The unexpected gift of grief

We graciously thank Georgia and Mitch for sharing this story and the supplied image.

Last winter, I had the quiet privilege of being with some friends in the early days of grief.

At 19 weeks and in the late hours of the night, Lily was born to her parents, Georgia and Mitch. They held her and sang as she died. The next day, while still in hospital, Georgia shared the news with their community, accompanied by a beautiful photo of her holding her daughter in her hands.

After returning home, Georgia asked if anyone might be available to be a “dishwashing fairy”, a small, practical support that would allow both her and Mitch to remain in the sacred underworld space of grief.

A few days later, on a cold morning, I knocked on their front door. Hearing nothing but knowing they were expecting me, I let myself in. The space was still and hushed, dimly lit. At the end of the corridor, I could just make out the shapes of my friends curled up together on a mattress in front of the fire, the curtains drawn, the skylight covered by a sheet.

In the kitchen, there was evidence of meals made by friends and many cups of tea, and I pottered around, sorting and tidying.

I’m not sure how much time passed—maybe an hour or so—before I heard stirrings in the next room. I put the kettle on and poked my head around the corner to announce myself, in case they hadn’t realised I was there. I could feel my own uncertainty, wondering if my presence would be an intrusion, but they greeted me warmly from the bed. When the tea had brewed, we drank it together in the cocooned living room, Georgia and Mitch sharing about the hours surrounding Lily’s birth and the days since. They showed me the altar where Lily was safely laid in a box, surrounded by objects of care, love, and protection.

After a while, Mitch showered and Georgia felt hungry. She asked if I could make some warm, brothy congee from leftover rice on the stove.

It was early afternoon by the time I left, and I sat for a minute in the driveway, allowing the morning to settle within me. Alongside the ache for my friends, there was a feeling of deep gratitude—to have been invited into the intimacy of their grief, to have been allowed to witness that raw, private place so often kept hidden from the outside world until pain is at a safer, neater distance.

I was moved by Georgia and Mitch’s instinctive response to their grief: the closing of the curtains, the dimming of the lights, their quiet refusal to return to everyday life or to ‘tidy’ themselves up for guests. It brought to mind Auden’s Funeral Blues, and the appropriateness of the voice that orders us to “stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone” when someone we love dies.

I still feel the precious gift these friends offered those around them in the days after Lily died. Their deep authenticity, their capacity to ask for help and to receive it, and their invitation for us to witness them in the midst of their grief have woven them more deeply into their ‘village’ and created space for us all to do the same.

Lily's burial site