Grief Begets Grace

© Jamie Boshears

Author Anne Lamott wrote in Traveling Mercies, “I do not at all understand the mystery of Grace, only that it meets us where we are but does not leave us where it found us.”

Grief is like that, too.

As both a professional in the field of death and dying and as someone acquainted with deep personal loss, I’ve come to believe that where we begin in grief and where it takes us are vastly different places — landscapes carved by pain, but also by discovery. You might notice I did not say “where we end,” because I do not believe grief ends. Rather, it softens. Over time, we learn to reframe our lives, and shift our field of vision from raw grief to healing and purpose.

Grief is hard work. It demands courage, stamina, faith, and a willingness to sit in discomfort while it does its sacred task: preparing us to reengage with the world. We are meant to. Many of those I accompany through grief resist this truth. They see grief as the final and purest proof of love. And yes, when we love deeply, we grieve deeply. But laughter and joy, the telling of old stories, small rituals, and continued bonds are also acts of love. Grief is not the absence of joy; the two can coexist, side by side. To laugh, to eat, to breathe fully
again — none of this means your loved one is forgotten. It means your heart is already doing the good and holy work it was created to do.

Still, many become lost within their pain, afraid to lean into it. I often remind them, “You are already in pain. I am asking you to trust this process and me, and you will grow to a different place in profound ways.”

Trust, however, is not easy.

One woman told me that trusting me felt harder than her husband’s death. She could not imagine ever feeling different than she did in those first raw, hollow days. Yet she kept coming back. “I have no choice,” she said. “I’m still here and breathing, and I cannot fathom spending the rest of my life feeling this way.” Her willingness to stay curious, to do the hard work, and to see her grief not as an enemy but as a companion—it was an extraordinary transformation to witness. Today, she volunteers with LifeTouch Health of Arkansas and has become a certified grief counselor, hoping to offer others the same solace she once sought.

Grace does not leave us where it found us.

For caregivers, grief may carry even deeper layers — exhaustion folded into loss, guilt tangled with relief, vulnerability with love. Mrs. A once told me, “I was so tired I did not know my own name. If anyone had told me I could provide the care my husband needed, I would not have believed them. I prayed for relief for all of us, then felt guilty for even thinking that.

When John died, I was relieved, tired, and angry, and I had a lot to occupy my days. But when the silence came, I did not expect to feel so utterly lost. My job was over. I did not even know myself. I felt completely untethered from everything I thought I knew.” Her loneliness was staggering. “Well-meaning people are just that — well-meaning — but my grief made them uncomfortable. One by one, they faded away. Another connection to my husband, gone. I felt like I was in a boat with only one oar, just spinning in circles. Loss
upon loss.”

When a family friend asked what she would do now, she bristled at first, finding it rude and insensitive. But the question lingered. “What am I going to do now?” she wondered. In her earliest days of grief, she would lay on the bathroom floor and cry, finding comfort in the cool tiles against her cheek. One day, she decided to retile that bathroom — something she had never done before but she understood the significance of desiring change in THAT space. “What’s the worst that could happen?” she said. “I would rather ask ‘why not’ than
‘what now.’”

Grace does not leave us where it found us.

I am years out from my own losses. My parents and my sister are gone, and all my professional learning pales beside the reality of their absence. Intellectually, I understand the terrain of grief — but my heart still urges me to call my sister for a recipe or share a memory. If I fish the White River, I still expect to see my father baiting a hook, my mother loading snacks into the boat. I call that grief standard time, where it does not matter if the loss was yesterday or years ago - my heart still wants what it wants. This is my holy trinity: aligning my head, heart, and gut to accept the absolute truth of these deaths. I know. I do know, but the relationship still thrives to soothe my tender heart. I continue my bonds in ways that feel sacred and ordinary all at once. I wear my mother’s aprons when I cook. I feel my father’s steady hand guiding mine when I cast a line. I still tell jokes that only my sister and I found funny.

The beauty of continuing bonds is that they can take any form we need. One widow called me months after her husband died, profoundly sad because she had just used the last of his favorite brand of butter — another thread to him gone. She also had once remarked that she missed him most when she drove, his loving presence beside her. I suggested she place something of his — a handkerchief, a watch, a photo — inside the empty butter tub and set it in the passenger seat, letting him ride along, just like he used to. Later, she told
me it brought her immeasurable comfort, knowing it would make her husband laugh, with humor being a cornerstone of their relationship.

Continuing bonds are the bridge between grief and living forward.

How do we live forward even as we glance back over our shoulder to what was? Sometimes it begins with a yes — yes to coffee, to a grief group, to art, faith, or travel, or simply the courage to rise from bed and see what the day might hold. When the desire to move toward life becomes stronger than the desire to stay still — when curiosity begins to outweigh fear — you have turned a corner.

And in that moment, grief becomes not a wound, but a companion, and Anne Lamott got it right; grace does not leave us where it found us.

About the Author

Jamie Boshears is a Certified Thanatologist, Certified Grief Counselor, and Certified End-of-Life Doula with more than twenty years of experience in the field of grief and loss. She currently serves as a Senior BereavementSpecialist with LifeTouch Health (formerly Arkansas Hospice), where she provides compassionate support to individuals and families navigating the challenges of grief. Jamie is a strong advocate for honoring each grief journey in the way most meaningful to those who experience it. She believes that deep love and deep grief are inseparably connected, and that maintaining continuing bonds with those who have died is an integral part of healing. During the Covid-19 pandemic, Jamie was instrumental in developing and co-facilitating Arkansas Hospice’s telegrief support groups and co-launching the podcast Speaking of Grief, ensuring accessible and meaningful bereavement support to those in need. Both endeavors continue to this day.

In addition to her professional work, Jamie is an accomplished actor and vocalist who regularly performs on stagemand screen.