Faithful Paradox

The day after Ezra’s funeral, my (now) oldest son came down early Saturday morning and said “well, today’s the day where everyone else moves on and we are left in our pain.” His words were deeply prophetic. We all hear about how grief is hard and lonely. I think a piece I never understood is that part of the reason it is hard and lonely is not just because of what my son expressed; that people move on more quickly. I think it is also hard and lonely because no one really understands the courage it takes every day to endure.

I hear of people who face monumental loss and spend days, weeks, months, even years, in isolation. They are physically incapable to get out of bed. I get it. I understand this deeply. Were it not for my children and my desire to show them that it will not always be this hard (even as I fight to believe it myself), I am sure I would be in a different place. I want so badly for them to believe that we will heal, we will hope, we will dream and laugh again, so I spend many days acting as if I believe this too, hoping that it will give them courage to keep walking and also trick my own heart into believing it.

There is a famous quote by Elisabeth Elliot that says, “Do the next thing. That has gotten me through more agonies than anything else I could recommend.” I think that is the heart of grief…. just do the next thing… and then the next. The piece that makes this journey so lonely, however, is that no one really knows the silent courage it takes every time you do the next thing.

No one knows that around every corner is a memory or a trigger. No one knows that with every memory or trigger comes the reminder that your loved on is gone and you are reminded a thousand times a day that things are no as they should be. No one understands why you tear up by the frozen chicken at Costco because you and your son had talked about meal prep and planning with that chicken. No one knows that every time you drive down I-25, your mind and heart are flooded with memories of the 20,000+ miles you put on your car as you and your son drove back and forth from the hospital. No one knows the courage that it takes to show up at church, week after week as you choose to worship a God that you feel deeply confused by right now. No one knows you spent your evening cuddling your youngest son because his tears would not be stopped as he continues to grieve the loss of his hero. No one knows the silent courage it takes for someone to just show up.

Grief is lonely, in part, because no one really understands the amount of courage it takes for you to do the next thing. It is one intentional choice after another. And it’s exhausting.

As we are all prone to doing, it is easy to assume that people move on or press forward at the same pace we do. It’s easy to assume that sure, those who grieve will have pockets of grief for the rest of their lives, but surely, because they show up faithfully, they must be doing okay.

What if instead of assuming that people are doing okay, we take a second to consider the amount of courage it must have taken for them to show up? They show up, in spite of the temptation to isolate. They show up, even though their hearts are still broken and their desires are still deadened.

As you think of someone today who is walking the road of grief, pray for them. And when you see them, let them know that you see their faithfulness. You see the courage it has taken them to show up. You see them fighting to move forward, one painful, intentional step at a time. They are likely exhausted because constantly choosing courage is exhausting.

And if you are in the space of choosing courage day after day, even if no one else sees it, know that God sees you. He sees that you are showing up. He sees that you are fighting to believe that joy will come in the morning, even if the night is still very much present. He is giving you exactly what you need to do the next thing… and the next. It’s exhausting. It’s so very exhausting. But he sees you and will help you endure.