You can sit in your grief...
...but the room you’re sitting in doesn’t have to be ugly.
I don’t like the house we live in. It’s old, poorly built, and small. Every time a tornado warning happens we have to pack up our most irreplaceable things and head to somewhere with a basement because this house doesn’t have one. We don’t have a garage. Or an attic. We have one unfinished room that has been designated as “the storage room” because the Christmas decorations and litter box have to go somewhere.
This little place has come a long way. Before we moved in, this house had sat vacant for a long time. When we moved in, the only livable space was our bedroom. We didn’t have a functioning kitchen sink and had to do our dishes in the bathtub. Our couch was a ripped and torn freebie from a relative. We eventually vacuumed up all the dead bugs that had taken up residence and installed window AC units because ours got stolen. Eventually we had a makeshift newlywed home. We were so broke renovations were slow and cheap. Not much has changed on that front.
And now years later, this isn’t my dream house. And God knows I’d never call it our “forever home”. But this year will mark fourteen years of living here. Part of me feels ashamed that we haven’t been able to cobble together the means to buy a sprawling house on a quiet piece of land. I’ve watched nearly every single peer of mine get married and move into an actual house, not a 30+ year old double wide. And then I’ve watched as they’ve moved into another house, just because they wanted to. Meanwhile, I had to tell Jonathan I discovered another leak under the house last week and half the windows in the house won’t even open because they’re so decrepit.
What do you do with a dream that never came to be? What do you do with something you thought would be different but it's been over a decade and it’s still the same? What do you do when your hope shrivels up into husks of itself?
Apparently you paint it pink.
Last Friday, we painted our dining nook pink. Not forest green or pale blue like everyone thought we should. Pink. Pink like winter sunsets. Pink like dogwood blossoms. Pink like that soft spot on the top of my dog’s muzzle. Pink like my tulips that will soon bloom in defiance of winter. Pink. Pink. Pink.
In the midst of all the things that are happening in our world and my country, I feel like a little jerk for admitting that the thing I get angry at God about in my own life is this house. Sure, there are other things I’m venting to God about, but our living situation is just here in my face every single day. Why did the house market have to go off the rails in 2020? Why did the cost of building materials have to skyrocket in the same year? How is every other millennial able to afford nice houses? And also go on vacations? And also do all of this with more kids than we have? I don’t get it.
I’m angry at God about the fact that we still live in this house. I’m angry about the medical debt that I’m still trying to pay off. I’m angry that I have to write a “hardship letter” to hopefully get the hospital to let us qualify for the most financial aid possible. I don’t want to write a “hardship letter”. I just want a quiet little, sturdy house on some land that my kids can play safely. But I’m beginning to think after 14 years of hoping “this will be our year” that it’s just not going to happen.
And I often just think about how God is withholding it from me. Even though I know that’s not how God works. It sure feels that way. It sure feels like everyone else gets their miracle and we’ve slipped through the cracks. It sure feels like I have to continually work to be content and grateful when others just get their wants handed to them.
Amidst all the cynicism I feel towards my country and the path it appears to be headed down, amidst my own private grief of living in this pitiful little house, there’s a seed of defiance in me. I know it’s there because, in spite of everything, I’m still seeking out beauty; in spite of everything I’m painting things pink when it makes no sense.
I don’t know what that means, but I don’t think putting more beautiful things out into the world is a bad thing. And I don’t believe God is surprised by my anger. Maybe that’s why I can still bear the fruit of joy in my life when things haven’t gone at all like I planned.
The first two months of this year have felt heavy and weird and exhausting—on a personal and national level. Each check of the headlines has me grinding my teeth and forcing myself to take deep breaths. I get angry and then don’t understand why others aren’t also angry and that makes me angry all over again. After a while, anger is exhausting.
And so my husband and I pack up our kids and pick out paint samples at Lowe’s (twice) until we find the exact right shade of warm pink and throw color on the walls because, why not? You can sit in your grief but the room you’re sitting in doesn’t have to be ugly. Making things beautiful while you’re angry and sad doesn’t mean the things that make you angry and sad aren’t valid, it just means they don’t get to have all of you.
This winter has been a tough one, but now when we get the occasional sunny day and the light pours through our dining window, it leaks onto the newly pink walls. I think about how defiance isn’t always loud and angry. Sometimes, defiance is gentle too. Sometimes defiance says, “Excuse me, I have good work to do.” and picks up a phone to call a representative and then picks up a paint brush next.
I still don’t like this house. And I’m still very concerned with what my country is facing right now. But that doesn’t mean I can’t work to make things beautiful, even now.
Especially now.
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Beautifully said, Breanne. Two weeks ago my husband was one of the thousands of federal workers "laid off" from a non-expendable job. We're in the Appalachian mountains, nestled into a small western NC town, in the center of the destruction from hurricane Helene. William worked for the highway division of Eastern Federal Lands and because he was a long-term traveling worker our housing was provided by his employer ... who (without warning) was no longer responsible for us so we had two weeks to pack our house into boxes, let our kids tell their friends goodbye and make a plan ... oh, and an invoice to reimburse the federal government over 5k in living expenses, due immediately. This job opportunity had felt like a long awaited answered prayer ... to say that our grief was palpable is an understatement. I'm not sure I was angry at God so much as exhausted from the hardships He seems to think we can endure, time after time. We've seen some redemption ... there have been good job offers and former supervisors working tirelessly on his behalf. We've been covered in prayer and surrounded by community support in ways that would require a coffee date to sift through but my point is this ... grief and gratitude can coexist and often do ... I feel like that truth has been the unofficial subtitle of much of my life ... grief and gratitude can coexist, and often do.
I really love that pink. It's perfect.