Faithful Paradox

When we desire to walk well with those who suffer, it is a beautiful reflection of God’s heart in his children. We want to walk well with others as we are invited into sacred spaces of loss and disappointment. Often, however, we can feel paralyzed in knowing how to do it.

I have had the opportunity and privilege of walking with many through various forms of loss and trial. It was not until we lost our 18-year-old son, however, that I truly learned that there is a huge difference between knowing about grief and knowing grief. Walking through the death of our son revealed to me that I knew far less about what is actually helpful in supporting others than I thought.

I want to share nine things that were helpful for us as we walked through both the suffering of cancer with Ezra and then losing him. I hope that these things may help equip others to walk well with those who weep.

1. The Prayers We Offer

This first one goes without saying; prayer is always helpful, no matter the situation. I think the ways we pray can encourage others who are walking through a season of suffering or loss. Sometimes we do not know what to pray, but we can know with confidence that when we pray God’s word, we pray God’s will. If you are unsure how to pray for someone, pray God’s word for them. Let them know what verse you are praying. It was deeply encouraging for me to know how the Spirit led others to pray for us throughout the course of Ezra’s illness. There were points it gave me hope to keep enduring and times where I felt incredibly seen by the Lord through the prayers of others. There were moments it also gave me verses to pray when I didn’t know what else to pray.

There were also times after we lost Ezra, however, that I simply could not pray. Words would get stuck in my throat. I felt betrayed by God, confused about his care, angry, devastated, crushed. Every time I tried to pray, I simply could not. I was grateful for the prayers of others who could stand in my place and pray without ceasing when I could not. In this season I also took to reading the prayers of others because my heart could not muster up my own prayers. I wanted to pray and simply could not, yet using the prayers of saints who have walked before me was a discipline I could practice until prayer felt possible once again.

2. The Presence We Offer

The day after we lost Ezra, we left town. It felt like the walls were closing in on us at home. The grief was so intense and so overwhelming that all we knew to do was leave, so we escaped to the mountains. We had a couple of friends that drove the 3 hours to be with us for a day. They sat and wept with us. I remember no words they spoke. They simply gifted us with their presence in our sorrow.

People are often wired to desire to offer some sort of condolence, some sort of comfort in the midst of sorrow. I believe the heart of this desire is good and beautiful and reflects the heart of God. In our desperation to offer comfort, however, we often race to try to find purpose or meaning. We try to force beauty or purpose where there is simply none to be found yet. Often, when we are desperate to comfort those who weep, the words intended for comfort have a tendency to sting more than help. I found that in my moments of deepest sorrow and loss, words that my head knew were true fell flat on my broken heart. There were people who intended so much care, but their words unintentionally poured salt into the gaping wound of my heart through words I was not yet ready to hear.

I am reminded that Job’s friends did not get themselves in trouble until they started speaking. I am reminded that when Naomi felt that God had forsaken her, Ruth simply clung to her (Ruth 1:14). I am grateful the Lord gave us friends that served us like Ruth served Naomi rather than Job’s friends.

If you err to one side, err on the side of presence over words; cling to those you love before you speak. I do not remember any words that our friends spoke to us the day after Ezra died. I remember they were with us.

3. The Help We Offer

When those that we love suffer, we are often desperate to help. A tension comes in knowing we should not say, “let me know what you need.” This can come across as insensitive or forcing the one who suffers to make more decisions; ask for more help. I found this to be true. At the same time, however, it’s important to recognize that sometimes what you think is helpful may not actually be helpful to the one who is suffering.

Ezra’s first hospital stay, which was 90 minutes away, was 7 weeks long. My husband and I took blocks of days each week rotating between home and hospital; I was there 4 days, he was there 3 days. During this time, we had an outpouring of help from our church and community. It was an incredible gift to have so much care and support. I had several situations in which help around the home was offered; things like cleaning, laundry, cooking, etc.

I declined several offers and on a few occasions I was very gently rebuked for my unwillingness to accept help. The truth was, however, that doing something rote, like chores around home, felt grounding to me.

Every piece of my world had been turned upside down and it felt like we were drowning in every space of life. Little things, like laundry or cleaning my house felt like pockets of familiarity; things I could do for my family on the few days I was home. Some of the only comfort in those days was finding familiar rhythms in the monotonous routines of life. It was not that I was refusing help, but rather, I was longing for comfort and those small rhythms felt strangely comforting.

We are often desperate to help those we love when they are suffering. Recognize, however, that what you think might be helpful may not feel helpful for others. Offer what you know to offer, and if your offer of help is declined, recognize that there is likely more at play than you realize.

4. The Care We Offer

We had a lot of people wanting to care for our family during the course of Ezra’s illness and then his death. It was a beautiful picture of God’s care extended through his people.

My boys received a lot of extra care from a variety of people and places. As a mom who felt I could do very little to support them in this season as I was at the hospital most days and nights, I was deeply grateful that the care extended to us also included my four boys who were not sick.

As you consider offering care to a family, remember the entire family, not just the one who is sick. At the same time, recognize that the children are going through a deeply disorienting time. Because my husband is a pastor and the church was intimately involved in our journey, my boys felt deeply exposed and vulnerable during the course of Ezra’s illness and death. There was a spotlight on them in their suffering they did not want.

There were very well intentioned people who would approach them at church, people they did not know nor had they ever met, and want to talk to them about what Ezra was going through. This was extremely difficult for them.

As you consider caring for the entire family of one who suffers, absolutely include the children in that care. Remember, however, that kids do not necessarily want to engage with strangers, especially not about their suffering. The most meaningful interactions for my younger kids came from those who already had a relationship with them and engaged with them in fun activities, making no mention of what our family was enduring. Youth leaders took my boys to play mini-golf. Other leaders took my middle two boys for a day of pizza and thrifting in a nearby town. We had one friend who saw how one of my boys was often approached at church by strangers, so he pulled my son aside one Sunday and said, “Why don’t you stand with me and just pretend like we’re talking so you don’t have to talk to others right now.” My son felt both seen and rescued in this moment.

When offering care to a family, it’s important to consider the relationship and also the age of those for whom you care. Care does not come in a one-size-fits-all package for a family. Absolutely consider the entire family, but engage differently with each family member, depending on the age and relationship of each person.

5. The Understanding We Offer

The most helpful illustration I read during my darkest moments of grief was that grief is like a ball in a jar. When the loss first happens, the ball takes up the entire space of the jar. As time goes on, often the assumption is that the ball gets smaller over time; the grief shrinks. The truth, however, is not that the ball gets smaller but rather the jar gets bigger. The longer I walk with grief, the longer I carry it, the greater my capacity to hold the grief becomes. I get stronger under the weight of the grief and get used to carrying the sorrow.

There is a sense that our grief ties us to the thing or person we lost. There is actually a disorienting fear that comes when the grief starts to lighten because it feels like the only thing still holding us to the thing or person we loved is the deep sadness we feel. As that sadness lifts, does it mean we are losing that connection?

There is comfort in understanding that it is not that our loss has lessened, but rather, our capacity to hold the loss has grown. Our jar increases in size and capacity. This was deeply encouraging for me to understand.

6. The Comfort We Offer

In the early days after we lost Ezra, I could not imagine days ahead that felt lighter. I did not know how comfort would ever come. I could not comprehend that it would not always hurt as badly as it did.

There is an exhausting nature to grief and grieving. You become desperately weary of sadness and yet also see no way out. I found comfort in reminding myself that not every day would be as hard as it was today. Not every day will be as dark. I could not understand what a lightning of the load would look like, but I could hold on to hope that not every day would be quite as hard as today.

If you want to comfort someone, the trite sayings of “time heals all wounds“ or other niceties are neither helpful nor accurate. If you must say something, encourage the one who weeps that not every day will be as hard as today. Scripture promises us that weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning (Psalm 30:5). The truth, however, is that we do not get to choose the length of the night. It may be months before the fog starts to lift, but one day, the morning will come and as you awaken, it will not feel quite so hard as it does today.

7. The Recognition We Offer

Something I sorely misunderstood in loss is that making it to the one year mark brings no sense of accomplishment or relief. There is not comfort in knowing that I have now experienced all the firsts. As the one year mark of losing Ezra passed, it was overwhelmingly sad for me to realize that I had only made it a year and still had a lifetime to go. Added to that, I found that the second year of grief was as complicated as the first. It was not easier or harder, it was just different. The first year has all the firsts, yes, but the second year is trying to embrace a new normal that you simply do not feel ready to embrace. All the adrenaline is gone, the crisis is gone, most of the care and support are gone, a lot of the understanding is gone, and it is simply a grind of enduring sorrow; learning to build a life you didn’t choose nor do you feel ready to build.

For me, while I found that dates with specific memories were hard, the week leading up to that day were just as painful. I also found that the day after a notable date was actually the most exhausting. It felt like I used all the emotional energy I had to endure the birthday or the holiday and the day after was when I truly crashed.

Ezra died on September 29. The entire week leading up to the day his soul went home with Jesus is wrought with painful memories. The last time I saw him awake was September 26. There was an unexpected brain surgery on the 27th. The phone call from my husband telling me Ezra would not make it followed by the afternoon I had to tell my boys their beloved brother would never come home was on September 28. The entire week we lost Ezra is one painful moment after another. Sorrow does not have boundaries. It is not simply the day Ezra died that triggered all the sorrow, but all that led up to it as well. The last two years, I endured September 26-29, and I wept with overwhelming exhaustion on September 30.

As you walk with those who weep, absolutely mark specific days and memories. Recognize also, however, that it’s not simply the day that is hard, but it’s all the days surrounding that day as well. Offer your prayers, your presence, your encouragement, over the course of the entire week and remember that simply because they endured the hard day, it does not bring with it a sense of accomplishment.

8. The Greetings We Offer

I used to frequently greet people with phrases like, “How are you?” or “How’s it going?” I think it is often a quick way of saying “hello,” but in all reality, most of the time we’re not truly expecting an answer. Most of the time when greeted with those questions, I am also quick to reply, “I’m good, how are you?” or some other quip, which rarely responds with thoughtfulness or accuracy.

When I was in the midst of deep sorrow and grief, these quick greetings felt impossible to know how to answer. Everyone knew I was not okay. I didn’t really want to answer, so most days I found when someone greeted me with, “How are you?” I would awkwardly shrug and keep walking.

There were a handful of people, however, that would greet me with, “It’s really good to see you” or “I’m glad you’re here.” Often they would hug me and then they would keep walking. These greetings felt like mercy to me. There was no expectation of response. There was no question to answer. I did not have to engage in conversation. It was simply a grateful acknowledgement of my presence.

Consider how you greet people, whether it be at church or at work. Even a small shift in language towards someone you know is hurting can feel like a gift of mercy to the one who weeps.

9. The Seeing We Offer

We went to a wedding earlier this year of one of Ezra’s best friends. The church was full of all the people he loved most in the world; his best friends, the girl he always had a crush on, his teachers and coaches. In all likelihood, he would have been standing up in the wedding party. I sat in the back of the sanctuary because I knew I was going to struggle. I knew that being there was going to be painful; all the “what ifs” and the “I wish” that still live deep in this mother’s heart came bubbling to the surface.

A few days later, I got a text from a friend that simply said, “I imagine it was really hard for you to be at that wedding.” I felt really seen in that moment by my friend. I hadn’t told her that I was dreading it. I hadn’t said anything at all, and yet she recognized that while it was a day of celebration for most, it also shined the light on what was lost for me.

Stepping into that celebration felt like it required so much courage to show up because that space required me to once again engage the realities of what would never be for Ezra. It required me to confront the sorrows head on; he will never fall in love, he will never be married, he will never be able to celebrate with his friends, he will never be a husband, he will never be a father, and on and on. Added to that is the painful reality that life moves on; with all its sorrows and beauty, but it moves on.

Don’t hesitate to express to those who are grieving the courage it must take for them to show up. Don’t hesitate to take an opportunity to allow them to feel seen in their pain. Grief requires a constant stepping into courage; a constant choosing to do one hard thing after the next. It is actually one of the reasons walking through grief is so deeply exhausting. It’s easy to feel unseen or overlooked in your pain and it’s deeply encouraging to know that others recognize that you are doing hard things.