I published this on Facebook on the fifth anniversary of our son’s death. I hope it will speak to other hearts that are grieving. First, look at the graphic, then slowly read the verse two or three times. If you need more, read my thoughts.
Day 1
Stormy emotions, low battery, raining tears, broken heart, confused mind. A dark place you can’t escape from, a self you don’t recognize. Spirit feels empty. Trouble being present. Unaware of surroundings (“senseless”). Not knowing (“ignorant”). Living by instinct for survival alone (“a brute beast”).
This is a place I’ve been for a long time.
Day 2
The psalm writer (Asaph) goes on to remind himself that even in the dark place of grief and bitterness he is always with God.
To be honest, I haven’t felt the presence of God with me very consistently these five years. And maybe Asaph didn’t either. He doesn’t hear God say “I am always with you,” he reminds himself of it. He says, “You hold me by my right hand; you guide me with Your counsel.”
One person who prayed with me in 2020 saw me covered in a dark umbrella and Jesus next to me, slipping little sustenance under it for me.
I can’t always see Him, but He is with me.
I hold my son’s hand in busy places or outside so he won’t get lost, won’t slip and fall, and won’t be scared. It’s more my responsibility than his to hang on. I know God has been hanging on to me because I’m farther along now than when I started – the light is shining brighter and many words and counselors and Scriptures have guided me out.
If you’re in the dark now, try saying this to God. Make a practice of imagining yourself as one of these children. He won’t let go.
Day 3
“And afterward…”
After we finish our walk, our long walk being held by the hand, there is an afterward. “Death cannot stop true love…” The love we have for our departed ones continues on because they continue on, and we live ready for the reunion.
King David’s baby son died, and I repeat his statement to myself many times: “He will not return to me, but I will go to him.” The first part of that phrase still cuts like a knife, and it’s brutal to accept the reality that this is irreversible. My son, my niece, my miscarried babies, my father-in-law … they will not return to me. The life I would have chosen for myself is out of reach.
But… I will go to them. And so I can be at peace if I can humble myself to accept the life I am being offered now. Separation won’t last forever. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just a little while longer.
Holding the tension of now and not yet, it’s a challenge to put my heart into the present instead of in the past or in the future. And a challenge to show as much or more joyful love to those that are with me as sorrowing love for those that are gone on.
I’ve tried to hide and numb and control these feelings, afraid to think about certain things because I think I’ll lose myself in the tears.
But maybe it’s okay to let the river flow. And the joy and sorrow can mix together for a while longer.
Day 4
“Whom have I in heaven but you? And the earth has nothing I desire besides you.”
This question resonates with me as desire after desire on earth for temporal things – or even relationships to remain on earth – go unfulfilled. And desires that are fulfilled change over time, and saying yes to one thing means saying no to another.
In sum, everything on earth to desire is held to us by such a fragile thread that at any moment may snap. Either our desire will change or the object of it will be removed beyond our reach.
So desire is useless, a cruel taskmaster. Shall we seek then to end all desire, as some spiritual traditions teach? Shall we shut down our desires or continue making them smaller and smaller until the only thing we’re sure we want is a cup of coffee in the morning? To protect ourselves, maybe it’s easier not to expect or hope or want.
But we can’t do it, can we? Being numb means losing the beautiful things around us. So what if we turn our desire deeper – to the only constant in this world and the next? God Himself. The good I desire flows from Him, and every expression of the good I long for is another facet of who He is.
Our desires are predictable and revolve around the same good things that are reflections of God things: intimacy/true love, purpose and meaning, creativity/expression and identity, adventure and exploration, excellence and recognition. Even when we desire evil things, it’s because a good desire has been crippled, corrupted or twisted by a lie or a wound.
Take Flynn Ryder from Tangled: his dream he sums up this way – He would be “on an island that I own, tanned and rested and alone, surrounded by enormous piles of money.” What does he want? Beauty, sunshine, peace, silence, and abundant provision. The “alone” is what makes it a “bad” dream, but we all know why that’s attractive. Alone seems attractive because we won’t have to perform, and we won’t be hurt.
What we really wants – and we all do – is Eden. A return to paradise. Naked and unashamed in perfect intimacy with the perfect complementation of other souls reflecting the imago Dei.
It’s okay to want that. Because that’s what we were created for. And the author and perfecter of that is God – that dream was birthed and created by Him for us, and He wants to lead us back that way.
If I realize all my desires come from and return to Him, I have an anchor for my soul. As the earthly fulfillments arrive and depart or remain illusory, one thing remains: God now – Immanuel – and God forever.
Even looking forward to heaven/paradise and many happy reunions or first meetings with beloved ones, the only reason that holds hope is because God made it, made them, and provided the pathway back through the flaming doorway of death to Eden.
A grief journey will confront you with your desires like nothing else will. What will you do with them?
For more meditations on Eden: https://a.co/d/3UJ0qiU
Day 5
The thing that most surprised me about grief, perhaps, is how physically exhausting it is. In January 2020, it seemed as if a boulder dropped in me – on my chest, in my bones – making it difficult to actually move and sometimes to breathe. For all these five years, I feel I have been chipping away at it in order to get up again.
I love this image of the man exhausted. Most likely, he was busy crucifying Christ, and this shows how great the love Jesus has for us that even while we do our worst, He stands ready to forgive and hold us up. For me, it also reminds me of the exhaustion I feel trying to move the boulder of grief. I know that there’s more to do, but sometimes I can’t “do the work.” It takes time, space, tears, and those can be hard to find or hard to want to find.
But even still, Jesus is with me, bearing me up, and giving me the portion I need to continue. He will do the same for you if you invite Him to.
“Emotional baggage” is an evocative term that relates to how heavy we feel it is to carry some things that life has dished out to us. Carrying the absence of a loved one is heavy by itself and is one weight I don’t think I will ever be rid of.
But there are a lot of weights that came with the loss that I have had to let go of if I am to continue on, and that I continue chipping away at: the fear response, the anger with God and others, regret and guilt, dreams that won’t be fulfilled, old habits and patterns of thinking that get me stuck, and many more.
I have been stuck many times and needed help to identify the next unnecessary weight that could be released. Books like Intentional Breakthrough (https://a.co/d/7RpFOf1), You Are a Tree, Dark Clouds Deep Mercy, and others, as well as much prayer from others has helped.
If your bags and body are very heavy today, I bless you. If you need help figuring out what all the weight is or how to put some of it down, you’re in good company. Reach out to someone, and allow light into the dark places. Step by step, you will move through.
Day 6
“As for me, it is good to be near God. I have made the Lord my refuge.”
This is the one I want to hold present before me in 2025. In 2020 and 2021, it didn’t feel good to be near God. I was kind of avoiding Him. I felt He let me down, big time, and I didn’t really see the point of praying because everything I could possibly pray for was less important to me than the prayers I offered for Will’s life.
My refrain was something more like: “As for me, it is good to be near my phone. I have made distraction my refuge.” OR “As for me, it is good to be asleep. I have made my bed my refuge.” I also tried anger on for size – sometimes it’s refreshing momentarily to feel the energy of being pissed off instead of so crushingly sad. It’s easy to be mad, too – I could be mad when people said something or when they said nothing, when they were too close or too far, when they said the wrong thing or said the right thing that I didn’t want to hear at the moment.
But these refuges aren’t very strong and only push the pain outward onto others who are nearby. My kids and husband pay the price when I don’t get out of bed, when all I am is irritable, and when I’m numbing myself from life with distraction. It’s not actually good, for anyone.
In one guided prayer time, my friend asked me to picture God. I did – on His throne – and she asked me where I was in relation to Him. I saw myself far away across an abyss and small.
“Why so far?” she asked. “What’s the abyss?”
It was fear. I was afraid to come near. Because…if He would allow such a loss, then what else would He ask of me? How could I be sure? How could I trust Him again? And where was this comfort and consolation He promised He’d have for me? I sure didn’t feel it.
And, well, I still don’t exactly. But one reason I think is that I keep waiting to feel “better” and by “better” I mean “the way I did before.” Like I want to rewind this whole situation and just be the person I was before it happened.
Only now I don’t think it works like that. One person praying for me had this picture: “I see you on an operating table getting heart surgery. And you’re all stitched up and the surgery is done, but you keep getting up too soon and bust them open again.”
That was certainly true. I kept trying to just “be normal” again, according to my definition of what I thought I should be capable of. I felt like God wasn’t comforting me because He wasn’t healing me all the way right away.
Friends, just because you’re healing slowly doesn’t mean you’re not healing. I am better now than I was five years ago – more comforted, more joyful, more alive – and it is only grace that makes that true.
I believe again that it is good to be near God. He knows about suffering, and He’s not deaf to my cries. He cares so much about our suffering and sin that He came to earth to beat it. In this world, we will have trouble. No getting around it. But this world isn’t all there is. These hard, hard things wrench us out of comfort and force us to choose between an eternal perspective with hope or a nihilistic one with despair.
The amazing thing is that the one with hope is not just better, but it’s truer. It’s true.
I started using the Hallow app after hearing an interview with the creator. It’s a blessing – the guided silent prayer encourages you to just sit with God and let Him be near you.
That’s what I’m trying this year: drawing near and seeing what happens. Letting it take as long as it takes to “get better,” resting on the only refuge that will allow me to love those around me instead of hurting them more, receiving the love I need from the One who knows me best.
Here’s a poem story I wrote long ago about God and grief that is still in need of an illustrator if any artists are so inspired: https://efbelle.wordpress.com/2013/05/07/anna-and-the-king/
Day 7
Well, even though I’m out of verses from Psalm 73, I thought 7 days were better than 6. So here’s the bonus round.
Today is an object lesson. Our dog Taz had his leg amputated a week before Christmas. Something (wild cat) attacked him in the night, and we found him the next day, uncomplaining, but limping with his tendon hanging out. We rushed him to the vet who tried for two days to kill the infection with four antibiotics and finally made the call to amputate the leg at the shoulder before it killed him.
Taz was 15 days with the vet, then 4 days in our house, and now he insists on being outside, guarding the gate, playing fetch, and continuing to live out his dog purpose with all the heart and energy he’s always had. So what if he can’t run as fast? So what if he’s not the strongest anymore? He hasn’t wasted one minute on self pity.
Man, that’s challenging. Can I do the same?
So what if I’m a three-legged dog now? So what if we’re a three-legged family? Maybe we limp along sometimes; maybe others judge us for our weakness; maybe we aren’t as impressive as we used to be. And? Does that have to be the end of our heart and courage, or can we put the energy we have left into the life and purpose we still have in front of us?
In 2 Samuel 9, there’s a story of another dog. King David remembers his friendship with Jonathan and asks if there is anyone left of his house that he could show kindness to. He finds out that Jonathan left behind a son that was dropped by his nurse on the day his father and grandfather died in battle and as a result he had lost the use of his legs.
When the king summons him and promises to show him kindness, restore his inheritance, and always make a place for him at his table, this broken man says, “What is your servant, that you should notice a dead dog like me?”
He couldn’t imagine that anyone could have any use for him – that he could have any purpose – broken as he was, ashamed, cast out, living in hiding and fear. And you know what? He doesn’t get healed that we know of. He never walks. He doesn’t have a job. He provides no great service to the king.
But he eats at his table for the rest of his life. Just as he is.
And we’re invited to the King’s table, too. Even if we only have three legs left. Will we accept the invitation?
[For a more expanded meditation and teaching on this story, check out Shane Holden‘s message this summer: https://citychurch-wisconsin.subspla.sh/p9y99gw (Sermon starts around 1:13 on the video).]
“But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
I’m still in the waiting part of that, but that’s okay. Because He that promised is faithful.
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