This Thing Called Grief

Grief is such a strange thing.

It's like a living force.  It cannot be denied.  People say that time heals grief, but it's simply not true.  Time can create an illusion of healing -- that much is true.  Life carries on.  It resumes some kind of ebb and flow of normal.  I learn to laugh again, and cry.  I get up in the morning and go to sleep at night.  I work and vacation.  I pick up my old routines, or develop new ones.  I adjust to the "new normal".

But underneath the facade of normal, the grief lies simmering, an inexorable force which pushes me to react without thinking, and I'm not even aware of it.

I don't feel sad.

I don't feel like I'm grieving.

I feel like I'm doing fine, like life has carried on, and there is good and joy and love and life left to live.

But unless I have actively walked through the grieving process, allowed myself to ask the hard questions, and feel the anger, the pain, the despair, the hopelessness, the deep, deep fatigue, the sense of not caring about anything anymore, the disinterest in life, the sadness and heartbreak and disappointment, and the other myriad conflicting emotions that accompany grief, my heart retains deep wounds.  They lie buried, hidden from my conscious experience but affecting my subconscious reactions.  The feelings lie in wait, looking for the smallest break in the dike to burst out and flood my heart with tears as hot and hard as if the loss had just happened.  Unless I wrestle with the questions of why and why not and bring them to the only One who can provide any kind of answer, they continue to taunt and nag, like the faintest of whispers, raising doubt and fear at the least provocation.  Pushing them away does nothing.  Pretendiing they're not there is useless.

And grieving is far bigger than feeling sad.  It's far bigger than missing the person I lost, or the life I lost, or the dream I lost.  It's far bigger than learning to live in a "new normal".

It is more like a bloody, snotty, tear-filled, gut-wrenching, exhausting battle to hold onto faith in a good God who loves me despite all apparent physical evidence to the contrary.  My life was shattered.  My heart was splintered.  And God let it happen.

Pretending that battle isn't there doesn't solve it.  Pretending I'm not asking the questions does nothing but distance me from the very God I need most desperately.  He doesn't deal with pretend and masks.  He doesn't love my facade of faith and fortitude when inside I am broken and wondering why.  He loves me.  With all my doubts and fears and pain.  All my pretend does is push me away from him.

Neither does pretending God didn't let it happen solve it.  Either he is sovereign, or he is not.  If he is sovereign, he let it happen.  If he is not sovereign, he is not God.  There are no alternatives.

Ungrieved grief leaves me with a crippled faith, a faith that is strong when there is evidence that God loves me, but that is wracked with doubt and fear the moment life takes a turn for the worse.  Because I have never wrestled with the questions, every time something goes wrong, my heart immediately flies back there:  Does God really love me?  Then why does he allow me to be so desperately hurt?  Does he really have my best interests at heart?  If I care deeply about something, will he take it away?  When I pray most fervently, does he remain silent?  When my tentative faith attempts to answer with the truth, the questions fly up, hot and heavy, throwing in my face that ungrieved grief, those unshed tears.  Every new trial, every fresh loss only calcifies the old hurts.

But faith, real faith, is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.  Active faith believes God is who he says he is and can do what he says he can do even when I am still hoping, even when I cannot see it.  Genuine faith holds onto the knowledge that God is who he says he is and can do what he says he can do even when life turns sour.

I want that kind of faith.  I want a faith that isn't shaken by the blows of life, that believes God all the time even when I cannot see. I want a faith that dares to hope that he not only can, but will act in ways immeasurably more than I could ask or imagine.  I want a faith that dares to ask him to move so.  I am tired of a faith that trembles under trial and trusts for so little.

Which leads straight back into the heart of grief.

It leads back to the time when prayer was answered in a way that seemed cruel, and I became afraid to ask. Back to the time when the longing of my heart went to the grave, and I wondered why.  The time when I trusted for much and my heart was broken and my faith was shaken.

And I never cried.

But grief does not negate joy.

Asking honest questions does not mean I do not trust God.

Not grieving as those who have no hope does not mean not grieving at all.

I have grieved over other things.  Grieved, and forgiven, and healed.  And the shaking in those areas has stopped.  God did not abandon me.  He did not turn from me in disgust for my questions and my wrestlings and my tears.  He held me up and held me close.

So I'm going to go back.  I'm going to bring to God the questions I have never even consciously thought about but which are always close at hand when life goes awry.  I will cry the tears that have not been shed for 20 years. I am going to grieve unanswered prayer.  Unfulfilled longing.  The loss of a father I needed so badly.  The loss of a dad I loved.

He may not give me answers to my questions, but I know he will give me Himself.

It is a step of faith.

Thoughts While Sitting in a Hospital Waiting Room

Matt Redman's song, "10 000 Reasons is amazing, isn't it?  My, we like to belt it out.  Until it comes true.

"The sun comes up; it's a new day dawning.

It's time to sing your song again.

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me

Let me be singing when the evening comes:

Bless the Lord, O my soul."

Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me.  The thing is, I don't usually expect anything to pass except a normal day.  I don't expect anything to lie before me except the plans I had all laid out.

And then the late-night phone call comes.

And in a matter of seconds, everything changes.

And I find myself sitting in a hospital waiting room, with a lot of time to think, and a lot of time to pray, and no mental space to do either, and blessing the Lord is not necessarily the nearest thing on my mind.  It's one of those times where I'm relying on the Holy Spirit to intercede with groans on my behalf, because, really, I have been struck quite speechless by the sudden turn of events.  My mind skitters and turns, latching onto the ludicrous, missing the most obvious.

I'm eating an orange, not because I'm hungry.  I haven't been hungry all day.  My mind is disconnected.  I know I like oranges.  I know this orange is a treat -- a blood orange, one I'd normally savour.  I peel it.  I section it.  I eat it.  Mechanically.  I taste nothing.  I'm not even hungry.  I'm eating it because I don't know what else to do.

I read a book.  I read all the words.  I understand all the words.  I turn page after page.  But I have no idea what I'm reading.  The words are merely white noise drowning out a little of the cacophony of my thoughts.  When I get through this, I will throw the book away.  I never want to read it again, even though I have no idea what I've read.

The time creeps by endlessly, one second at a time.  How can one minute stretch into a week? Is no news good news?  Is no news bad news?  Does it mean something's happened, and they're waiting until they fix the disaster before telling us?  Nothing is happening.  There's no disaster.  It's ok.  Oh, God, let it be ok.  It could be a disaster.  NO.  NO!!  Shut UP!!  God . . . !  GOD!!  How can my heart be pounding so hard and the whole world not hear it?  How can it be pounding so hard and it not just burst out of my chest?

The sun is setting.  When did the sun begin to set?  I just got here.  How long have I been here?  Has the sun been shining all day, and I have been looking out of the window all day, and I have never noticed that the sun is shining?  And now a whole day of sunshine has slipped by and the sun is setting, and still I am sitting here?  How did this happen?

Where did all the people go?  This room was packed when we got here.  There's hardly anyone left.  What were they all waiting for?  Why are they gone already and I'm still here?  Is there something wrong?  Is it taking longer than it should?  No, NO, NO!!  No, shut UP!  God . . . !  GOD!!  It's ok.  It's ok.  It's gonna be ok.

But I've been down this path before.  And it wasn't ok.  It was all so dreadfully wrong.

And there is grief still to be grieved.

It is amazing how experiences carve pathways in the brain.  Years can fill the pathways with dust and debris, but in just the right circumstances, the dust and debris are blown away, and the pathway lies exactly as it was left, with all its old potholes and roadblocks and undiscovered treasures.  The heart finds the pathway familiar and follows it without thought.The heart is not recognising that this is not the same path.  It looks and feels and sounds and smells so familiar.  It stumbles over the same potholes.  It misses the scenic vistas.  It follows without examining where it goes.  It assumes an outcome because it's travelled the path before. 

But it is a different path.  The old paths need to be examined,  not just blown over with the dust and debris of time, to come back to life like a dormant seed in the desert, waiting for the storm of life to water it and give it new root. Potholes and roadblocks need to be filled in with truth. Treasures need to be uncovered and enjoyed.  New outcomes are possible.  Hope . . . hope is possible.

And this song comes on:

"I’m tired, I’m worn.
My heart is heavy
From the work it takes
To keep on breathing.
I’ve made mistakes;
I’ve let my hope fail.
My soul feels crushed
By the weight of this world.

And I know that you can give me rest
So I cry out with all that I have left:

Let me see redemption win
Let me know the struggle ends
That you can mend a heart
That’s frail and torn ..."

Make it so, Lord.

Amen.