Hello Happy People

A greeting while in the the garden of grief.

Four years ago, I sat in the upstairs loft of a quaint corner cafe which overlooks a train crossing, large clock, and another street lined with terracotta brick buildings.

I sat with a hot coffee, a copy of the Odyssey, and a very heavy heart. This outing unbeknownst to me, changed the way I see life today. I’d like to share about it.

Some background to this day.

In all specificity, I felt I was slowly loosing myself into unquenchable grief. Within three months I had moved far enough that homesickness became a nauseous knot in my stomach. I was succumb to splitting headaches, a weight loss where my fingers and ribcage could feel one another, and uncontrollable dizzy tears, where the cold floor of the bathroom was my only relief—I’d sometimes fall asleep there. Never, had I known what it meant to be so grief stricken that you cannot hold down your dinner.

Leaving home, in the general sense, was leaving my familiarity. My familiarity was not always comfortable. High school was sleeping in the same house maybe three nights in a row, and then I’d switch it up again. I was a couch surfer, an avid crasher of family dinners, I had many mums and dads, at one point I recall having 7 toothbrushes. My heart was split between the people that cared for me, and the wish that I could call them my own blood.

In my first few weeks of moving, I found myself distantly viewing my hometown. I’d hear stories of my high school crush asking another girl to the dance—my mum said looked a lot like me. I heard of new names joining the friend group, and stories of hangouts after they happened. Most despairingly, my closest of friends, one of the seven toothbrushes, the friend who I’d attend the annual holiday family dinner, and was brave enough to attend my chaos— decided to part ways in our friendship. The door was abruptly shut, and I was on the cold ground. Amidst this loss, I was facing an even bigger reality, a father figure— my papaw having three months to live. Those three months were my first semester at school, and the last time I would be with him on this side of heaven. Every trip home was an anxious inhale, I’d reach Katella on the 405 freeway, realizing there was 12 minutes left till I could be with him and I’d pray God please don’t take him, let me see him one last time while pushing 85 mph. Selfish—when I think about it now. He was in so much pain, he wanted to be with his Heavenly Father. I, on the other hand still wanted my best people, my closest kin, but even they couldn’t quench the flame of grief.

He remained alive until the last day of my first semester. I got a call from my dad Come home honey, it looks like he won’t make it through the night. My roommates helped me pack up. I sped home through doubled traffic, that allowed to sit with all grief and all fear. Passing through South Pasadena, I for the first time reckoned with the anxious inhale. Crushing my chest, I was unable to fully breath in, it caught me by surprise that I had not remembered the last time I did breathe—fully. And by fully I mean to say lungs filling, lips smiling, and a full exhale let out. Recollecting on these moments, I thank God for slowing me down so I could see what it looks like when I am not giving everything to Him. That semester I was truly relying on my own understanding. It was wayward, faulty, and blurry.

Now I realize I have said a lot.

I don’t want any of this to be mistaken for complaining. My intention is to paint a picture of how life looked with my feeble mindset and ever crashing self reliance.

So let’s return to the coffee shop before the coffee get’s cold.

What I have waited to tell you is that I also sat across from a dear friend, who seems to have a knack for timing. She is three years older than me, possesses an ability to write words like honey and sing them just the same, and is also married to a very hilariously wise man (though not married at the time)—both of whom I now look up to as my older brother and sister (though also not at the time). We were cramming for our Odyssey seminar. School which always came easy to me felt like a chore. I’d read the same word twice, and think of death. I’d write down something that looked profound and sounded profound—and that haunting ache of loss would consume me. The only person I wanted to sit across from was my closest friend, but I sat across from someone who I never had a family dinner with, nor did I leave my toothbrush at her house, and I most certainly hadn’t called her parents mum and dad. The one thing we seemed to have in common (then) was our procrastination leading us to a quaint corner cafe.

So there I was, looking at the book, and then up at her, wishing away priceless time. And then her knack for timing kicked in—she went to get another coffee. As she walked away, relief filled me. The imposing memory of my closest friend left with her. Yet, passing her on the stairs was a jolly looking old man. He shared the same Santa Claus features my papaw had. White beard, curly pink smile, a very large beer belly. His fashion was delightful, a blue beanie leaving his ears cold, gloves I could see his fingers out of, a couple scarfs, and a coat of many colors, matching the textured tile below. He was striking, and he was happy.

That’s when the words, the piercing words, the words like a crisp red apple, the words that ring in my mind every time I am filled with grief to this day—rang from his jolly old mouth…

HELLO HAPPY PEOPLE!

He announced it to the whole upstairs. Which included me, a middle aged couple, a few scholars, and some other wanderers. My eyes were transfixed on him. I can only now imagine the look of confusion on everyones face. I was too taken aback to look around in obscurity. To preface—he was not saying hello to anyone he knew, but to everyone he did not know.

I smiled brightly, and then all fell.

All the grief. The memory of my friend fell. All the grief. The loud looming ache of divorce. All the grief. The mystery of death I did not understand. All the grief.

Then all the fear fell. Fear which had attended my heart like swell coming in waves, sets of ten, monstrous. My hands no longer felt the book in my hand. The internal sea that is my mind, was quiet. I noticed how the seat which held me barely let my feet touch the ground. I reasoned with his exquisite kindness.

HELLO HAPPY PEOPLE!

So did we all respond? Yes, they said hello. Louder than my voice, was my heart. I have never felt a hello so grand in my life. A greeting so profound, I was pulled out of grief. Has a hello ever been a tsunami, washing away the swell of fear? I smiled.

HELLO HAPPY PEOPLE!

I see now that my senses were greatly impaired by my self stricken grief. Reason returned to me. The genuine exclamation of a kind man, called me into account for my lack of hellos, my lack of happiness, and my lack of interacting with people as imago dei.

He must have sat down while my mind repeated his greeting. I saw her come back with a coffee, but grief and fear and comparison did not come with her. She sat down, and all I saw was now a friend. I determined to finish the Odyssey.

After this day, I hear that man’s voice. I see happy people when I am nervous to walk into a room. I commissioned to say hello.

HELLO HAPPY PEOPLE!

Has turned into a mantra, a metaphor of sorts. Remembering the great joy of the gospel. Knowing I have a full and unending relationship with Christ who reckoned with all my grief. In what was a very tiring season, God showed me how grievous my sin, and participation in grief was. The sin was wholly that I was not grieving with Him. I was instead relying on my own strength, and the wishful thinking that others can be what only Christ can be.

A few days ago I was reminded that with great joy comes great sorrow. In an odd way, HELLO HAPPY PEOPLE rings the reality that not everyone is happy. However, in that moment was a call back to the reality I had in Christ.

The song Gethsemane by Jon Guerra reads—

Gethsemane
Garden of Grief
Where Jesus cries
Where Peter sleeps
And fails to pray
With constancy
Gethsemane
Garden of grief
My soul it chokes
On pain and grief
Father, come take
This cup from me
But do not let
Our wills compete
If I must drink
Then let it be
Can’t you keep watch
One hour at least?
Look out and pray
The devil prowls
And seeks your soul
Yet I will keep
You where no hell
Or harm can reach
The hour has come
Rise up at once
Fear not this death
Fear God, not men
For this I came
For I so loved
The world can’t take
What I give up
I’m held by men
I would have held
Blindfolded, beaten and questioned
The son of man, the son of God
Is seated now at God’s right hand
Humility until you die
This is the drink of love divine
To you, it’s blood
To me, it’s wine
Gethsemane
Garden of light

In some deep, intermingled way what this man said reminded me of my Savior. The words I now hear Hello Happy People, sing to me the conquered grief of my now past sorrows. They sing to me the light heartedness I was to possess as a grieving Christian. I was directed to the truth of communion I get to experience in Christ.

The reality of Christ’s suffering became the clearest wave over my sea. The reality of Christ’s victory became the most gigantic wave over my sea. The reality of Christ’s sacrifice became the deepest wave flooding my sea.

“This is the drink of love divine/ To you, it’s blood/ To me, it’s wine, Gethsemane/Garden of light”

What my feeble garden of grief has turned into is a redeemed garden of light through Christ. This is the power of Christ. What is great sorrow, can become our greatest joy!

So, too that I say Hello Happy People, let us rejoice in our risen savior, Christ.

Guerra, Jon. “Gethsemane.” Keeper of Days, Essential Records, 2020. Spotify.

Cheers,

‘The Charis Collective’