Last year, my mother-in-law died unexpectedly at the young age of 54. This sudden tragedy turned my family’s life upside down, and we have been journeying through the agonising road of grief ever since. My wife recently shared with me how, for her, grief has felt like walking into a rough sea with nothing to hold onto. Just when you think you are finding your footing, wave after wave comes and knocks you over repeatedly.

During my short journey through immense grief, I have found certain rituals have become my saving grace, giving me strength to put one foot in front of the other. 

It is Scripture itself that offers us an alternative language amid our grief: lament. Lament is a passionate expression of grief or sorrow. 

No one knows how to act or what to say when faced with the atrocity of death. Liturgies of lament give words to our wordless cries. They tell us what to say and how to act. They name and order the chaos of our emotions. 

The Psalmists offer us many beautiful liturgies of lament. Their cries of anguish remind us that we can bring our entire selves before God, including our grief.

“Hear my prayer, O Lord! And let my cry for help come to You.” – Psalm 102:1.

In the aftermath of my mother-in-law’s passing, I wanted to hide away from the world. As difficult as it sometimes is to share our grief with others, the love and support that I have received from friends and family has been invaluable.

Grief is a communal rather than a private experience. An ancient Honduran proverb says: “Grief shared is grief halved”. 

“Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.” – Galatians 6:2.

It is a tradition in many church communities to deliver meals to the bereaved after a loss. This tradition acknowledges the physicality of what has transpired. Eating and feeding your body is an act of defiance to the grief trying to overtake you. It is a ritual that reminds you of your ongoing humanity.

Often, in times when our lives have been turned upside down, the first thing that many of us neglect to care for is our physical health. On days that I have wanted to lie in bed and drown my sorrows in a dull stream of dopamine from social media, the best thing for me was being taken for a walk and fed pancakes by a friend.

“Beloved, I pray that all may go well with you and that you may be in good health, as it goes well with your soul.” – 3 John 1:2.

The Lord’s Supper is the one ritual that combines liturgy, community, and physical nourishment. Jesus entrusted to the Church one of the most powerful, holy and enduring rituals of grief when he broke bread and poured wine with his friends the night before his death. Holy Communion is a reminder of death and resurrection. We cannot experience one without the other.

“Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them.” – John 6:56.

Let us return to the metaphor of being caught up in a never-ending bashing of waves. The only hope for survival if you get caught up in a rip current is not to struggle, to allow yourself to be taken out to sea, or to tread water moving parallel to the shore. You’ll reserve your strength and be able to swim back to safety when the tide has relented. 

The above rituals have helped me to lean into my grief instead of trying to avoid and numb it. It has not been easy, and the journey is ongoing, but through lament, community, physical nourishment and the Lord’s Supper, God continues to comfort and strengthen me.