Days after our son died, a friend of my husband urged us to begin journaling our grief. He’d lost a son in an automobile accident a few years prior and attested to the healing role journaling played in his grief recovery. Likewise, he knew it would help us process our grief.
The demands of culture are overwhelming for someone just beginning this journey. Society expects us to return to work or school and resume the mantle of everyday life too soon. Journaling affords us a much-needed outlet. It’s a therapeutic way to purge our grief. It allows us to lament what we’d rather not disclose, even to those closest to us.
There is no right or wrong way to journal and no guidelines to follow. You write when you want about whatever you need to help heal your grief. You can express every raw emotion: fear, anger, and guilt.
My husband wrote ferociously for three years, purging his grief on paper. He was able to wallow there and write with gut-wrenching, brutal honesty. I did also, but not as frequently. He and I wrote about our dreams of Joseph, and we penned our favorite memories of him. Mostly, we spewed our pain when it seemed unbearable, and God felt distant. God didn’t care, nor did He leave. He’s a mighty big God and can handle our raw grief.
A confession …
In preparation for writing Grief: A Mama’s Unwanted Journey, I poured over the journal I kept during the darkest days of my grief. I recorded most of it in my book. Some of the content, however, was too painful for me to read and share. I knew I’d never be able to reread it, so I threw it in the fireplace and burned it.