“Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. The troubles of my heart are enlarged; bring me out of my distresses. Consider my affliction and my trouble, and forgive all my sins.” – Psalm 25:16-18
I stood weeping on the bank of the river while my children splashed in the water. Their effervescent spirits were directly juxtaposed to the well of suffering I was drowning in. They leapt. I sobbed. They laughed. I mourned. Still, I praised God for His glorious creation, even as my tears gave way to sighing.
What enables the grieving person to praise God as tears drip down her nose? What mysterious power saturates the senses with pure joy even as heartache throbs in the chest? What kind of “crazy” religion comforts the mourning person in the midst of crippling sorrow?
I have not discovered a magic potion, nor have I stumbled upon the perfect pill to erase suffering. I cannot make light of the throb that comes when the hammer falls on the heart. If you are reading this and think that I offer you a makeshift splint when you need a plaster cast, please reconsider. I do not write this to offer a little distraction from the pain. I am in the pain and I have joy, and I want to share with my dear reader the reason why.
I have never experienced such a swell of emotion in response to memories. When one loses a loved one, the tidal wave of sorrow is utterly overwhelming. I stood on the bank of that river where we once played and saw my grandmother. The woman who I loved so deeply was etched in every ripple. I heard her voice calling my name and speaking such tender words of affirmation and care. Wave after wave washed over me and I struggled with how to reconcile the terrible aching loss with the beautiful memories that made her so special. I have personally found great comfort in nature when life goes awry and so finding no solace in the trickle of water or the sway of the trees, I grasped hopelessly to find solace and meaning after her death.
I suppose everyone responds to grief differently. I have seen charts that map the stages of grief but they aren’t especially helpful to me. First, the knowledge of what should happen doesn’t mitigate the pain. Second, what do I do when my symptoms are all out of order? All the charts taught me is that something must be wrong with me because I’m not doing it right.
All of the little pleasures that were once easy distractions have lost their appeal. The frivolous idioms that acquaintances have offered as condolences don’t console. Food has lost its savor and sleep has offered no respite. Worse, I find myself apologizing for my weariness. Why am I so doggone tired? I force myself out of bed and through my workouts because I must, not because there is any semblance of pleasure in waking or walking. And when I scan the heavens, tracing the clouds with my eyes in search of some kind of sign from my grandmother that she is looking down on me, I despair when I find none. All I feel is the restless echo my broken heart makes as it continues to beat like a lonely drum.
A few days ago when in the grasp of that sad stupor, I finally collapsed beneath the weight of my grief onto the only place that offers any kind of cushion; God’s word. Once there I found the sprout of something lovely, precious, and uncommonly fragrant.
“There is none holy like the Lord: for there is none besides you; there is no rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2
As I read I remembered that my grandmother was a great bandager of wounds, but God is the great healer of broken hearts. I remembered how gladly my grandmother listened to me as I shared all of my emotional ouchies, but realized God can actually take them away if I offer them to Him. As a kindness to her family, my grandmother liked to bake sweet treats, but God offers his words and they are like honey to my soul. My grandmother loved to cuddle babies but God creates the babies to cuddle and cherish. As I pondered all of the attributes that made Ruby Allen so unique and lovely, it occurred to me that God created her that way. My grandmother was a gift from God to me (and so many others). And as I fully realized this, it felt like flowers, not unlike Surprise lilies, began to sprout from the dark and lonely soil of my heart.
So what does one do when thinking about a person who has had such a tremendous impact on ones life? How does one respond when contemplating each kiss, each handmade gift, and each unwarranted “I love you”? If you think that I responded by saying “Thank you” to God, you would be correct. And with that expression of praise I felt a measure of peace. Not to say all the pain was instantly removed, but the sting of death was certainly mitigated. My grandmother was a gift and her death is the not the end of the story.
Gratitude is a beautiful thing. A grateful heart has no space for anger, bitterness or regret. A heart that is thankful sings songs even when tears are forthcoming. A grateful heart can look into the chasm of death–see beauty–and smile.
God is always good. His words remind me of that time and time again. And while my feelings do not always match that great truth, it is nice when the grace of God intervenes and reminds me.
“Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4
“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” Psalm 56:8
“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.” Romans 15:13
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