Faithful Paradox

One of the cruel pieces of grief and loss is that life simply marches on and cares not that you want (or need) time to sit and linger, working through complex thoughts and emotions. There are the pieces that some who are watching may see or experience, and then there is the ongoing internal battle that feels so very lonely, isolating and unrelenting. As a mom, this feels even more difficult, as I want so badly to shelter my boys from the immense grief that still ravages my heart on many days. On the one hand, I don’t want to pull them down on the days they seem to be thriving. On the other hand, I also want to invite them into the sacred spaces of dwelling when they need it. Some days they just need to sit with grief for a spell and they often need an invitation into painful spots which is an open door for them as they work through their own loss. It’s always a balancing act and many times, I have guessed wrongly about the next step needed.

Our (now) oldest is in an exciting new season and has settled into his college life. The first morning he was gone, I awoke early and walked past his bedroom (which was formerly Ezra’s room) and my breath literally left my body as tears instantly began to fall. His door was open, the morning light was shining into the hall, and my son was gone. The first day after we lost Ezra, I walked past his room, the door was open, the morning light was shining into the hall and he was gone. Same momentary experience and yet also so very different. As I went downstairs with tears on my cheeks, Vince reminded me, “he’s not gone forever; this time.”

“This time…” There is so much wrapped up in that small qualification. He’s not gone forever, and yet his absence reminded me of the that loss. What my head can know is true is still in competition with what my heart feels. The only experience I have of a child moving on in life is that of death. And so I grieve. And in that grieving, there is a measure of exhaustion because it’s not simply grieving as all parents do when a child moves into an exciting new phase. It’s grieving the onward march of life, yes, but it’s also grieving what never was. It’s grieving all over again all that I had hoped and dreamed for my son and for my family. It’s fighting to rejoice with my college-aged son and quietly, silently mourn all that his delight stirs within my own heart; all that I want to protect him from. It’s a constant balance.

Grief is so complicated because it is a mix of competing emotions, constantly in tension and yet rarely reconciled. It is fighting to celebrate what still is in tension with what is no longer. There is joy and delight in the onward marching of life, and with that joy and delight are triggers of sadness, of days lost, of time that will never again be. It’s both-and. It’s fighting for the joy of this moment and yet living with the shadow of what was. It’s finding gratitude for what is and simultaneously honoring what is no longer. It’s willingness to remember and yet also intentionally moving forward. It’s allowing memories of the past to linger and yet also choosing to create new memories void of the thing you loved. It’s allowing the heart to believe that God still has good for me, even if that good looks and feels different than I had hoped. It’s fighting to believe that the good God has will be just as good (maybe even better) even if I can’t comprehend what that means. God’s grace and mercy did not end when Ezra’s life ended. It’s a truth I must remind myself of often.

Grief is a sacred balance. I know of many who simply shut down, and I understand why. It seems like it will be easier to navigate the grief that comes if you simply ignore it; act as if it does not exist. And yet ignoring grief is much like ignoring the sun; acting as if it didn’t exist. Its heat, its light, its energy touches every aspect of life, as does grief. Simply ignoring it, shoving it down, disregarding its presence, does not destroy its existence. It simply causes you to ignore the effects of grief. Ignoring the effects of the sun will cause things to dry up and shrivel. It will bring damage and decay. And so it is with grief. Every memory stirs up some feeling. Every thought brings with it wrestling with whether or not to speak the name of that which was loss. Will speaking bring more pain or will it bring healing? For one it may bring pain and the other it may bring healing. It’s a constant tight rope, taking one tenuous step after another, stumbling often. It’s walking with so much caution, trying not to drag others down with you and yet also desperately needing to process through the emotions.

Learning to grieve is a balance of looking ahead, believing there is good right now and good yet to come, and also glancing back, remembering the good that was. It’s pressing forward and simultaneously acknowledging the past. It’s easy to get stuck in one place or the other. It’s easy to get stuck remembering too much, longing for what will never again be. And it’s easy to get stuck in only looking ahead, moving on as if nothing ever happened. Grieving well takes time. It takes discernment. It takes willingness to engage both the sadness that always lingers, and yet also grasp for the joy that lies ahead. It’s a sacred balance.