Tag Archives: grief

The Hardest Days

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I finally have a home, but it doesn’t feel right, because you’re not here.

I never thought this was something I would do without you.

Even as I lay out the space to my exact tastes and comfort, it feels incomplete.

Today I finished the small bedroom that our children will never sleep in. The children we never had.

I attended Grandmom’s burial last weekend, and you weren’t there. I came home from the luncheon afterwards to an empty home.

Last night I found out the dog I hoped would help fill the emptiness of your absence is not permitted to live in this neighborhood, and I felt so alone I almost couldn’t breathe.

Yesterday was my birthday. I turned 43. I went out to a lovely dinner with lovely friends. Some of them talked about their husbands, and all I could think about was all the birthdays that have come and gone without you, and all the years they represent. All the lost memories and adventures, moments and milestones. All the things I expected to share with you. All the things I will never experience at all. And even though I was surrounded by people who love and support me, I could feel the chill of the silence awaiting me at the end of the night while they all returned to their families.

I haven’t stopped crying today. I don’t feel like celebrating—not the birthday, not the home, not the stability that has been so long coming and so painfully achieved without you. All I can do is console myself that there is one less year to survive without you, one less move to start over on my own, one less crisis to weather with no one to hold me at night.

Tomorrow, I will try to convince myself again that I must not need the same companionship and connection that every other human being does. God must have made me differently, otherwise you would be here. I will tell myself that somehow the silence will not swallow me, that a dog will be enough to meet my social and emotional needs. And when that doesn’t work because I know it’s not true, I will convince myself again that I’m not being punished, that my needs do matter, but that I have no other choice but to keep putting one day in front of another, no matter how exhausted I am.

I want to be so angry with you for not being here. I feel betrayed and abandoned and forgotten. I feel ashamed that you left me alone, and ashamed that I still need you after all these years. And furious that there’s nothing I can do about either of those things. But on days like today, what hurts me the most is not that you are not here now. It’s that you never were.

I think if I had loved you for a time, and had been loved in return, that would carry me. I would still miss you, but part of you would be with me in some intangible way. I would still feel your love and see what you saw in me, remember your smile, your embrace, your touch. I would still feel connected to you as you await me in eternity, the way I am with Grandmom.

But I don’t even know what you look like because you didn’t reject me. You never found me, never even saw me. And I don’t know why.

So, I miss you all the way down to my marrow without knowing you at all. I miss the family we never had and the memories we never made. With no happy memories to sustain me, no mementos to cherish, no photos to turn to on days like today, no gravesite to visit, no anniversaries to explain why I am suddenly a shell of myself and cannot hold it together today. This is my life today. And you are not here.

The God of Perishing Hope

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The winter holiday season is always an interesting time for me emotionally. I look forward to seeing family, watching the littles open their presents and discover traditions, relaxing and taking time to just be with loved ones, sharing a meal or a desert or a cup of coffee. I feel thankful that God loved me enough, in spite of all my mess and idolatry and selfishness, to enter into time (more on that in a future post) and humanity and take on the burden of my brokenness Himself so that I would not be alone on this journey, and so that the end of this journey would involve reconciliation and homecoming and fulfillment instead of consequences and isolation and condemnation. I also enjoy just being able to stop and rest for a while. These are all blessings of the holiday season.

On the other hand, the Christmas to New Year time period is also a major time marker, a milestone, a time that naturally turns our minds toward reviewing the previous year (and years) and noticing that another year has come to a close. Milestones are dangerous when you are single. Probably they are dangerous for anyone whose life has not followed their expected timeline. Milestones tend to prompt the reviewing of all the things that did not happen–yet again–in the previous year (and years). The holiday milestones add the complication of gathering with family members and loved ones whose lives are progressing in those areas where mine seems to be at a permanent standstill. The fellowship is comforting, but the juxtaposition is sometimes acute.

This morning, I read an article about unexpected developments in life (http://www.desiringgod.org/blog/posts/when-god-messes-with-your-life-plan). It wasn’t quite the same as the unexpected lack of developments I am facing, but the spiritual struggle is the same. (It’s one of the amazing and beautiful things about humanity to me that no matter what circumstances our lives are wrapped in, the struggles inside are exactly the same once you open the package. It is comforting to me when I can’t see any other life packages that look like mine on the outside, and it is part of the way that we are never alone.) At any rate, I was struck once again by the example of Abraham being asked to sacrifice Isaac as I read the article. So, I decided to look it up in Genesis 22 for devotions, thinking maybe God was asking me to sacrifice my lack of children and spouse to Him–again; that just maybe the way to avoid depression and self-pity in this cycle of the grief would be to willingly sacrifice my lack of developments.

As I turned to Genesis 22, I found that the immediately preceding chapter contained the story of Hagar’s exile with Ishmael. Both familiar and favorite stories of mine, but a juxtaposition I had not noted before. This juxtaposition was also acute to me, and convicting. The stories struck me as two different pictures of a God-ordained sacrifice; two different journeys of disappointment and grief.

First, we have in Genesis 21:14-19, Hagar: Circumstances find Hagar and her son (Ishmael) cast out of their home into the wilderness by her master (Abraham). Sarah has decided she does not want Ishmael around (after she demanded that Abraham sleep with Hagar to give birth to an heir) now that she has her own son. But, God tells Abraham not to worry because He will watch over Ishmael, and to do as Sarah asks. So, Abraham sends Hagar off with nothing but food and a canteen of water to make her way in the world. I’m willing to bet that having a child by her boss’s husband probably wasn’t part of her original life plan either, and now she finds herself “wandering aimlessly” through the wilderness until her canteen is emptied and she has no resources left. To be fair, God’s hand is not overtly at work in this turn of events. I can’t blame her for failing to recognize His sovereignty or assuming this is the end of her sad tale. “When the water was gone, she left the child under a bush and went off and sat down 100 yards or so away. ‘I don’t want to watch him die,’ she said and burst into tears, sobbing wildly.” This is not a conscious sacrifice of obedience, a trusting journey of grief. This is a circumstance that was forced upon her unexpectedly and she does not know how to cope. I have been there–withdrawing by myself to burst into tears of despair and sit myself down in a heap, waiting for the end. It’s a very low place to be. She doesn’t see God at work. She doesn’t see the well nearby that He has already provided to refill her canteen. She can’t even look at her beloved son anymore. She can’t watch the death of her hope, her love, her dream. So, she leaves him alone to die. She feels abandoned, hopeless, desperate.

In Genesis 22:1-18, we find Abraham: Abraham’s circumstances are quite stable, prosperous, and peaceful by contrast. God directly speaks to Abraham and commands him to take his son (the only son with his wife Sarah, the miracle child who is the fulfillment of God’s promise to Abraham) and sacrifice him to the Lord as a burnt offering.  So, Abraham puts together a travel party and goes to the place God had told him to sacrifice Isaac. I am sure this was an equally heart-wrenching journey as Hagar’s, with the added knowledge that Abraham himself would have to actively sacrifice his son, and after he has already had to lose his first son, Ishmael. However, Abraham proceeds in obedience. He tells Isaac that God will provide the sacrifice they need. He builds the altar. He ties up Isaac. The knife is raised, the pyre is built. He intentionally, consciously prepares to sacrifices his child to a God that has just asked Him to kill the promise which that same God made to him. However, he is not without hope. Hebrews 11:17-19 tells us that he was able to obey out of faith in God, trusting in God’s promise to give him descendants through Isaac. “He considered that God was able even to raise him from the dead.” He doesn’t understand the command; it seems to contradict what God had done before. But, he trusts God to be faithful to His promises, despite all developments to the contrary. He trusts in God’s provision, not his own resources. The Angel of the Lord says to him, “I know that God is first in your life–you have not withheld even your beloved son from me,” and then God opens Abraham’s eyes to see the ram which God has already provided for the offering in Isaac’s place.

Me: I have no idea what it’s like to have to sacrifice a child because I have never had a child. I won’t pretend to even be able to imagine that. But, I have found myself on both sides of the juxtaposition when it comes to the grief caused by disappointment or seemingly defeated hopes for the future. How do I respond when my hopes for the future are out of water and I feel like I’m wandering aimlessly through the wilderness? How do I respond when God speaks to me and tells me to be willing to actually sacrifice my hopes for the future, surrender them completely to Him? Am I willing to make that sacrifice because I seek to honor God above myself, and trust Him more than what I can see? Is God first in my life? Or do I sob my eyes out as I wander in my own, personal wilderness, unwilling to lift my eyes to face my fears and consequently also unable to see God’s loving provision for me? [Let’s just say that there is a plentiful amount of juxtaposition in my responses as well. But, I’m afraid that at milestones, I tend more toward Hagar.]

God: What I find to be very encouraging is what the two stories have in common–God’s response. In both situations (willing, obedient sacrifice and despairing, hopeless grief), God initiates an intervention. As Hagar is resigning herself to die in this place of hopelessness and abandonment, alone, forever (much more justified in her situation than in mine), God speaks. The Angel of the Lord interrupts the pity party: “Hagar, what’s wrong? Don’t be afraid! For God has heard the boy’s cries as he is lying there.” Then God opens her eyes to see a well. Did you get that? A well! In the middle of the wilderness! When Hagar’s resources are out, God miraculously provides a means to replenish them and to preserve her life and her hope for the future. As Abraham is preparing to take the biggest leap of faith in his life and commit his most costly act of obedience, God interrupts. The Angel of God shouts this time: “Abraham! Abraham! Put down the knife; don’t hurt the boy in any way, for I know that God is first in your life…” And then, for the first time, Abraham “notices” a ram caught by its horns in a nearby bush, perfect for a burnt offering to God. In this case, I find the juxtaposition encouraging. Redemption does not depend on the person, but on the Creator. God does not reward Abraham’s obedience and reject Hagar for her lack of faith. He does not punish Abraham for having Ishmael by taking Isaac. He rescues both of them. He provides for both of them. He shows unmerited favor and redemption to both of them. He preserves their hope and their future, for both of them.

God remains faithful, whether I am walking in intentional faith and trust or hiding behind a bush having a pity party. He loves me unconditionally when I believe that truth and when I doubt it. He provides a substitute sacrifice in my place to pay for my sins, and He provides sustenance for me on my journey which sometimes seems aimless. God’s faithfulness in the midst of my grief will not change with my response. My experience of that journey, however, will. When I find myself collapsed in the wilderness, I want to remember that God has already ordained miraculous provision that I can’t see yet, and that He hears my cries and has not abandoned me. But, I would prefer to spend less time sobbing my eyes out and more time putting one foot in front of the other as I follow God’s lead, trusting Him with my ultimate future and with my hopes for the future, regardless of how many times I find myself standing at the altar. I want God to be first in my life–whatever that life looks like.