Faithful Paradox

We recently watched a documentary as a family about Liverpool Football Club. Liverpool was Ezra’s favorite team; he followed them and cheered them on with every fiber of his being. Afterward, my husband expressed that somehow, watching the documentary stirred sadness in him. I’m not sure if it was just the reminder of Ezra’s love of the team or the sadness of not being able to watch the documentary with him, but there was grief that was stirred. It was the same for me. As we watched, I found my mind traveling back to the weeks and months in the hospital and the bright spot for Ezra every weekend and mid-week when Liverpool played. He sat in his hospital bed with his Liverpool scarf around his neck, rooting and cheering them on, disdaining the nurses who interrupted his fandom with routine blood pressure checks. Rooting for Liverpool seemed to transcend the sadness of his reality in the hospital and for even a moment, it brought him delight and distraction.

It made sense that watching this documentary stirred sadness. There were specific memories and a connection to Ezra. Recently, however, I have been experiencing other little pockets of sadness that don’t seem to make as much sense. A few of these instances have brought with them moments that have taken my breath away, as if we lost Ezra three days ago, not three and a half years ago. I recently texted a couple of friends who also lost children and told them that I was having one of those days where the grief came out of nowhere. It seemed that all was fine and then all of a sudden, it wasn’t. One of my friends responded, “yes, the grief ambush.” I could think of no better description for that experience.

There are times when you feel as if you are pressing on in life. While the sorrow is present, it walks with you in such a way that it becomes easy to ignore, or at least fold into the daily habits of life in such a way that it’s quiet; almost silent. But then the grief ambush comes. Out of seemingly nowhere, the sadness comes roaring back and you’re caught off guard by the intensity of the pain. This ambush is a piece of loss I did not understand before I experienced it myself. I didn’t realize that these moments of sorrow live on for years past the loss and could bring with them moments of pain so intense that it feels as if no time at all has passed.

I think the mercy I realize now when the grief does ambush me is that I know it will also quiet once again. When the loss first occurred, every day felt overwhelmingly sad. Now many days feel okay; almost normal. I can push the loss to the back of my mind and press on without it being the primary thought. But then there are times, like last week, where the sorrow comes rolling back in with a cruel ferocity and I find that I trip under its weight. I thought I was used to carrying the weight of grief, but the grief ambush reminds me once again that the sorrow still causes me to stumble on this journey.

There is much to rejoice over in this life; there is much gladness to be found. Yet there is also this ever-present, never-completely-absent sorrow that walks so closely with me now. At times its presence is so familiar that I hardly notice it. Then there are days its presence comes rushing back like an ambush of sorrow, bringing grief with it; grief I thought I had reconciled. These days, where the sadness feels heavy and near, I am reminded once again that life is not as it ought to be, despite the pockets of gladness and joy. I am reminded that there is a longing for wholeness and restoration that will one day come and yet it will never be truly met on this earth as it is now. There is hope because of Jesus, but it is not yet fully experienced. One day, there will never again be a grief ambush. In fact, “the former things shall not be remembered or even come to mind” (Isaiah 65:17). There will never again be unexpected sorrow. I long for that day.