People ask me how I wrote a book about grief.
They ask me how I tell stories of sorrow and write poems about pain.
The truth is this isn’t the first time I’ve written about pain. In my closet, I have journals and journals, packed into boxes and one wooden treasure chest, in which I’d written about what grieved my heart—the friendships lost, moving and losing homes that mattered, coming through illness . . . just to name a few.
Because, before I wrote a book to lead others through their grief, I, myself, was led through grief. Before I wrote words to help others see the goodness that lay beyond their gardens of grief, I first tended to my own gardens of grief—pulling the weeds of poison and pain; planting the healing seeds of hope.
Those journals I saved? I filled the pages of them with soliloquies and secrets—ugly words from deep inside of me, hidden and tucked away, heavy and crumbling. Etching ink between lines on blank pages, I’d beat into my brain that I was hopeless and useless. That everything and everyone around me was hopeless and useless, too.
I was a broken, sharp-edged, and bleeding soul, raptured by the curiosities of her mind, led by skepticism and criticism. I was lost in a mental prism and completely unaware of the damage being caused. But then . . . something happened.
The more and more I poured out my pain on the page, the more I went from picking up the pen for the sake of self-release to using it as a way to usher in world-relief. I turned to writing about hope, beauty, truth, and grace, all for the sake of loving and leading others. All for the sake of bringing forth life and light.
It’s crazy to me that what God used to mend my broken heart is what he’s using to mend the hearts of others.
Never in a million years would I have imagined that I, the girl who once used her words to do harm within, would one day see a reverse in that curse and use my words to bring hope and help to the world. Never did I think I’d create space for others to connect and cultivate their words to do the same—to push back the darkness in their own lives, to unveil the kind of light that does not burn out.
Yet, here I am, believing that there is space enough to create things that compel others to believe in themselves. Here I am, believing that there is good. Here I am, telling you to show up, telling you that we cannot suppress our pain—we can only pour it out on the page.
The most breathtaking part about this is that this is not just my story. This can be your story, too. Pouring out your pain in the privacy of a journal page will give you the space and grace to ask the questions you once needed and still need to ask. It will give you the space to cry and the space to be curious. It will give you the space to rage and the space to release.
This practice, of ushering out pain even when life continues complicated and unresolved, can shed light and bring hope to soothe more souls than you know. The impact of taking your pain to God can and will impact lives beyond your own. For, is this not how gardens work? We remove the weeds and tend to the seeds, and they beget and beget and beget good fruit.
It’s possible that those words you once poured out might hold a hurting soul in their hour of agony. This is how and why I wrote a book about grief. I leaned into the losses I lived through and trusted my words would give language to the losses others might be living through.
Jesus, himself, is a prime example of someone who turned to the words of another when in his greatest hour of agony. When Jesus, hanging on the cross, uttered those words, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani,” he wasn’t just saying My God, my God—he was reciting it.
The words, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” are a direct quote from Psalm 22:1 (NIV). Written by David, they were first his pouring out of anguish and pain—both for himself and for the sake of his people.
Jesus—even in the hour of his greatest grief—reflects on David’s words, recites them, regurgitates them. In and through Jesus’ death on the cross, not only are we saved from eternal pain, but we are shown the perpetuated and powerful spiritual practice of—through writing and reciting words—grasping and groping for God even through our pain.
Let it be so with us.
Amen.
—Adapted with permission from Let There Be Art by Rachel Marie Kang.
Rachel Marie Kang is a New York native, born and raised just outside New York City. A mixed woman of African American, Native American (Ramapough Lenape Nation), Irish, and Dutch descent, she holds a degree in English with Creative Writing, and a minor in Bible. Rachel is founder of The Fallow House, and author of Let There Be Art and The Matter of Little Losses. Connect with her at www.rachelmariekang.com and on socials @rachelmariekang.
