Faithful Paradox

I always have this hope that reading, speaking and knowing God’s truth will bring immediate comfort. The reality is, however, that it often takes fighting to believe what is true before feelings follow. It is rarely a one-for-one exchange for me. Rarely is it that I proclaim what is true and then my feelings are righted immediately. What is more common is that I find myself battling feelings, fighting to speak what is true, hoping that my belief will follow suit and waiting for that time to come. It’s often a daily battle of speaking what is true, hoping that my emotions will follow, and it can be exhausting.

As I think about grief, there are many days that it is still hard to find comfort in knowing what is true. What is true is that God is in control of all things; despite the fact that things very often feel out of control. What is true is that God is only good and only kind and only loving; and yet we are also very much left affected by living in this very broken world. What is true is that I do not grieve as one without hope; and yet often that hope is clouded by the present moment of pain, loss and confusion. Many days, these truths feel ineffective to deeply impact my heart.

It’s not that the these truths do not bring some measure of hope, but rather, having knowledge of these future realities is different than having experienced them first hand. When I am thirsty, the thought of a drink of water does not quench my thirst. I can anticipate having a drink at some point, but I am no less thirsty as I wait for the water. It is the same with pain and loss. Knowing that one day the pain will end does not cause it to lessen in the moment. The understanding of hope does not lessen the things we feel and presently experience. We still ache, feel confusion, experience ongoing pain, hurt deeply, feel the brokenness of living on this earth. We can know that one day, all the wrongs will be made right, but for now, it is a future, and often not felt, hope. 

I believe that one day beauty will come. But before that beauty comes, I must sit in the wasteland of destruction. Beauty will come, but first I must grieve the loss. Beauty will come, but for now, pain must be endured. Psalm 30:5 assures us that “weeping may endure for the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Often, I find myself hoping that the weeping of the night is a literal 8 hour period of darkness. The reality is, however, that at times, the night is long. It is a time of proverbial darkness. I cannot will the sun to rise. I cannot call the joy of the morning to come. Often, the darkness of night is a season of endurance and confusion.

Our culture is often uncomfortable sitting in the darkness of night. Often, with that darkness are seasons of pain and loss. In order to avoid the discomfort that comes in these spaces, we too quickly jump to looking for the good. We are quick to admonish others to “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thes 5:8). We are quick to jump to Romans 8:28, assuring others and ourselves that God works all things for good, so certainly this pain will be okay. How often is this admonition or encouragement given in order to alleviate the sadness of the present moment; to jump too quickly to try to will the sun to rise, rather than creating space to sit in the present darkness?

At times, there is simply no good to be found in our pain… yet. At times, our job is simply to grieve, creating space for the darkness as we wait for the sun. It’s a posture of submission. In that waiting, when the darkness of night is still very present, what does it look like to give thanks?

Giving thanks can simply be thanking God that he is near to us. He has promised in his word that he is close to the broken-hearted (Psalm 34:18), that he comforts us in our affliction (2 Corinthians 1:4) and somehow, in the backward ways of God, we are blessed when we suffer (1 Peter 4:12-19).  Is part of that blessing simply that God is especially near? Could it be that God’s heart is ever so tender towards his children when they suffer? Could it be that sometimes, giving thanks in all circumstances is not thanking God for the circumstance itself, but rather, thanking God for who he is, despite the circumstance? Could it be that when we are too quick to jump to trying to see the good in the pain, we actually miss the very presence and nearness of God that he has promised to us?

I have spent nearly two years now sitting in the darkness of pain, confusion and brokenness. Grief has felt like an ever present companion. I have sat in the night, at times doubting the sun would rise. Only now, nearly two years past our loss, am I just now beginning to see the tiny orange glow on the horizon of a sun that will one day rise again. Simultaneously, I also recognize that just before the dawn, the night is actually the darkest. There is still more darkness to endure before the sunrise comes.

With the briefest anticipation of the rising sun, I can see that one of the things God is doing through the loss is giving me a deeper understanding of faith in suffering. There is deep assurance that it was never me holding tightly to God, but rather, it is he who has held me near.

Over these last 2 years, I can see that God allowed us to suffer in such a way that it loosened our hold on the things of this earth. Losing my son has created a deeper longing for heaven. It has truly shown me that this earth is temporary and passing away; I am only here for a short time and I am eager to let go of the things here on earth in a way that is new to me.

I believe that our story also allowed others an opportunity to peek into an incredibly painful narrative that was not their own and see glimpses of the faithfulness of God. Our loss has allowed us to better understand Christ’s suffering for us and it has given me such a deeper love for and appreciation of the salvation bought for me because of Christ. Because of Christ’s sacrifice, I will see my son again.

The last few years have helped me understand a little more acutely the pain that Christ felt in his separation from the Father as he hung on the cross. Being cut off from my son so completely has grown my affection for Jesus as his separation from his Father was far greater and more painful.

There is more that I know God will accomplish through this suffering and so much of it is still so raw that while I still cannot see much earthly good, I can see eternal good. I know that my affections for Christ have grown. My submission to God has deepened. My longing for heaven has increased. My disdain for the things of earth has expanded. These are all good things, and yet much of it still feels like weeping in the night; the joy of the morning has not yet fully arrived, despite seeing small glimpses of good. My heart is reminded, however, that it is in the night, when things are darkest, that I must rely most heavily on the Lord to lead and guide. It is in these darkest times that the things that are produced in us are things that we could never produce on our own. It is only God who could bring these beautiful things out of such devastation and loss.

In these seasons of sorrow, in these nights that feel dark and never ending, as I wait for the sun to rise, my only hope is knowing that God is the one who brings light to the darkness. He brings beauty from devastation. He is the one who brings life from what has only felt like death. It’s just who he is. It’s what his word says, so I hold to that and wait, believing that the spaces that still have doubt and unbelief, the spaces that still wrestle with what is true, the feelings that are slow to comply – all these things will, in time, be conformed to Christ. All these areas that still feel the weeping of the night will one day have joy in the morning. It will come. So for now, I wait.