Walking Through the Valley: The Joy Project
In the Fall of 2001, my Irish Grandmother passed away leaving a legacy of love behind her. As a roomful of friends and family celebrated her life with tears and laughter and shared with each other how her life had touched ours, the pastor spoke of the "Valley of the shadow of death" as described in Psalm 23. He stressed how the psalmist specified a walk through the valley. Visiting the Valley on occasion is normal and even healthy, but it's not a place where we are supposed to set up camp. I honestly forget the rest of the talk, but the bit about the valley has stuck with me and other family members over the years. Reminders of how we need to walk through and not remain in "The Valley" have come up in conversations of comfort with each other over the years.
Fast forward ten years. Two more family funerals to be held within one week of each other: this time not for full lives lived or for tired bodies ready for the next adventure. My beautiful aunt Iris, one month shy of her 50th birthday and the most physically active woman I know, died of a blood clot on an airplane on the way to her brother's wedding in New Zealand. She left behind her husband Stephen, her two teenage sons and two stepsons. The day after her funeral, I was surprised to see my husband had arrived home from work, much too early for lunch. I met him at the door where he held me in a shaky hug and told me my dad had just called; my brother John had been killed in a house-fire that morning. Twenty two years old. Gone. This time in preparing our hearts for the funerals, the tears far outweighed the laughter. This time I was overcome with questions and grief. This time I experienced a crushing feeling in my chest every morning upon waking when I realized it hadn't been a nightmare; some mornings it took everything in me to make it out of bed.
In those first few days, I found incredible comfort as well as confusion in my faith. I found myself clinging to my Jesus while experiencing some serious trust issues with Him. Some days I would just collapse on the bedroom floor and in my attempts to pray for comfort and peace, find myself only able to call out His name. The first horrible week progressed; my family spent time remembering John, meeting with his friends, and just being broken together in our grief, our anger and our questions. Driving home to Guelph, with the visitation and funeral behind us, slowly, slowly, I found myself sinking deeper than ever before into The Valley.
Three months later, on February 24th, my little Sophie Hannah was born, and Kyle and I were thrown into the world of parenting; the joys, the sleep deprivation, and the milky tearful messes that come with it. At first we thought my frequent bouts of crying (sometimes 3 times a day for a solid 6 weeks) had everything to do with my breastfeeding fiasco, but it was later suggested by an insightful counselor that perhaps up to this point I had been finding ways to cope, until now, and with the help of sleep I had been able to keep my grief at bay. I had found myself in the Valley, slowed my hiking to a crawl and had started to carve out a camp-site.
As my sweet little girl sleeps more at night, and I allow myself time to process, I feel things slowly improving. The cloud cover is passing and I'm able to catch glimpses of the stars here and there. But between you and me, I've had enough of this season. For the sake of my own well-being and that of my little family's, I need to pick myself up, look to the hills and get moving. I need to fast-forward this process and seek out a huge dose of joy in my life. I want to be an example of living life for my beautiful daughter. I want my legacy to be that of joy.
So here's the challenge... I will spend the next 365 days seeking out joy. I will do at least one thing every day to bring joy to my life, my little family's or to someone else. I will try new things, re-experience old favourites. I will make new resolutions for this season and stick to them. I will sleep more, sing louder, and exchange worry for prayer as much as possible. I will buy healthier food and eat more of it (proper nutrition has become an issue as of late). I will read books and listen to music that inspires me. I will spend time enjoying the company of my husband and daughter, feel the sunshine, explore our beautiful city and stay hydrated. I will roll with the waves when grief hits, but I refuse to set up camp; I will walk one step at a time until I make it through, until streaks of daylight bleed through the darkness.
