September 7, 2005

• Sorrow and Grief

  I just can’t  handle Julie‘s death alone.  Whenever I think of the memorial service and having to prepare for the “remembrance” sharing, I just want to run away.  My heart still aches from the loss of her and my eyes still sting at the thought of her… Oh Lord, help me bury my heart in you, my pounding fists, my longing for comfort – for you to please wrap your big strong arms around me to tell me everything will be ok – that you’ll quietly hold me, letting me cry rather than telling me to stop because “a believer shouldn’t cry like that as if there were no hope”, but grief must go through its full cycles, and, Lord, you know that.  Will you comfort me?  I’m still hurting.  And everyday, I feel it differently.  Everyday, I remember something different.  How come it hurts so badly, Lord?  Even while knowing she’s with you.  I can rejoice most of the day and yet there are these moments where it still hurts so badly I can hardly breathe.  Time passed hasn’t lessened the pain.  Lord, only you can stand with me in this pain.  Please stand with me.  I need you, Lord, I need you.

  When does healing come?  When does comfort come?

  Sorrow and grief feels a bit like being cold all the time – as if I was standing on the Golden Gate Bridge in the dead of winter with the icy strong winds slapping me in the face.  I keep longing for a big warm blanket (fresh out of the dryer) to wrap around my heart.  It feels so cold.

  Sorrow and grief feels like a heavy sack, filled beyond its capacity.  It’s pulled down, sagging and dragging.  It’s so heavy full of something – I’m not quite sure what it is in words but it seems to me as though it should break soon and let loose a mess that could never be mopped up.

  Sorrow and grief feels like pandemonium has broken out, right inside my insides.  There’s wildness, there’s frenzy, there’s a clamor of cacophony.  There’s so much chaos inside, I wonder if things could possibly come to order.

  Sorrow and grief feels like a pre-schooler – so fearful of life beyond the safety of what has always been known (the home) that the only response is to curl up in a ball and weep.  Softly, quietly, vulnerably.

  Sorrow and grief feels like a sigh – long and slow, exhaled after a deeep breath is taken in.  Deep breaths and yet I never feel like I’m getting enough air.

  Sorrow and grief feels like loneliness.  I’m standing on top of some hill in the dark with the bold moon shining down on me and crickets are chirping and there’s not a soul in sight.  I feel so lonely.

  Sorrow and grief – what is this thing I’ve never known before that keeps my eyes wet with tears?  It’s sharp and acute… and drives me to the only One who has ever known true grief before.  And You knew it so well, oh Lord, when You lost Your only Son.  Help me live in my grief in light of Your grief that I may truly live again – not in sorrow and grief but in the victory of the empty tomb.  Help me, Lord.  I pray that you would help me.

  “I say to God my Rock, ‘Why have you forgotten me?  Why must I go about mourning, oppressed by the enemy?’” 

  but… “Why are you so downcast, O my soul?  Why so disturbed within me?  Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God.”

  “Send forth your light and your truth, let them guide me, let them bring me to your holy mountain, to the place where you dwell.  Then will I go to the altar of God, to God, my joy and my delight.  I will praise you with the harp, O God, my God.”  (Psalm 42 and 43)

  • 12:34 pm
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