The Privilege of Writing for the Most Precious of Audiences, by Georgie Tennant
We are all aware of our audience when we write. Even in the classroom, we teach students to consider “TAP,” – text type, audience, purpose – before they commence a piece of writing. If we are writing for a Christian audience or publisher, we might be more aware of the language we or our characters use – there was an excellent debate about this in the Christian Writer magazine recently. If we’re writing to explain a Chrisitan concept to a sceptical or unbelieving audience, we are careful to be clear and avoid jargon or confusion.
I had the privilege, recently, of being asked to speak (rather than write, but it starts with writing, doesn’t it?) in the Sunday morning service of a Bereavement Support Weekend, run by Care for the Family. Expecting 46 parents who had lost a child at various stages of life and 12 adult siblings, who had lost their brother or sister far too young, I was anxious to find something to say to these precious, broken, grieving people. How might I stir up hope without dismissing their pain? How might I be an empathetic voice who has been there, whilst also calling them higher to hope?
Apologies that the post is longer than a usual More Than Writers Post, but I thought I would print my talk here, in full, for those with the time and inclination to read it, and let you decide for yourself whether you think I met the needs of a very precious audience. If you choose to read it all, I hope it speaks to you too, as we all carry different types of pain, even if we haven’t had one of the losses I mentioned above.
Good morning everyone. Well done for making it this far. Isn’t it a strange, exhausting, draining but also healing and encouraging weekend? I have the honour of bringing you a couple of thoughts this morning that I hope will speak to you and help you in some small way on your hard, exhausting journey of grief.
Has anyone ever come across the concept of a palimpsest? This word first entered my vocabulary when I was a newly qualified teacher, guiding my almost-as-old-as-me group of A-Level students through the opening chapter of 'The Handmaid's Tale,' by Margaret Atwood. Describing the gymnasium where the women are made to sleep, Atwood writes, “Dances would have been held there; the music lingered, a palimpsest of unheard sound.” To avoid looking like I didn't 'know my stuff,' I investigated the meaning of this unfamiliar word
According to the dictionary, a palimpsest is:
"... a manuscript or piece of writing material on which later writing has been superimposed on effaced earlier writing. ... something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form."
In the case of ‘The Handmaid's Tale,’ it evoked the left-behind lives of the women captive to the evil, futuristic regime. Even as it tried to erase their identity, superimposing a new one, their previously written stories echoed still. I was captivated by this concept and it stuck with me.
I don’t think I understand it fully, as a sheltered 22-year-old, but it stayed with me and re-emerged later in my teaching. When it did, it struck me afresh that it captures so well that inescapable feeling that the stories of our lives are never written quite how we imagine are they? From small day to day scenes we wish had panned out differently, to major life events, that change us and our paths irreparably – (and all of us here have lived the latter of those two), we all live with a sense that there would have, should have, could have been a different story, lurking under the surface of the one we are currently living – the one we have been dragged into, kicking and screaming and grieving.
We struggle so much, when our lives’ directions change, because we have already half-written the manuscript in our minds and imprinted it on our souls - so much so, that, when it all changes, we feel like we are living a new, unfamiliar life. We have to come to terms with the ‘new’ story, mourn the loss of the old – even though it hadn’t actually been ‘written’ yet. The bumps and scraped-out bits of our personal palimpsests are painful reminders of what might have – should have - been. Undertones echoes beneath, of the life we thought we were getting, but didn’t. It all feels horribly unfair.
The full force of the word has hit me twice in my life, as someone who is both a bereaved parent AND a bereaved sibling. In 2009, I faced the loss of our baby daughter at twenty-five weeks of pregnancy. I lost a girl and had two beautiful boys, whom I wouldn't change for the world. But when they were small, as I watched them as shepherds and camels in their annual, nativity plays, echoes have lingered of the sparkly tights I might have purchased, the angel costume I might have sewn, had the baby on the other layer of the manuscript of my life made it into being. You will all have your own many, many examples of those things you should have and would have done, the things you don’t get to do now, with your son, daughter or sibling so tragically taken away. Similarly with my sister, who I lost 6 years ago now. The coffees we would have had, the text messages we would have sent, the occasions we would have shared, rise up, underneath the story I AM living to trip me up and make me grieve all over again.
So I want to share with you a couple of keys to moving forward that have been helpful to me, in my journey of grief.
1. Be honest with God and be kind to yourself!
We have to have to have to cry, grieve and lament – and continue to do so. We are not good at that in the Western World, or in the church. We like neat testimonies, wrapped up in bows – tidy stories that end well. But ours hasn’t. We HAVE to allow ourselves to grieve, to ask the big questions, to rant and rave at God if we have a faith, to ask others for support, prayer, help.
I LOVE the stories in the Bible where people are honest and ranty about how bad their situations are. It is almost as though, in expressing their honest lament, God is able to set them on the path to hope.
Elijah is my favourite. In 1 Kings 19, he runs for his life, collapses in a heap and verse 4 says he: “prayed that he might die. “I have had enough, Lord,” he said. “Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.” 5 Then he lay down under the bush and fell asleep.”
Elijah is done. He’s had enough. Nothing has turned out as he has hoped. I love what God does – he gives him food, drink and a nap. “All at once an angel touched him and said, “Get up and eat.” 6 He looked around, and there by his head was some bread baked over hot coals, and a jar of water. He ate and drank and then lay down again.” I love that image of God. When we are angry and grieving and questioning, we don’t find it easy to find God in our situations do we? I just love that God is so practical, tender and caring here. He gives Elijah the sustenance and rest he needs – repeatedly - and only THEN is Elijah ready for an encounter with God that gives him fresh hope and fresh energy and vision for the hard journey ahead.
2. Follow the next light
On the evening that would turn out to be the night of my sister’s death, I sat in the relatives’ lounge of the hospice she was in, looking out into the darkness of the courtyard outside. I cried out to God and asked Him “How am I going to get through this, God?!” A thought dropped into the depths of my soul – “by following the next light.” I looked out into the courtyard and I could see one dim light, lighting part of the part, and, further ahead, another. Each light wasn’t enough to show the whole path, but each one did its part in getting whoever was walking, a bit further along the dark path.
It reminded me of a verse from Isaiah 9, often quoted at Christmas, that had already become a life verse for me - “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” We feel, at points on our journey, that we are living in deep darkness don’t we? – it is hard to find any light to light our paths. But, in my experience, those lights are there, and are what guide us on, somehow, to hope and wholeness, despite everything we have faced. They can be deceptively simple - a text from a friend, a line from a worship song that resonates, a touch from God on a particular day, a verse of scripture that helps us to stand; a beautiful view – a weekend away with others who understand our pain and can stand with us. Learn to recognise these “lit matches in a dark room,” recognise that God provides them, and He begins to feel less distant than He might at first, and we begin to take the next step into the next patch of light, that guides us out of our darkness.
I want to finish with a poem I wrote, the Easter after my sister died. If you are struggling to find hope, today, in your journey, or see God in it at all, I hope it will speak some gentle encouragement to you and give you some “light,” for the journey ahead.
I had the privilege, recently, of being asked to speak (rather than write, but it starts with writing, doesn’t it?) in the Sunday morning service of a Bereavement Support Weekend, run by Care for the Family. Expecting 46 parents who had lost a child at various stages of life and 12 adult siblings, who had lost their brother or sister far too young, I was anxious to find something to say to these precious, broken, grieving people. How might I stir up hope without dismissing their pain? How might I be an empathetic voice who has been there, whilst also calling them higher to hope?
 |
| The bottles we made to commemorate our siblings |
Apologies that the post is longer than a usual More Than Writers Post, but I thought I would print my talk here, in full, for those with the time and inclination to read it, and let you decide for yourself whether you think I met the needs of a very precious audience. If you choose to read it all, I hope it speaks to you too, as we all carry different types of pain, even if we haven’t had one of the losses I mentioned above.
The Talk
Good morning everyone. Well done for making it this far. Isn’t it a strange, exhausting, draining but also healing and encouraging weekend? I have the honour of bringing you a couple of thoughts this morning that I hope will speak to you and help you in some small way on your hard, exhausting journey of grief.
Has anyone ever come across the concept of a palimpsest? This word first entered my vocabulary when I was a newly qualified teacher, guiding my almost-as-old-as-me group of A-Level students through the opening chapter of 'The Handmaid's Tale,' by Margaret Atwood. Describing the gymnasium where the women are made to sleep, Atwood writes, “Dances would have been held there; the music lingered, a palimpsest of unheard sound.” To avoid looking like I didn't 'know my stuff,' I investigated the meaning of this unfamiliar word
According to the dictionary, a palimpsest is:
"... a manuscript or piece of writing material on which later writing has been superimposed on effaced earlier writing. ... something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form."
 |
| Example of a palimpsest |
In the case of ‘The Handmaid's Tale,’ it evoked the left-behind lives of the women captive to the evil, futuristic regime. Even as it tried to erase their identity, superimposing a new one, their previously written stories echoed still. I was captivated by this concept and it stuck with me.
I don’t think I understand it fully, as a sheltered 22-year-old, but it stayed with me and re-emerged later in my teaching. When it did, it struck me afresh that it captures so well that inescapable feeling that the stories of our lives are never written quite how we imagine are they? From small day to day scenes we wish had panned out differently, to major life events, that change us and our paths irreparably – (and all of us here have lived the latter of those two), we all live with a sense that there would have, should have, could have been a different story, lurking under the surface of the one we are currently living – the one we have been dragged into, kicking and screaming and grieving.
We struggle so much, when our lives’ directions change, because we have already half-written the manuscript in our minds and imprinted it on our souls - so much so, that, when it all changes, we feel like we are living a new, unfamiliar life. We have to come to terms with the ‘new’ story, mourn the loss of the old – even though it hadn’t actually been ‘written’ yet. The bumps and scraped-out bits of our personal palimpsests are painful reminders of what might have – should have - been. Undertones echoes beneath, of the life we thought we were getting, but didn’t. It all feels horribly unfair.
The full force of the word has hit me twice in my life, as someone who is both a bereaved parent AND a bereaved sibling. In 2009, I faced the loss of our baby daughter at twenty-five weeks of pregnancy. I lost a girl and had two beautiful boys, whom I wouldn't change for the world. But when they were small, as I watched them as shepherds and camels in their annual, nativity plays, echoes have lingered of the sparkly tights I might have purchased, the angel costume I might have sewn, had the baby on the other layer of the manuscript of my life made it into being. You will all have your own many, many examples of those things you should have and would have done, the things you don’t get to do now, with your son, daughter or sibling so tragically taken away. Similarly with my sister, who I lost 6 years ago now. The coffees we would have had, the text messages we would have sent, the occasions we would have shared, rise up, underneath the story I AM living to trip me up and make me grieve all over again.
So I want to share with you a couple of keys to moving forward that have been helpful to me, in my journey of grief.
1. Be honest with God and be kind to yourself!
We have to have to have to cry, grieve and lament – and continue to do so. We are not good at that in the Western World, or in the church. We like neat testimonies, wrapped up in bows – tidy stories that end well. But ours hasn’t. We HAVE to allow ourselves to grieve, to ask the big questions, to rant and rave at God if we have a faith, to ask others for support, prayer, help.
I LOVE the stories in the Bible where people are honest and ranty about how bad their situations are. It is almost as though, in expressing their honest lament, God is able to set them on the path to hope.
Elijah is my favourite. In 1 Kings 19, he runs for his life, collapses in a heap and verse 4 says he: “prayed that he might die. “I have had enough, Lord,” he said. “Take my life; I am no better than my ancestors.” 5 Then he lay down under the bush and fell asleep.”
Elijah is done. He’s had enough. Nothing has turned out as he has hoped. I love what God does – he gives him food, drink and a nap. “All at once an angel touched him and said, “Get up and eat.” 6 He looked around, and there by his head was some bread baked over hot coals, and a jar of water. He ate and drank and then lay down again.” I love that image of God. When we are angry and grieving and questioning, we don’t find it easy to find God in our situations do we? I just love that God is so practical, tender and caring here. He gives Elijah the sustenance and rest he needs – repeatedly - and only THEN is Elijah ready for an encounter with God that gives him fresh hope and fresh energy and vision for the hard journey ahead.
2. Follow the next light
On the evening that would turn out to be the night of my sister’s death, I sat in the relatives’ lounge of the hospice she was in, looking out into the darkness of the courtyard outside. I cried out to God and asked Him “How am I going to get through this, God?!” A thought dropped into the depths of my soul – “by following the next light.” I looked out into the courtyard and I could see one dim light, lighting part of the part, and, further ahead, another. Each light wasn’t enough to show the whole path, but each one did its part in getting whoever was walking, a bit further along the dark path.
It reminded me of a verse from Isaiah 9, often quoted at Christmas, that had already become a life verse for me - “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned.” We feel, at points on our journey, that we are living in deep darkness don’t we? – it is hard to find any light to light our paths. But, in my experience, those lights are there, and are what guide us on, somehow, to hope and wholeness, despite everything we have faced. They can be deceptively simple - a text from a friend, a line from a worship song that resonates, a touch from God on a particular day, a verse of scripture that helps us to stand; a beautiful view – a weekend away with others who understand our pain and can stand with us. Learn to recognise these “lit matches in a dark room,” recognise that God provides them, and He begins to feel less distant than He might at first, and we begin to take the next step into the next patch of light, that guides us out of our darkness.
I want to finish with a poem I wrote, the Easter after my sister died. If you are struggling to find hope, today, in your journey, or see God in it at all, I hope it will speak some gentle encouragement to you and give you some “light,” for the journey ahead.
Easter Saturday Living: Waiting for Sunday to Come
Easter Sunday; a strange thought this year.
Celebrating the impermanence of death when it feels permanent and heavy right now to those of us left here, in her wake.
Celebrating hope, light and victory when those things still feel a long way away on the hard days and the dark days, when grief wraps its bindweed more tightly.
Celebrating a God for whom nothing is impossible, yet we did not see our impossible become possible.
Joining in with dancing and joy when tears are more my currency.
It's easier to face Good Friday. I can relate to a tortured and suffering saviour. He gets it. He's walking it with me.
I dwell comfortably in Easter Saturday when hope lay dormant and sadness took hold. I belong with the exhausted disciples and the women overcome with emotion and grief.
I'm not at all sure I am ready for Easter Sunday. Dancing, rejoicing, all-things-come-good. I will stand there one day, feeling it more convincingly. But for now my life is Friday-Saturday; Sunday stands, a long way off.
But I'm glad it's there. The hint of possibility, the glimmer of hope, draws me on.
Georgie Tennant is a secondary school English teacher in a Norfolk Comprehensive. She is married, with two sons, aged 15 and 12 who keep her exceptionally busy. She writes for the ACW ‘Christian Writer’ magazine occasionally, and is a contributor to the ACW-Published ‘New Life: Reflections for Lent,’ and ‘Merry Christmas, Everyone.' She has written 8 books in a phonics series, published by BookLife and is a freelance writer for King's Lynn Magazine. She writes the ‘Thought for the Week’ for the local newspaper from time to time and also muses about life and loss on her blog: www.somepoemsbygeorgie.blogspot.co.uk. Her first devotional book, "The God Who Sees You," was published by Kevin Mayhew in March. https://www.kevinmayhew.com/products/the-god-who-sees-you
Georgie, sometimes More Than Writers is more than a blog. And today is one of those days. Your courage and bravery in sharing this resonates so much with me and I know will with others. There are so many truths here - so many - and they look to me like handholds hammered in to a sheer rockface which leads to who knows where. We need to cling to them when we feel we're going to fall and when life is simply too much and we don't know where God is in it all. Thank you for your beautiful writing, as always, and for sharing your pain and your journey through it all xx
ReplyDeleteThank you so much, Georgie. These beautiful heart-rending words go right to my heart, as I lost my father-in-law, father, and brother in the first seven months of this year. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteI can't really imagine how all of this feels but I can see that you are making a major contribution to supporting those who can, Georgie.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful. Thank you for sharing this. And the image of the palimpset was so good. I did know what one was! The parchment was reused because it was so valuable. Speaks to me of how valuable our lives are to God, and that whatever overwriting takes place, the finished piece is complete and can speak volumes, of His grace and our holding on.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful post, Georgie. Thanks! 'By following the next light' is a very good way of saying 'Move on!'
ReplyDeleteI myself have lost 2 siblings in the space of 2 years. I can move on because I celebrate where they both are right now. I can move on because I have given my grief to the Holy Spirit and He has given me a palimpsest, where I wrote 20 poems to Sis Elizabeth's memory, in my latest published poetry book, dedicated to her memory and a powerful tribute for BroTunde, in his tribute booklet. Thank you for your lovely poem - You will agree with me that writing poetry makes for a wonderful release. I wrote one for my beloved pet. Another for my beloved parents and I was able to "follow the next light". Blessings.
Beautifully put. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteDear Georgie thank you so much for this. It is beautiful and sp deep and real thank you for sharing its really touched my heart. Tracy
ReplyDeleteA wonderful wonderful post, Georgie, with so much to offer us and at such a cost. Thank you x
ReplyDeleteSo beautiful and heartrending Georgie. I've lost friends to untimely death and have gone over so many 'What-ifs' in my mind on several occasions since then. You're right, it seems so unfair. Yet those sublime words from Isaiah really do have the power to uplift us. I feel sure all those listening to you would have left with their spirits soothed and their hearts much lighter. (Sheila aka SC Skillman)
ReplyDelete