Faithful Paradox

I was texting with a friend this morning who is going through a season of transition with her family. Some of the transitions were expected, some were not. As we were texting, I expressed that she must feel a measure of both grief and relief; grief about the changes and loss, relief about the lifting of the pressures they were feeling.

I think relief is often an unspoken part of grief that brings a lot of pain and complicated feelings to ones’ heart. On the one hand, there is grief. There is the grief that things are not as we had hoped. There is the grief of the loss that comes with change. There is the grief of letting go of hopes and expectations.

We still navigate so much grief as a family as we consider all that Ezra had to endure. We grieve that he is gone. We grieve that all the dreams and hopes we had for and with him are gone. There is grief that both remembers but there is also grief that looks ahead. It is all encompassing.

At the same time, the day we lost Ezra, there was relief. Relief that his suffering was over. Relief that the rigors of living life between the hospital and home were finished. Relief that all the tensions of the unknowns were completed. There were no more blood tests, no more wondering if treatments would work, no more anxiety about what more might come, no more fear of what other losses he may incur. There were no more worries about long term effects or ongoing suffering. There was no more living separately. The hope deferred that made our hearts grow sick was answered. There was relief to know that he had run his race well and was now safely in the hands of Jesus, never to have to navigate cancer again; never to cry another tear, face another needle poke, grieve another loss, hear another hopeless diagnosis, pray another prayer with the answer of “not yet” or “no.” When he finished his race, we felt both deep, unending, unrelenting grief. But there was also relief.

And with that relief comes guilt. With that relief comes all the questions of did we do enough? Did we make the right decisions? Did we fight hard enough? Did we give up because we were so, so weary? Did we love him well enough? Did we express that love well enough? Did we make every moment count? Did he know to his deepest core that we loved him?

There is also the guilt of the relief itself. Had we been given the option, we would have kept fighting. We fought and prayed until the very last breath that Ezra breathed. We would have kept fighting and praying.

A very complicated part of grief is that there is this drive to keep going, keep fighting. As long as there is hope, as long as there is breath, we wanted to keep fighting. And yet when the breath was gone, there was a sense of relief of the lifting of that weight. There was relief that we didn’t have to keep fighting. There was relief that we didn’t have to keep trying to muster hope when it seemed all hope was gone. There was relief that Ezra was no longer having face so much pain. There was relief that this particular race of endurance was over (despite knowing that we were now stepping into another endurance race of ongoing grief and loss).

I think with loss there is often a sense of relief that it is over; at least when loss has been encompassed with struggle and necessary perseverance to endure. But there is also grief that comes with that. It’s complicated and confusing.

As I think upon the relief paired with grief, my mind immediately goes to Jesus on the cross. I can only imagine that as he bowed his head and gave up his spirit, as he expressed, “it is finished,” he exhaled those words with tremendous relief (John 19:13). There had to be unbelievable grief having gone through what he just experienced; taking the sin of the world upon his shoulders and dying an unjust death. And yet there had to also be relief. It was finished. What he set out to do was complete. He had run the race set before him. He had redeemed sinners to his father.

I am so thankful that Ezra knew Jesus; that we can be sure of what lies ahead. There are moments I sit and wonder what those last moments were like for Ezra. As I sit and pray and imagine, a very specific picture comes to mind. I see Ezra in the ICU with Vince and Asher at his side and I see Jesus walking Ezra away from his mortal body. His arm is around him and he says, “you did well Ezra. I’m proud of you.” I can’t see the face of Jesus, but Ezra glances back and there is a look of joy and relief on his face. He finished well. The suffering is over.

When I am tempted to consider my own guilt over feeling relief, it helps to consider the relief that Ezra must have had. He was ready and willing to keep fighting. Never once did he express a desire to give up. Even in his last lucid moments, his words were, “let’s keep fighting.” There was grief in the battle, in the loss, in the pain; but I also believe that he had to be relieved it was over. While he didn’t fully understand what he was going to, I know he had to be relieved. And with that, I find peace.

John Rice says, “For the Christian, death is not a tragedy, but a glorious promotion; not the sad end but the glorious beginning. Sometimes we hear people say how sad it is that one should die so young. But that is a deception of Satan. If a young Christian dies, it is not sad but glorious. Many of the fairest buds that ever grew on earth have blossomed in heaven.”

What a gift to know Jesus, to know that my son is with him and to know that his relief is now complete. I know that he is blossoming in heaven. It helps my grief to lessen, knowing my son has nothing but relief; he is blossoming and truly living. The day he left this earth, while bringing grief upon grief for us, was the day he truly started to live. He was “swallowed up by life” (2 Corinthians 5:4); his great joy and gain. His great relief is also our temporary grief. Grief and relief; they go hand in hand. Two parts of the same coin.