Faithful Paradox

As I continue to press into writing, grieving and the like, I have set a goal for myself to write once a week. There are some weeks that words flow easily. There have been times I have had a backlog of posts because thoughts flow like water from my mind to the page. There are other weeks, like this one, that my mind feels full of emotions yet empty of words. I’m not sure I know what to write.

Today, my thoughts feel jumbled. I feel no sense of purpose or direction with my words. The emotion that seems to be at the forefront of my mind is discouragement. I feel weary of this journey of grieving. I’m weary of the emotions. I’m weary of walking this road. I’m weary of its difficulty. It’s so much longer, so much harder than I ever realized. I wish there was an off ramp from grief; or at least a “stop and pause” space. I find that I still wish the story written by the painful hand of the Sovereign had gone a different direction. Right now, this road feels like a slog. I keep pressing forward, but this week it feels like I’m walking through waist deep mud. Every step requires an exhausting discipline of the will.

Just this morning I was reading Hebrews 6. The author encourages the reader that we, “who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us” because we have this, “as a sure and steadfast anchor for the soul” (Hebrews 6:18-19). Even as I read that, I was both buoyed to keep holding fast and also acknowledge that I feel like my arms are weary of holding fast. I know God is holding me, but despite that knowledge, this journey, this road of grief, is still wrought with difficulty.

I wish that knowing that ultimately, the victory has been won by Christ made the unpredictable nature of this journey a little less emotionally taxing. It’s a journey wrought with ups and downs with a steadfast Savior in the midst of it all, but there are still many hills and valleys that must be traveled which feels wearying.

There are days, maybe even weeks, where there is a lightening to the storyline; hope feels like it’s on the horizon, healing feels sure. Then a corner is turned and, out of seemingly nowhere, grief sneaks back in and you are once again back at a spot you thought you already traveled; a spot you’d rather not revisit. It feels like a perpetual journey of whiplash.

This journey is hard because it’s often a story that would never have been chosen. It’s a reality that would never have been requested. Yet here I am, walking through the messiness of it day after day. It’s exhausting because some days, it feels as if the ground is solid; the journey doesn’t feel quite so hard. It’s easy to hope and believe that better days are here. On days like these, it’s easy to feel the warmth of the sunshine on my face. Suddenly, however, and without warning, a step is taken and my feet are back in the mud. Before I realize it, the path wanders into the dark forest of sadness once again. I know intuitively that I will eventually make it back to the sunshine. I know solid ground is on the horizon, but the reality is that it’s a journey that seems to have no roadmap of pitfalls to avoid. You simply walk, knowing that every step chosen is a step forward, although many steps feel like you are actually walking in reverse.

It feels exhausting and discouraging at times because there is no end; there is no off ramp. I recognize that there will be a lightening of the load the longer I walk, or maybe better said, I become used to carrying the load. There are some weeks, however, that it simply feels like an endless act of endurance; showing up, doing the next thing, fighting for joy and hope, going to bed weary and waking up the next day to do it all over again. Even upon waking, you often do not know what the day holds. Will it be a day that feels lighter? More hopeful? Or will it be a day that requires endurance and grit?

There are parts of loss that feel like it only compounds over time. It’s exhausting when the things that used to make sense and used to be a part of delight now feel foreign and confusing. It’s hard to keep pressing into spaces that used to bring life and now seem to only be a drain. I long for pieces of my old self, my old life, that seem to be gone and the truth is, they may not return. Do I keep pressing in despite the exhaustion, waiting for them to return? Or do I let go and hope some new piece of me will emerge that I have not yet understood? Even the letting go and hoping feels hard.

It’s still hard to know how to answer the question of, “how are you?” I’ve taken to answering it with, “In this moment…” I don’t always clarify that that’s how I’m answering, but I know in my head it’s what I mean. I can answer for the moment, but rarely can I answer in general because it feels too layered; too complicated. “In this moment I’m okay, but had you asked me 2 hours ago, I would have given a different answer.”

It’s humbling to still be struggling, to feel like you are still needy and fragmented, more than 2 years past the loss. I’m tired of being sad and so often, I try to push through the sadness and smile and act as if I am doing well in hopes that my emotions will follow the lead of my actions. Deep down, however, it feels incongruous. Deep down, I know that living with, what looks like hope, is actually a fight for the discipline of hope.

Many days I still fight to show up, fight for joy, fight for faith because even on the days I’m not sure I will ever find balance, I want my boys to believe that they will be okay. I want my boys to see that life was not only about their brother. I want my boys to be confident that they are still worth my fight and my joy – because they are. The truth is, however, some days it’s exhausting to keep walking in anticipation of hope and joy through the swamp of unending sadness.

I’m weary of seeing days on the horizon that I know will require a great deal of stamina and courage to endure. This year, both Mother’s Day and what would have been Ezra’s 21st birthday share a date. It’s more than a month out, yet it’s on my radar. Even now, as I consider the day, tears flood my eyes. It’s knowing this day is coming, knowing it will be a day full of tension and pain. I have a husband and 4 boys who will want to celebrate me and rejoice in the mom and wife God has given them; what a gift! Yet my heart already feels the sadness of knowing that Ezra will not be there to celebrate with us nor for us to celebrate him. He would have been 21 and for some reason, this birthday stings more than the other missed birthdays. We still long to mark the day, to celebrate the life he lived, and yet his absence makes these days full of pain. Dates like these keep rolling in like ocean waves and I wonder if they will ever roll in with less dread? I wonder if I am alone in seeing this upcoming date or if others know the pain this mother’s heart anticipates?

It’s made me consider the faithfulness of those who have gone before me, those who have walked through loss and grief with so much courage and faith. It’s made me appreciate them so much more. I had no idea the courage it took for them to show up day after day as their hearts remained broken. I had no idea the strength it took for them to step back into life when they chose to approach each day with hope. I had no idea how much discipline it required of them. I wonder if they felt the same exhaustion?

I don’t know. This week’s writings feel a bit scattered and tepid, although clearly I had more words than I realized. This week, writing, along with much of life, feels like an act of discipline. There’s a weariness that comes with this journey and I feel it in so many spaces of life this week. Despite having a sure and steadfast anchor for my soul, there are some days that reaching for hope feels exhausting. Reaching for what is yet to come and choosing to believe it feels like a discipline of the will, not a delight of the heart.

Even as I stumble, however, I am aware that I will not be, “cast headlong, for the Lord upholds [my] hand” (Psalm 37:24). Scripture promises that I will trip and fall. It promises that my feet will slip and balance will be lost. Even though God holds me fast, I will stumble and when I do, God says, “Do not fear. I will help you” (Isaiah 41:13). I am told that these pains are “light and momentary” (2 Cor 4:17) even though they feel anything but light and momentary. This difficult journey comes as no surprise and even as I long for an off ramp, I recognize that deep down, that off ramp is truly a longing for heaven. It’s a longing for the one day promise that is not yet fulfilled. The longing points my heart towards heaven and maybe that’s exactly what God wants in these days that feel so exhausting.

This journey is hard because this life is not as it should be. There are absolutely days and weeks that feel like true healing is happening; the ache lifts and hope feels a little easier to grab. There are moments where it feels that a taste of God’s heaven is sampled here on earth. Then there are weeks like this one, where the darkness seems to settle in once again and I am reminded that this earth is no home for me. This week is a dark one; a hard one. I know not every day will be this hard. I also know more hard days will come. I have seen and experienced lighter days where hope felt fresh and within reach and I have experienced days where the darkness simply will not lift.

The truth is that both days full of hope and days full of weeping still mark this path and will for the rest of my life. The days marked with pain are further apart, but they are still on the horizon. Some I can anticipate and some surprise me. This journey is a long one and this week, the hope of things to come feels harder to hold on to; harder to anticipate. Even in the difficulty, however, I know God will help me endure. Every day endured, every day lived is one day closer to it all being made right.