Faithful Paradox

I’ve been really sad this past week. Grief seems to have resurfaced; or at least the sadness of grief has come to visit once again.

Is it that we’re stepping into the holiday season and that always brings with it an ache? Even though this will be our fourth Christmas without Ezra, there is still a piece of my heart that wonders how we will endure.

Is it that we just finished soccer play off season and I cannot watch soccer without thinking of Ezra? It was always his favorite thing.

Could it be that a friend from a different season in life just lost her son and one of my husband’s coworkers just lost a nephew to the same cancer that took Ezra; both stirring emotions in my heart?

Or maybe it’s that this fall reminds me a lot of Ezra’s last fall; warm and vibrant colors. We spent so much time walking loops around the hospital, thanking God for the long, drawn out fall that allowed us hours and hours outside of the prison of his room.

Or maybe it’s simply the time change. There’s less sun and fewer hours of daylight to enjoy. Certainly that affects my heart, right?

Maybe it’s all of these things or none of these things or a combination of them? Maybe it’s something else that I have not yet identified. Or maybe it’s just the reality of grief: It never really goes away; it just cycles in and out. There are times that I can anticipate it will increase; specific dates and memories always bring with it sorrows that will likely never fully resolve.

But then there are weeks like these. Weeks where the sadness just returns unexpectedly. Weeks where I’m laid low in sorrow. Weeks where grief’s tune is suddenly at the forefront again and I am captive to her sorrowful melody until she decides to move on for the foreseeable future. Weeks where the sorrow is both unexpected yet very heavy.

The day after Ezra’s memorial service, my 16 year old son came down in the morning and said, “Well, today is the day everyone else moves on with their lives and we are left in our grief.” His words were insightful and true for one so young. While there are certainly people who have faithfully walked with us, people who have remembered with us, cried with us, prayed for us and continue to do so, the reality is that days and weeks like these, where sorrow returns and remains, feel so deeply lonely.

This is a part of grief I did not understand before we lost Ezra. These are days I did not realize still hung on. I didn’t know that grief came in cycles. I didn’t know life could feel normal and then all of a sudden, something shifts and the sadness returns and you’re left with the reality of pain once again. I didn’t know how lonely it would feel or how isolating it was. I didn’t realize that memories can still take my breath away and tears would still come so easily, even more than three years past. I didn’t understand that grief never fully resolves; it just steps into quiet shadows but keeps returning at will.

I find comfort in knowing that despite the loudness of grief’s song this week, I recognize now that it will also become quiet once again. When we first lost Ezra, every day required enduring the loudness of loss. I could not comprehend that the pain would not always be so deafening; so all consuming. Today, I see healing when I remember that the loudness of grief is not quite so loud. I understand now that it comes and goes. There are more days than not in which the sorrowful song of grief goes undetected, but I also recognize that it will return again, often unbidden. The difference I see three years past the point of loss is that I also know it will leave again. I’m thankful to understand this.

I’m thankful that not every day is hard now. I’m thankful that it is not as disorienting as it once was. I’m thankful for the healing that has come and will continue. I see it all. Yet weeks like these bring with them a wearying nature and the painful reminder once again that this world, this life, even though it is full of beauty and good, is also very broken and not as it ought to be.

I find when days and weeks feel normal, when the pain of sorrow lifts – even for a few days – my heart quickly settles once again. I am easily and quickly lulled into a sense of comfort in this world. I’m prone to settling in and easily forgetting that this world is not my home; this life is fading and temporary. But weeks like this one, where grief is once again loud for a time, stir a longing for Christ’s return and stand as a reminder that this world, this life, are a vapor.

Maybe the weeks where grief becomes noisy again, although painful, come as a mercy to me. Maybe as the pain resurfaces, it is a reminder to once again to fix my eyes “not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen” (2 Cor. 4:18). Maybe there is mercy in the resurgence of grief because once again, it loosens my hold on this world, reminding me that “we have no lasting city, but we are seeking the city that is to come” (Heb. 13:14). Maybe the recurring pain is a reminder that my “citizenship is in heaven. And we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ” (Phil. 3:20). I think there is mercy when grief comes again. It serves to remind me to keep looking beyond what I can see or understand and I’m thankful for this reminder.