Grief is difficult to describe. I have heard it likened to
drowning, and the adjective “overwhelming” has been among the most common I
have heard used to describe the emotional turmoil of loss. But how can one
adequately describe such a powerful feeling?
I attended a memorial service for a beloved uncle last week,
and I must admit, I couldn’t think of a better way of describing grief than the
definition the pastor used: that grief is a hole in one’s heart that is carried
with us for the rest of our lives.
I cried at my uncle’s service, as I have cried over the loss
of other relatives: not because of any sadness for them, (they are enjoying the glories of heaven!) but because a part of
my heart is empty.
I have found that grief is not the all-consuming pit of
despair I had expected it to be when viewing it through the eyes of childhood. It is more like a flash flood.
It comes powerfully, in waves.
When my Gramma died (my first “real” experience with grief),
I cried a great deal in the first few days, but even during that first intense
period of grief, the waves would come and go. It was not a steady stream of
sorrow; and even now there are times when I see a picture of her, or hear
someone say something she often said, or smell the scent of the hairspray she
used, and all at once I feel that emptiness acutely and the flood of grief washes
over me anew.
For me, these floods are usually caused by or at least strengthened
or prolonged by “nevermore” thoughts. For example, the day my uncle was put on
hospice, Mommy asked me to bake a small apple pie for my uncle. I was happy to
do so, but as I prepared to bake, I found myself overwhelmed with grief as the same
idea raced again and again through my mind:
His last pie.
The last pie I will ever make him.
The last pie he will ever get to eat.
As it turned out, he actually never got to eat the pie I
made; he went to heaven the next morning before the pie could be delivered. But I think God intended the making of the pie
to benefit me more than my uncle anyway. It made me come to terms with the
reality of the coming loss before it was upon me.
When my Gramma died, the “nevermore” thought that was on
auto repeat through my head as I drove home from the hospital (and many times
after that) was that she never got to see me in a wedding dress. Oh, how she
would have loved to! She delighted to see her grandkids all dressed up, and I used
to stop by to see her whenever there was an occasion to dress up for. Several
times in the first year after she went to heaven, I had the thought as I got
ready for some special occasion, “I should stop by to see Gramma afterwards”
and was struck with the thought that I never could do that again.
But despite these oh-so-poignant “nevermores”, I have found that
God is enough, even in grief. In every area of loss, whether it be loss of our
dearest people or dreams or health or plans of how our lives “should” be, God’s
character never changes, and Romans 8:28 still applies.
In my few sorrows, I have learned that dealing with grief and
loss is just like dealing with any other area of aching emptiness: the answer
is surrender.
Now, before you tune me out for being unfeeling, know that I
do acknowledge that grief is real, raw, and powerful. To say that the answer is
surrender in no way diminishes the reality of grief. But God is as His Word
says, “a very present help in trouble”. In fact, Psalm 46, the first verse of
which contains that wonderful truth of God’s presence and support in trouble,
goes on to describe earthquakes and mountains melting into the ocean and angry
waves shaking even the mountains. Yet, the very next thought is “There is a
river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God, the holy place of
the tabernacles of the most High.” (v.4) There is comfort to be found, yes and
even gladness in the midst of such turmoil. The way to such peace and joy is
found in verse 10: “Be still, and know that I am God”
The problem with my “nevermore” thoughts is that they
presume to pass judgement on how things “should have been”, instead of
accepting how God has allowed them to be.
It has well been said that “Of all sad words of tongue or
pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’”[i]
But God is the Master of our reality. In times of grief, when the billows of
sorrow and floods of “nevermores” overwhelm us, the choice to trust in God’s
character and wisdom is crucial.
Think of Job. He suffered loss most of us will never come
near to experiencing, but even in those first moments of grief and agony, he
responded in a way God describes as being without sin.
Here is Job’s response:
“Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I
return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the
name of the Lord” (Job 1:21)
These words have been quoted and held up as an example to
suffering people ever since Job’s story was first told, but I want you to
notice God’s view of them. The very next verse clearly states why it was that
Job’s response was right:
“In all this, Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly.”
(Job 1:22)
Here’s where it hits me the hardest: Those “nevermores” I
so readily wallow in are nothing more than thinly veiled complaints about what God has
allowed. In other words, I am foolishly charging God with incompetence or negligence
at best, and malice at worse. After all it is God’s “good and perfect” will we
are arguing with. (Romans 12:2)
Godly grief acknowledges sorrow and the feelings of loss,
but chooses gratitude over complaint, humble trust over bitterness, and hope
over despair.
God has designed us to feel those empty places. But the
reason He wants us to notice them is so that He can fill them. When my heart
feels hollow, I must choose to cry out to God, for Scripture promises: “draw
nigh to God and He will draw nigh to you.” (James 4:8) When I yield my
sorrow and hurt to Him, I never cease to find that He is enough.
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