13 weeks to joy.

The postman delivered something unsettling. I got a brochure, from a stranger no less, for a grief support group. It takes place once weekly for 13 weeks at what I like to call the “casino church”. It’s a large pole-barn structure with a flashy marquee sign in the parking lot. They also have lots of Branson-like groups that come through there. It’s a little too blinky for my Lutheran tendencies.

The brochure came with a nicely written letter from the leader of the group who, apparently, also lost her husband some time ago. “I don’t know how you do it with 2 small children. It must be really hard.” That? Right there? Is why I’m not going. That, an the subtitle of the group is “from dispair to joy”. Riiiggghhhhtttt. In 13 sessions I’m going to be joyful. UmmHmmm.

How can something even claim that? The final session is about Joy. What if, after going for 12 weeks and showing up for the 13th week, I am not joyful?

I’m just not support group material. I don’t think that anyone would get my sarcasm and I’d feel bad about it later anyway. It’s just something that sounds excruciating like having plantar warts scraped. In fact, that’s exactly what going to a support group would be like for me…digging out all the bad stuff even though it’s the bad stuff that hurts and, in the long run, I’d probably feel better. In the mean time, I’m being tortured.

I know that random strangers just mean well. If you can call going through the obits to increase the size of your group “well meaning”. She also addressed the letter to “Jenny” which means that she is either my grandma or she doesn’t know me at all.

 

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