Grief is something that cannot be quantified or qualified. It surges and ebbs unexpectedly, and grows over the losses we experience in our lives—loss of loved ones, innocence, health, and dreams. You don’t have to bury your grief, and you don’t have to pretend you’re over your loss. Let Rachel Marie Kang’s words be a balm for your brokenness, giving space for sorrow and welcoming you to grieve the things that always mattered—and always will. It is a joy to welcome Rachel to the farm’s table…

Guest Post by Rachel Marie Kang

I take the bus down to the city, get off at Port Authority near Columbus Circle, and get myself to the Hearst Tower, off 57^th Street and Eighth Avenue in Midtown Manhattan.

I sit down for my interview with Seventeen magazine, talk about how I love to write and how I’m interning with a publisher right now and how I can catch on quickly. I talk about my love of the magazine and all the many reasons for which I’d be the perfect person to intern with their team.

I see my future spanning before me: a hotshot editor, living and working in the city of my dreams, the city where both of my parents have worked and found their identity and purpose. I lose myself in thought, find myself in the myriad of made-up moments playing out before me. I can and will make it happen, because the dream was always to “make it”—to get a job, get rich, and survive the city . . . subway system and all.

“We lose dreams and we lay them down.“

Then June comes like an unsuspected thief. I’ve only been home for two weeks or so when my older brother’s caregiver of four years quits. Hands in her letter, simply says that it’s time. My chest tightens, and questions come spilling in. What will this mean for my mother? What will this mean for my older brother who lives with profound special needs? And, more importantly, What will this mean for me? 

I feel my heart spin and turn within me.

The fast-slow breaths of my chest rising and falling. I consider how this might be my life, my dreams on the line . . . but I also know how the scenario will pan out for my family. Late-night searching online for caregivers. The interviews and questions. The face scanning and the background checks. Like blind speed dating—all the effort poured into seeing who would be safe enough to take care of my older brother.

“I’ll do it,” I utter. My brain barely has the chance to unfold and recognize what I’ve just said. “I can take care of him. I can be his caregiver.” Then I watch my dream wash down the gutter, like strong currents of sidewalk rain in New York City come rushing in, sinking it fast and down and hard.

“…we need space to grieve these lost dreams—every big one and little one and those in between.“

Dreams die, fold up, and altogether fall out of the sky. They are ripped right from our rib cage, taken from the hollow of our hand. We lose dreams and we lay them down. For family, because of finances, for the sake of our future—for all kinds of different reasons.

So how do we look out over the expanse of our life and admit the dreams that have died? How do we unearth purpose when the path before us is painted over with pain? How do we hold onto our hopes when the kids fall ill, when finances fail, when bodies betray, when jobs derail. More than sympathetic sayings, we need space to grieve these lost dreams—every big one and little one and those in between.

We need a truth to tell ourselves when we’re lost in the fog, hope for the hours when purpose evades and the point of life eludes us. Perhaps, then, hope is held in this one thing—the fact that a dream is really the dwelling place of a deep desire.

In place of dwelling on dead dreams, we can look to the desires that lie deep beneath them. Perhaps the dream was to have a big house, but the deep-down desire was to create a place to gather people. Even if the dream never comes to pass, still you can choose to live from and for your desire to gather people . . . with what you have and right where you are.

“In place of dwelling on dead dreams, we can look to the desires that lie deep beneath them.”

After college, instead of chasing my dream to work in publishing, I chose to go back home and take care of my older brother who lives with profound special needs. From time to time, I still ache from the loss of this dream . . .  but then I remember my brother’ smile. I hear his laughter, and it tells me his brain knows freedom even though his caged body doesn’t . . . and that brightens me up more than any light reflecting off city skyscrapers ever could.

We might not ever forget the dreams we once held; and we might not always find ways to forge them into fruition. But we can grieve what we gave up.

We can let tears fall in the moments when we’re reminded. 

And, despite the detours and dreams dead or deferred, we can let our deep-down desires—to serve others and to serve the Lord—be what leads us on.

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{ Our humble thanks to Revell for their partnership in today’s devotional.}