I ran into a friend at the mall today who recently lost her brother. He was 27 years old. Far too young with too much life to live. Matt and I had the privilege of going to his service a few weeks ago and we immediately fell in love with their family, even though we had never met them before. It’s the type of family that made us say: a) we want a big family, and b) we want to be as close as they are.
My heart ached and ached for their loss all throughout his service. I found myself crying almost the entire time, even though I never had the chance to know him. At one point I literally wanted to stand and wail and mourn for their indescribable loss and grief. I cursed the American way of grieving in my mind—so solemn and composed. I wanted to immediately implement the Jewish and Middle Eastern customs of grieving with wailing and tearing of the clothes and pouring ashes on the head.
Since we have begun our own grief journey I have noticed this subtle mindset that so many have about grief. The more outwardly composed and collected we are, the more praised we are for “being strong” and being a light and example. An example of what? Not collapsing on the floor in gut-wrenching pain and weeping that leaves our eyes nearly swollen shut and our faces red and blotchy? No, we save that for the privacy of our bedrooms.
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. People who experience such profound loss and grief are not any stronger than you are. We did not experience our loss because we possessed more strength than you and you are not exempt from experiencing it yourself. People who experience such profound loss and grief go on living because we have to.
As my sweet friend and I talked I realized we shared many of those same experiences. People praising her for being strong. People commending her because she looked like she was moving on because she happened to get dressed and put makeup on that day. I loved the way she confronted the last person who told her that. It’s a front, she said, I’m actually living in a black hole right now.
Because people don’t see the other side.
They don’t see the sleepless nights and the nightmares and the constant replay of your worst memories: the still heart where there should’ve been a beating one, the moment she was placed in your arms and all you could cry was, You’re so beautiful, you’re so perfect, the kissing of her head over and over, the soaking in of her face knowing you’d never see it again, the handing her over for the final time, the collapsing on the bed in tears because you don’t know how you will live through this pain. They don’t see the crushing of your heart when you see someone who has what you should have. They don’t see the tears rolling down your face night after night, the thousand different places in this city that you’ve cried and then pulled it together as you pulled into the church parking lot. They don’t see the anger and the desperate questioning and the item thrown across the room because you can’t stand the pain and anger anymore. And they don’t see that it doesn’t stop. That nine months later you’re still so freaking sad and angry that you realize for the first time that grief is a long, long journey and you’re just getting started.
I’m comforted when I find in the Bible the same gut-wrenching pain that has become so familiar to me. None of this ridiculous composure and “staying strong” and being the poster child for handling grief well. Isaiah tells me that Jesus was a man familiar with grief and sorrow, and when Jesus wept the original language describes for us the type of weeping that is from the stomach; you know, the kind that doubles you over.
Jesus is near to me. He is with me. He has never left me.