap in the middle of the woods. There was instant, intense physical pain, emotional fear, and the feeling that everything was lost. There was panic and then exhaustion—rinse, repeat; rinse repeat.
I found that church was one of the few places where I felt some respite from the weight of my grief. About three months after Courtney’s death, I was at Mass and the choir sang Hail Mary, Gentle Woman, which happened to be the song I most often sang to my daughter during times of distress. I looked up and my eyes settled on our parish’s reproduction of the Pieta in a side chapel. I could not take my eyes from Our Lady. The look on her face was complete peace.
I wanted that peace.
I realized that I could not escape the pain of Courtney’s death. Our Lady did not escape the pain of her Son’s death; she stood faithfully by his side and loved him all the way through. She trusted God’s plan for her life and never questioned. It was not an easy road, but she walked in faith and complete peace that all would be well. She said “yes” time and time again: in the garden, on the day of his birth, at the Wedding of Cana, and, finally, at the foot of the Cross.
Our Lady did not despair. She clung to the hope of the Resurrection and the promise of an eternity spent with God. She kept her eyes toward heaven and the joy and peace waiting for us there.
In that moment, I had my answer. I had to give my own fiat. I had to choose hope for myself just as she had.
My perspective changed that day. When the grief came, I would sit in that pain, allow it to penetrate every part of me, and slowly learn to breathe around it. Eventually, the pain of remaining in that space was greater than the thought of pushing through it and choosing to live a full life again. I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel and I realized that it was my choice to either sit in pain or walk toward love.
I had to walk through it to let go of what I thought would be and accept what was. I had to face the pain, the grief, and the uncertainty of where my life would go, and then choose hope and to trust God in his infinite wisdom. I had to start living out what I said I believed as a Catholic: that death does not win.
Grief no longer swallows me whole. It is a part of my story, like a scar remains after surgery. I found outlets to assist me when I get that weighty feeling in the pit of my stomach and the sadness comes. I speak to my spiritual director on a regular basis about the void my daughter left in my heart. He helps me to see things with an eternal perspective. I find support in close friends who allow me to share about Courtney freely and without making me feel like I am a burden to them. I write letters to my daughter, telling her of the lessons she taught and the legacy of love she left behind. I find consolation in my faith, spending time in Adoration pouring out my heart and my hurt to the One who gave me the gift of my daughter in the first place.
It is a daily choice to look for the joy, to seek the hope that God has everything well in hand, and to accept the peace and consolation that is only his to give.
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Mary Lenaburg is a Catholic speaker and author of Be Brave in the Scared.
If you are in crisis or you think you may have an emergency, call your doctor or 911 immediately. If you're having suicidal thoughts, dial 988 to talk to a skilled, trained counselor at a crisis center in your area at any time (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline). If you are located outside the United States, call your local emergency line immediately.
With the help of professionals and those who have struggled with stress, anxiety, and other mental health issues, we’re offering insights, resources, and suggestions for a path to healing and a road to hope in the midst of dark and scary times.
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