Faithful Paradox

Had someone asked me 4 years ago, “how long do you think you could write about grief?” I imagine my answer would have been maybe for a year or two. I had no category for how long it takes to work through the layers of pain and loss. I had no concept of the difficult road of child loss; how much endurance it demands, how much it changes a person and the life they once knew. I think in some ways, I thought there would be an ending point.

Before I experienced loss, I assumed healing was much like that of a broken bone; the limb is injured and immobile for a season, full of pain and agony, but eventually it returns to its full function. What I realize now is that losing a child is more like an amputation than a broken bone. The limb is gone and one must learn to function altogether differently.

I find many days now, grief is rather quiet. Many of its sharp edges have softened. While it’s not quite so painful as it once was, there are times it still stabs like a knife. I have also gotten used to carrying the weight of sorrow; it doesn’t feel quite so heavy as it once did. I am uncertain if it’s that the weight is lighter or if I’ve simply become stronger bearing its weight. The truth, however, is that grief is still very much a part of my life and for whatever reason, this week grief and sorrow have been loud, sharp, and heavy once again. I’ve felt discouraged with this reality and find myself wondering, “Have I even healed at all?”

Grief has a very obvious and distinct starting point. It has a beginning; an origin story. What it often does not have, however, is an end point. When grief comes because of loss, even with acts of closure, there is no conclusion. There is no deadline or completion. One does not travel through the stages of grief and reach a point of resolution. The dates and memories, the loss – both past and future – all live on and tell a story through an often unspoken ache that simply always exists within the heart.

There are many days now where I don’t feel the weightiness of sorrow. I simply carry on with life, pressing forward. When these days are present, I would say that in many ways, I have experienced a lot of healing.

There are weeks, however, like this most recent one, where I question how much healing has occurred. I just feel sad. Tears come easily. Sorrow ensues. Joy and happiness feel foreign. Loss is the only tune I can hear despite the symphony of delight that plays all around. If I’m honest, despite knowing these days and weeks still come, it’s hard and discouraging every time they return because when they do, they are painful and incredibly lonely. They stand to remind me how much healing is still needed.

I find these times are lonely because in the back of my mind is that little voice saying, “No one wants to hear about your grief. Everyone assumes you’re past that. ” In addition to that, there is also the reality that I’m tired of talking about grief. I wish I was over it. I wish there was an end.

I know the first voice is a lie; I have several very dear loved ones who would be more than eager to hear my heart. The truth really lies in the fact that I’m tired of grief. There is simply a wearying nature to sadness and before I experienced loss for myself, I would have assumed that by now I would have been healed. I never realized there was no end. I assumed loss would occur and then healing would eventually come and be complete. The discouragement comes, however, when I realize that this side of eternity, there will likely always be an ache. I used to think that healing meant the ache resolved as well. Even now as I heal, I am learning that healing does not erase the pain of loss.

What I know now is that the healing is actually seen in allowing the sad days to come; sitting with the ache, no longer fighting its presence or scorning its reality. Maybe it’s even expecting these days to come; not being shocked by the weight of the sorrow that still exists. Healing begins to acknowledge the ache as both a reminder of love but also the reality of the pain of disappointment. Healing can look back and realize that these wretched pains did not consume me, although I thought many times they would. Healing can also see the faithfulness of God. He did not shield me from pain, but rather he caused me to endure and persevere in faith; even when I was unsure I could.

Healing doesn’t look like I thought it would. Before loss, I assumed healing meant the hard days would resolve; that there would be an end to the sadness. Now I realize that healing is learning to honor the sorrow when it returns. It reminds my heart that because of Christ, there is still hope, even when the sadness remains. It speaks to my still-aching heart, reminding her life is not as God intended it to be, yet the life to come will be exactly how he planned. And then it patiently waits for the sun to rise, knowing that sorrow will not have the final word.