Yesterday we experienced a great grief in our home. I heard my youngest son screaming from the backyard, “The ants are eating the toad! The ants are eating the toad!” and I knew immediately what had happened. Sometimes the toads in our yard(which my children love and adore) hide under some bricks at the back of the house in the heat of the day. I have explained to my young son that he must not disturb them, but he can’t help himself. His curiosity gets the better of him every time. I have explained to him that he should not lift the bricks because I don’t want him to injure them. Yesterday he ignored my warnings and inadvertently crushed one of the little warty beasts. My little one was devastated. My older son, who also has a tender heart, ran to see what had happened to his beloved friend, only to discover the painful truth; he was dead. Is there anything worse than discovering a creature you love not only dead, but being devoured by nature’s most efficient insects? I heard the wailing and my heart just broke. Both of my children went from the quiet of preparing for bed to devastation.
As I considered how to comfort my grieving children, I thought about the pain that has infected my own life over the years and my response to it. While the loss of a toad seems insignificant compared to other griefs, I distinctly remember the sickness and sadness I felt when I inadvertently killed several peepers while on a float trip as a child. I had collected the cute little creatures on the shore of the Bourbeuse River in the company of my family. My sweet Grandma saw my affection for the baby toads and gave me a tin can to keep them in. When we climbed back aboard the boat and began our trek down the river, I sat the can next to me on the seat where I could keep my new friends close. Sometime during the course of our journey I looked down to check on them and discovered that the heat of the sun had warmed the tin can and cooked the little creatures. I was horrified. I remember the torment I experienced as I considered that I had killed them. I felt not only sadness, but guilt. It was my fault that they died. The trip I had been wonderful up until that moment. I threw the can and its charred contents into the river and watched it float away. But the pain stayed with me.
This world offers up so many hurts. Like a sideshow carnival, we peruse the exhibits in a state of shock and horror, and consider how best to respond to such atrocities. Why would God allow the Siamese twins or the bearded lady? Why must the lions be kept in cages, only to pace back and forth and suffer at the hands of their captors? I would stand and watch the magician but his slight-of-hand is only an illusion–all lies! And so I want to run away from such things–and I do–except that running away doesn’t mean they don’t exist. So I am forced to find some way to handle the brutal realities of life.
Yesterday morning I tucked my heart into the word of God because I have learned that his words bring comfort and life when everything around me is death.
“For he has not despised or abhorred the affliction of the afflicted, and he has not hidden his face from him, but has heard, when he cried to him.” – Psalm 22:24
Every day I die a little death as I consider what foods to put into my body. I consider the starving hoards and the abundance of food in my pampered life. How can it be that I am struggling not to get fat while so many are hungry? I feel guilt when I consume ice cream when that same ice cream would delay the death of a child on the streets in Ecuador. Lest I sound melodramatic, food is a very constant battleground for me and I must keep it in its proper perspective. And yet I often find myself, much like my 7-year-old son, standing in a corner with balled up fists as I pound on my head and say, “I hate myself! I hate myself!” Because my lack of self-control is not always a purposeful attack. The natural delight God has given me in consuming healthful foods just sometimes takes an inadvertent turn down a dark and twisty path and ends up in a muddy pit full of venomous snakes.
Where do I turn when I have no one to blame but myself? What happens when I get what I deserve for the harm I have caused myself and others? No amount of self-torture will absolve the guilt, shame and pain. So what do I do?
Last weekend I had a conversation with a friend who has lived a long and painful life. He is afflicted with guilt and shame for the wounds he has caused to people he did not love well in his youth. He told me, “I don’t think I can ever be forgiven for what I did.” The grace of God seems incomprehensible to him and so he does not accept it. It’s too audacious, too intangible to even consider. And so he bumbles around in the dark, banging his knees against the sharp edges of his sorrow. It pains me to watch and so I look away. And then I pray. Because I know God is there and he is working, even when my prayers are not answered the way I want them to be.
Last night I held my son as he sobbed into my shoulder. Then we sat down and I told him that we can go to Jesus with our pain over the death of the toad. And so we asked for God to help us heal and to give us peace. We grieved the death we didn’t mean to cause. We grieved the loss of a thing that caused us great joy. And we gave our sorrow to the one who is strong enough to take away not only our regret, but our guilt. I am thankful for a heavenly father who bore the weight of my guilt so that I wouldn’t have to. His love covers our sorrows. It covers our shame. It even covers the wounds we have yet to cause. And that is why I have hope, even when my heart is full of grief.
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