Dear Grief,
I shudder to refer to you as "dear." Yet you have been with me for so long that you have become a part of me, which I suppose entitles you to this term of affection, though my heart grants it unwillingly.
You are an enigmatic and elusive creature, a chameleon, changing color with habitat and season. Some say you pass with time, like grains of sand sifting through my fingers, no longer resting in the safety of my palm. Others say you are a process, as if by accomplishing twelve prescribed steps I could graduate from your possession and be free of you. But you are not a process. You do not pass, at least not in this lifetime.
You dwell with me - in me - but you are not my master. You roam on a leash, tethered by the One who owns you. You haven't always been here, and one day you'll disappear, for there's only one Alpha and Omega. One beginning and one end, and you are neither.
You will not win, nor overcome. You've already been subdued and defeated, for "death has been swallowed up by victory" (1 Corinthians 15:54). A day is coming when you'll be deemed redundant and your crown obsolete. On that day, O Grief, you will no longer be called "dear" . . . nor even a distant memory.
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Unfortunately, grief is not a 12-step process. It may contain five or more general stages, but even these stages are rarely a linear process. Grief is far more often a cyclical journey, like the stages of the moon. Always present, but not always visible.
Since everyone endures loss in their own way, this collection of nine reflective letters to grief personified is descriptive, not prescriptive. Letters to Grief offers readers encouragement and hope to deal with loss and grief in the midst of their own unique circumstances. Readers are invited to reflect on their personal grief experience by writing in the journaling pages throughout the book.
