The Gift of Grief
I’m still learning to grieve in a way that leads me toward Jesus instead of isolation and going through it alone. I grew up believing to some degree that because “we have this hope as an anchor for the soul” (Heb. 6:19) – this sure, steadfast, unbreakable anchor that holds our souls to God himself; this anchor of hope that’s fastened to the mercy seat in the heavenly realm – that grief and sadness were un-Christian expressions. We have wonderful worship songs declaring “I trust in God, I sought the Lord, and He heard, and He answered,” but very few that say, “I trust in God, but I’m really, deeply sad right now.” As if our grief and sorrow somehow negates the fact that He’s a good God with good plans, and He’s perfect in all of His ways. I think I grew up seeing the people around me bringing only their happy faces and their bright and shiny feelings to church. I don’t remember seeing sadness and pain and struggle brought to light in church (except for funerals).
But I’ve come to know that our Creator doesn’t say to stuff down the hard, “icky” feelings, but instead He says, “Bring me everything.” After many experiences in my life where the Lord has shown me time and time again that He really doesn’t ever leave or forsake me, I can see that He truly wants all of us. He will sit with us in the dark. He says, “I’m going to stay right here until you can bring all of you to all of me.” Psalm 23 reminds me that even in the darkest valley, He is right there comforting me, even if I can’t feel or see Him. And I think that we, as believers, need to keep talking about how God is with us in the darkest moments, not that we never have them anymore. We have a world that is so sad and so broken, but we lose our relevance because we try to pretend that we aren’t. In all of my brokenness and grief and doubts, all He has ever been is kind. Grief has a way of making His countenance a little clearer. Grief increases my awareness of His presence because I need it.
Before Psalm 23, we of course find Psalm 22. Psalm 22 is full of lament and anguish and grief. David also wrote an important word in it, a conjunction - the word “yet.” “Yet” links two clauses together, and it means, “but at the same time.” I cry out to you by day, and no answer, and by night, but I find no rest… YET, You are enthroned as the Holy One. Our ancestors cried out to You and were saved and not put to shame. All these people around me mock me and insult me for my trust in You…YET, You delivered me safely and have cared for me since birth, and You’ve always been my God. (Paraphrasing)
This gives me great comfort that it’s still true – God is big enough for our honest grief and for our raw lament. And yet, He is still so good, and He’ll never stop being good. There are seasons where we find ourselves living in the in-between: pain and blessing, overwhelming busyness and peace, grief and hope. In that space, God doesn’t ask us to pretend that we’re not experiencing both. I believe all He asks is that when someone else is walking that road, that we say, “Let me tell you about my God who carried me when I couldn’t carry the weight of my own life.”
So when grief feels extra heavy, lean into His presence that is so very near. It’s okay to be sad, but bring it to Jesus, because He’s close to your broken heart. Don’t hide your tears, but instead, relish in the comfort of sinking into His arms. We can hold tissues to soak up the tears, and yet, cling again to that hope. We will see that anchor of our souls hold within the veil that was torn and grants us open access to God's presence.
Praying for you,
Amanda Shouse
