Faithful Paradox

I’ve been thinking recently about how grief has changed; both how grief itself feels different and how it has changed me. It’s different than it was two years ago or even a few months ago.

At times, it’s hard to see how grief has changed because it’s still so present in so many ways. This past weekend, one of my boys hit a really low spot in grief and spent hours weeping and wondering. When did Ezra’s spirit actually leave his body? Was it when he became brain dead or was it when they unplugged the machines keeping him alive? What were his last moments like? Did he know that he died?

I don’t know, son. I just don’t know, but I weep with you as you wonder.

In those early days, even the first year or more of loss, the weight of sorrow was so heavy that it felt like it took every bit of energy I had to simply endure each moment. My goal in those early days was to show up for my boys. I wanted them to believe that one day we would be okay, even if I didn’t believe it myself. I wanted them to see a mom who showed up, kept fighting, kept pressing into a God from whom I felt betrayed. I wanted them to believe that they would feel alive again one day; even if I was not sure it was true for myself.

As days bled into weeks which bled into months which has now turned into years, grief feels different, and so do I. Grief is not so hard as it was two years ago. It’s not as all-encompassing. It doesn’t take every breath to simply endure. The sorrow is still there and may exist, to some extent, for the remainder of my days. But it does not demand as much attention; as much energy as it once did.

I think the grief feels different because I have changed; I have become stronger. I don’t think the load of grief has become lighter, but rather, through endurance I have learned what it is to carry the heavy load that God has ordained. My grief muscles are used to carrying the burden assigned, and while there are times the muscles fatigue and become weary, the weight doesn’t feel quite as heavy as it once did. I’m grateful for that.

I think it’s kind of like working out a muscle group at the gym. You work and you work and you work and you don’t necessarily see daily progress. What you do realize, however, is that one day, the weight that you struggled to lift a few weeks ago is now not quite so hard, and in fact, you are able to add a bit more to it. Grief is much the same. You endure and endure and endure and then one day, you realize that the grief does not feel quite so heavy. It’s not that the grief itself has changed, but rather, your grief muscles have gotten stronger and able to carry a bit more than you had previously.

I think I had hoped that grief would simply go away (as unrealistic as this is). It can be so all-consuming and so incredibly exhausting that it’s hard to hope that one day it will be easier. The desire is that I will simply feel better. There are reminders in Scripture that those who know Jesus do not grieve as those who have no hope (1 Thes. 4:13). I misunderstood this though because I thought that grieving as one with hope somehow meant that it didn’t hurt as much. But the truth is, simply because I have hope does not lessen the pain right now. It does not require any less endurance or building of the grief muscles. It simply means I know with confidence that one day, the grief-workout that requires so many tears and so much endurance will actually one day end. At the end, there is a glorious reunion awaiting; finally, a day to rest.

For now, I must spend hours upon hours in the grief-gym, working those muscles, learning to carry the weight of grief. As I grow and endure, I learn that the weight has not changed, but with the Lord’s help, I have simply gotten stronger. And I wait for the yet to come rest day where I will once again see my son. The burden will be lifted and I will no longer carry its weight.