The Things We Miss, The Things We Grieve

“I wonder how much of the day I spend just callin' after you.”  

--Harper Lee, “To Kill a Mockingbird”

The absolute worst Red Sox Opening Day ever, EVAH, for this longtime fan. April 9^th, 2019. A year ago. A lifetime ago.

I’d gotten two tickets from someone (my brother maybe?) and was so looking forward to a gem of a day, the kind of day one can only dream of in early April in these parts of New England. I hoped and prayed for simple gifts. Warm temps. Sunny and blue skies. An early arrival at Fenway to see the 2018 World Series champs receive their rings. A Red Sox win. Time spent with an old friend in our right field bullpen seats, and of course, two hot dogs slathered with mustard and onions, with an ice cold Coke on the side.

About the only thing that came true for me that day was my companion and my lunch menu. 

All the rest went south and very fast. The weather was abysmal, 41 degrees at game time, with chilly winds making it feel like 35 degrees. I tried to leave work early to arrive at the park on time but left late and missed the whole pre-game celebration. Then the game, a total disaster from the very first pitch thrown by Chris Sale, he, who recently signed a $145 million contract and made his 2019 home debut with a thud. Four innings pitched, five runs allowed on seven hits and three walks, and he even allowed a runner to steal home.

My God, how I wish I could go back to that day.   

Live it all over again, because in these pandemic weird and warped times, when it feels as if we are all living in a surreal dream, I am so missing baseball right now, even bad baseball. Missing going to the sports section first, in my online newspaper, and finding out if the Sox pulled out a win or found another way to lose. I miss putting the game on my car radio, that soundtrack of spring and summer returning again, like an old friend. I miss going to Minnesota for a yearly writing trip and retreat and spending time down in the Twin Cities playing catch with my 12 year old Goddaughter BJ, out on the front lawn, the thwack of the ball on leather, or maybe a game of rundown. She always wants to play catch. ALWAYS. I miss her so much right now too, wonder when I’ll be able to actually fly in a plane again.

This is our shared universal spiritual condition now, in 2020, in April. All of us: we are so missing something, so missing someone.

Missing the dependable rituals and rites of the season.  Missing being out in public with friends and strangers. Missing sitting at the bar in a jam packed restaurant, waiting for your seat, as the game plays on a big TV screen. Missing standing in a huge crowd on Boylston Street and cheering on the marathoners. Missing standing up in church and singing a big Easter hymn or sharing Passover with extended family and friends at a candlelit table, the youngest always asking, “Why is tonight different from all others?”

If you dig a bit deeper into our feelings of missing, of our longing for the “normal” things of life, you’ll discover grief. We are grieving now, a month into the lockdown and social distancing, and wearing rubber gloves and a mask to the grocery store, and spending hours staring at a screen at our loved ones and co-workers and obsessively consuming the news or avoiding the news. 

My missing baseball? I know it’s just a little grief, a little “death”. 

The big griefs, the big losses? These hurt so much more. Grief at actually losing someone to COVID-19—a family member, a co-worker, a neighbor’s beloved Grandparent. Grief at losing a job. Grief at not being able to formally graduate from college or high school. Grief at watching a spouse walk out the door to their work, their “essential” work, and praying that they do not catch the virus. Grief at not being able to worship with others or play with others or hug others or physically be with others.

Maybe I’m focused on how aggrieved I am about baseball being on hold because it is just too hard for me to contemplate all of our so much more heartbreaking griefs. The ones already here. The ones yet to come.

What are you missing? Who are you missing? 

My spiritual hope for all of us right now is simple. That we would have the courage to pay attention to our grief, both the collective and the personal. That we would begin to grieve and not turn away from it or pretend it is not real. That we would talk about it with folks we trust. Weep when we must or just rage at the universe. That we would bring our grief to God or whatever power is getting us through right now, and most important? May we remember that it is so normal to be missing all that which once marked our world, even something as simple as baseball.  I trust and I know it will all come back again one day soon, but right now?

We grieve.

We hope. 

Together.