The Birds Don't Sing
Thoughts on Grief and Reflections in Grief
A few days ago, a podcast that is ascendant on social media channels dropped into my feed. The name is Grits and Eggs and the host was discussing the massive amount of grief people are carrying and the maladaptive ways we have been acculturated to express that grief. From lashing out at others to becoming abusers in the twisted logic that others deserve to endure the pain we have suffered.
Meanwhile, Clipse released their new album and one of the tracks, The Birds Don’t Sing, deals specifically with the lead up to, pain and experience of losing their mother and father within a few short months of each other. Pusha T raps about their mother from his perspective as the youngest son and Malice reminisces as the oldest son, on the conversations and lessons from their father. They even give us a glimpse of what it was like to find their parents deceased. The narrative is not gory, nor do they hide from discomfort, which is a difficult balance to strike.
Oddly, I listened and wondered why the lyrics hit so deeply this week and then I remembered the universe speaks if we can slow our minds to listen. This moment marks the one year anniversary of the phone call where I knew my dad was gone. Like a puzzle piece lodging into place, a deadbolt sliding into the groove, or a seatbelt audibly striking home, the parallels made sense. My friend grief is back. That admixture of love, fond memories, remorse, longing, sadness, loss, joy and reflection has paid me a visit. Grief is not far from most of us these days.
I have written a lot in the past on how the constant need of American evangelical Christians to feel good and celebrate has robbed society of its capacity to lament and sit with grief. This cultural default to happiness and shifting the narrative from one of deep sorrow to uplifting platitudes has robbed us of our ability to sit in silence, linger in loss, meditate in misery and collectively settle ourselves. As pastor Soong-Chan Rah says:
The American church avoids lament. The power of lament is minimized and the underlying narrative of suffering that requires lament is lost. But absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. Absence makes the heart forget. The absence of lament in the liturgy of the American church results in the loss of memory. We forget the necessity of lamenting over suffering and pain. We forget the reality of suffering and pain.
Interestingly enough, his book, Prophetic Lament: A Call for Justice in Troubled Times, arose out of the experience of sitting with his father during his final moments. Revisiting this book many years later, I noticed a space where I wrote some of my own notes:
The practice of rapid progression from sorrow to lament to praise is highly visible in the American reaction to death. Americans deal with death with a quick funeral, a vacation and then back to work. We’re not good at lingering in the pain of - soaking in the loss and lamenting with one another.
That was eight years ago, but my feelings on the matter have not changed much. If anything, I think the pace has quickened and our grief has compounded upon itself. If our world has ever needed anything, we need people able to sit with their grief and the grief of others. We have witnessed and perpetuated enough stages of grief outside of acceptance. Anger, denial, bargaining, and depression pervade our interactions, our politics, and our relationships. But there are flickers of hope. There are people who have built massive followings online and in-person who are directing our attention to the grief and suffering in our world. Courageous people who appeal to our shared humanity and longing for justice.
Maybe as you go through this week you can find one point of pain, one person or community that needs you. Be a healer. Be that person running to the suffering and the hurting with empathy and compassion. God knows we need it right now.