Living in the Tension of Beauty and Sorrow

Life is beautiful. The natural world is filled with splendor. From the smallest leaf to the tallest tree, there is wonder in every cell of every living thing. It is truly amazing.

We are often too busy to notice or are easily distracted by insignificant things. We get sucked into a corporate mindset and convince ourselves that what we are doing makes a difference by how well we edit a spreadsheet. We seek to be entertained rather than to observe and interact with. Our vortex of self-involvement is rather astonishing.

I love to watch things grow. The birds around my feeder are so grossly wasteful. They scatter sunflower seeds like confetti. But one brilliant byproduct are the myriads of flowers that grow around and nearby as a result. I watch two leaves turn into four, then six, then ten. And then, just when I think they can’t be any more beautiful, they form a prickly round face which emerges in an effervescent show of yellow. And then there are a colony of smiling sunflowers standing and waving and following the sun from east to west each day. Right there in my backyard outside my window. What a gift! Every day is another miracle.

In contrast, there is also ugliness. I am often forced to deal with people who are cruel or unkind. There are neighbors who choose to harangue me. There are thunderstorms with great streaks of lightening. Hailstorms. Tornadoes. Floods. There is sickness. Cancer. Juvenile diabetes. Schizophrenia. Depression. Not only is life varied in its beauty, but it is also duplicitous in its bleak displays of sorrow and pain.

I was five years old the first time I lost a pet. Our dog Gypsy, a beautiful Collie whom I loved to brush and pet, was given away. She had shown aggression to my sister, who was then only three years old. My parents were afraid she would do something more serious, so they gave her to a neighbor who had fallen in love with her over the fence. I’ll never forget the night they took her away. I simply could not understand why my parents took away the animal that I loved so dearly. I sobbed out of the anguish of my little girl heart, begging them to let her stay. And for many years after she left, for I never saw her again, I hoped and dreamed that the people would bring her back. Her loss was a shadow over my childhood and something I never really recovered from.

It seems strange when I think about it now. Every fresh loss somehow stacks on top of the old losses. It’s not like one gets used to pets going away or dying. Worse, we compare them to each other. The loss of certain pets seems more prominent than others, whether because they displayed more pleasing character attributes or because they were younger or prettier. I don’t sit around thinking about Gypsy. I don’t really miss her anymore. But when I consider the pain of that loss, it is as resonant today as it was 44 years ago.

Tank when he was feeling suave

We’ve had two losses in the past week. First, our dog Tank, a boxer, and second, one of our beloved Australorp chickens. I have so many conflicting feelings. Pets are a lot of responsibility, and I was rather ready to be done having a dog. I’ve had a dog in some shape or form for the past 24 years and I wanted a break. I expected to be relieved, especially since Tank had several health issues and we had been visiting the vet or emergency vet off and on with some regularity. There were pills and special food and more sleepless nights that I like to think about. But then I remember his eyes and the tender way in which he regarded me when I took care of him. If one was able to fully convey the weight of adoration in a glance, Tank was. I felt his love for me. He was grateful for his life with us. Even at his last moments when we were saying goodbye, he seemed to say, “Thanks, Mom.” Therefore, the loss of him feels larger than my body can tolerate.

Ephraim with Jane

Jane was different. She was only a year old and in the prime of her life. She was a fat, black hen who was very insistent about her treats and liked to make happy little “bur bur burp” sounds when I wasn’t feeding her fast enough. Ephraim called her his lap chicken and was always bringing

her into the house for cuddles. No matter how many times I told him she obviously didn’t want to be held or cuddled, he insisted. And she tolerated him. She was laid back like that. And since she was rather large and meaty, she wasn’t able to run away very fast. Our one consolation after losing Tank on Tuesday was that we had Jane to cuddle. This morning, I found her dead in the coop.

So, we grieve. We experienced beauty and now we experience loss. This doesn’t mean beauty has ceased, only that our eyes are too filled with tears to see it at the moment.

So I hopped on my bike this morning to try and get my mind off searing loss. I haven’t been on a ride in many months. I found the roads had changed. Pavement had been resurfaced and intersections were under construction. The wide shoulders I ride with pleasure were cordoned off and I had to ride in the road with the scary cars (who I always fear will run me over). I thought about how the people at work are always talking about change and how we have to get comfortable with change. We have to adapt. We have to learn and grow. But I struggle with change. I want everything and everyone to stay the same. Sameness is equivalent to comfort in my mind’s eye. And then I saw the baby water turtles that had perished on the side of the road near the wetlands. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I saw several dead baby ducks. I started to weep again. “Why must everything and everyone die? Why must everything always change?”

But then I considered how silly I look. Riding my bike weeping opening. People will certainly think I am goofy for crying about little creatures who have perished by the wayside much less over a pet chicken and an old dog. And this thought made me so much sadder. Grief can make one feel so lonely because we think no one will care or understand. Grief is a terrible burden.

I found comfort today in a sermon by Voddie Baucham titled, “Fighting for joy in the journey”. He reminded me (by way of 2 Timothy 4) how we must remember the story is not all about us. The real story of life is about God and all that He is doing.

“As for you, always be sober-minded, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, fulfill your ministry.” 2 Timothy 4:5

Flowers from a friend

The story of the world and of creation is God doing all of these remarkable things to point to how good He is. When I told Ephraim about Jane dying, his choking sobs reminded me of that five-year-old girl mourning the loss of her beautiful dog. There was a brokenness that can’t be mended with social media, ice cream or any other human thing. But what is true and lasting is the gospel message of hope through Jesus Christ – who conquered death – who raised from the dead – who is alive today and reigning victorious over a sin-saturated world. His journey from the throne room of Heaven to earth was extremely lonely. The prophet Isaiah called him “a man of sorrows and familiar with grief.” So, when we grieve the loss and pain in this world and cry out to Jesus, He is able to comfort us because he knows how we feel. He isn’t distant or uncaring or too “sovereign” to be bothered with us little people. He loves us. He came to save us from our sin. This is the good news of the gospel. Death isn’t the end of the story. It’s only a chapter in the great story of life.

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.” – Hebrews 4:15-16

What a comfort it is to know that there is grace enough for us in our time of grief. Grace will sustain us when we can’t take another step forward. If we are willing to surrender our sorrows and pain to God, He is able to carry us and sustain us through our darkest hours of suffering.

Bumblebee on my iris

There are more miracles happening even as I write this. There is a hummingbird hovering over the feeder. There is a brown thrasher running through my sunflowers and making a rather prominent stand for the rest of the birds to see. And while my feet are cold because I haven’t any dog to lay on them to keep them warm, I have beautiful memories of love that I wouldn’t trade for anything. And I’m sure there are so many more miracles to come. There are so many more wonderful things to see and taste and experience from the hand of God. I am once again reminded of the words of another suffering saint, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the Name of the Lord.”

And it’s true. He lives. And He does comfort us. My burden of grief already feels lighter. What a remarkable gift it is to be loved by a beautiful Savior.