Though it was the middle of the night, I could tell that our youngest son was awake, so I made my way downstairs to check in on him. When he saw me come into the room, he simply said, “You should sit down.” No parent ever wants to hear that preface a conversation.
On his way home from an errand, he witnessed a horrific accident: one driver slammed head on into another. The driver of the car that had been hit was alive when our son reached her, but it took fire fighters more than an hour to extract her from the wreckage and tragically, she passed away. The driver at fault lived.
I’ve been carrying this all week and it has really messed with me. Every time I drive down that section of highway, I see the bent guardrail and bits and pieces of their cars. I’ve imagined her parents’ shock when a somber state trooper appeared at their front door. The victim was beautiful and just beginning her adult life. Her death seems so terribly random. It wasn’t her fault that she happened to be on the same road, in the same lane, at the same second as the driver who hit her. I’ve been expecting tears, but could not access my grief.
Until today.
Multiple bird feeders hang outside my office window. Watching them brings me great joy. Finches, cardinals, nuthatches, bluejays, chickadees, and woodpeckers all take turns snatching seeds.
Occasionally, I’ll notice a fast-moving shadow and then a hawk will swoop into view, grab a much smaller bird, and mercilessly dispose of it. These unsuspecting songbirds are utterly unaware of their fate—much like the young driver who was simply driving home from work. As a highly sensitive person who often struggles under the weight of over-responsibility, I feel both sad and guilty when the hawk makes a successful kill. After all, I put the feeders up without thinking about the birds’ need for protection from predators.
When I went out to fill those feeders this morning, scattered feathers indicated that another untimely death had occurred.
I returned to my desk and scrolled through social media while eating breakfast, as is my habit. I paused on a post by a well-known and beloved author who was honestly processing some of her recent losses. Her candor opened the lock and the tears started flowing.
I wasn’t simply weeping for the birds or the young woman who died so unexpectedly. I was weeping for my friends who have lost spouses and babies, for the betrayals I’ve experienced, for my mom who is facing the end of her life, and for those we know who are battling terminal illnesses.
I wept for more than an hour and then I went back to bed because grieving is exhausting. As I slept, I dreamed of loved ones who had died and cried so hard that I woke myself up.
Grief is like a rogue wave that knocks us over and pulls us under without asking for permission. It’s brutal and leaves us disoriented and in need of comfort.
That search for comfort can lead us into spaces that don’t serve us. Many addictions start when we repeatedly turn to a counterfeit version—a symbol—of something that we actually need. Other forms of comfort are little more than short-lived distractions. I can find comfort from certain foods—but only when my mouth is full.
During a recent monthly meeting with our incarcerated brothers, my husband and I kicked off a conversation about comfort by having one of the men read this passage from 2 Corinthians:
All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ. Even when we are weighed down with troubles, it is for your comfort and salvation! For when we ourselves are comforted, we will certainly comfort you. Then you can patiently endure the same things we suffer. We are confident that as you share in our sufferings, you will also share in the comfort God gives us. (2 Corinthians 1: 3-7)
We asked where they find comfort when they feel sad or distressed. As is often the case, they schooled us. M turned to his friend and said, “I find S and tell him what’s going on with me and then he prays for me.” D raised his hand and added, “Scripture. I just read Scripture.” Another offered, “I think about Jesus. He knew what it meant to suffer. He was a man of sorrows.” These men understand loss more deeply than most of us ever will. Therefore, it’s no surprise that they also understand how to find comfort through their faith.
But faith, even a deeply rooted, integrated faith, does not, cannot protect us from death’s greedy reach or earthly sorrows. That dilemma sometimes foments fear, anxiety, and doubt. Our vulnerability makes it difficult to hold onto and trust God’s goodness in the midst of our pain. We may struggle to surrender and suffer with Jesus, and instead attempt to control our narrative. Life requires us to wrestle with this again and again—especially as we age.
Perhaps some day, when we no longer see through dark glass, our lives and losses will make sense. Or maybe not. Maybe we actually prolong our suffering when we attempt to make sense of something that will never make sense.
This past week reminded me that when the wave hits, we shouldn’t resist. We need to let it knock us down, wash over us, fill our nasal cavity with salt water, and do its cleansing work. Experiencing grief is part of what makes us human. And part of how we find healing.
Peace be with you.
Witnessing events such as the one I detailed at the top sometimes land in the body as trauma. For more information on how to recognize and process traumatic experiences, read Resmaa Menakem’s My Grandmother’s Hands or Bessel van der Kolk’s, The Body Keeps Score.
If you are stuck in the grieving process, please reach out for help. Call someone. Book a few sessions with a therapist. Don’t assume you should handle it alone.
Many thanks to Beth Moore for vulnerbly sharing her life with people she may never meet. Header photo by Matt Paul Catalano, underwater image by Simi Basilo, and final photo by Daniel Olah, all on Unsplash.
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Thanks for this powerful and moving essay, Dorothy. You have described so well what grief feels like and how God can redeem it within our lives, even as we worship--in part--by groaning along with all creation. Thanks again.
Dear Dorothy, Thank you for sharing from your heart with such beauty and vulnerability as I have come to expect from you. I am finally having breathing room to respond to an earlier post that came in the midst of a period of overwhelm for me. I am so very sorry about how Marriage In the Middle came to an abrupt ending with the publisher. It grieved me to read your email while I wasn’t in a place to do anything. Have you read Elizabeth Elliot’s book These Strange Ashes? I found it powerful reading years ago and often am reminded of it. She lost a couple of years of Bible translation work in luggage that fell off a bus and into a deep crevice off a winding mountain road in South American mountains—never to be retrieved. She wrestled with what seemed two wasted years of her life with no seeming fruit. It is hard for us to understand the ways of God—so much higher and different than our ways and thoughts (Isaiah 55). We see the underside of the weaving He is creating. Only He sees the upper side. May you be comforted by our God of all comfort in the midst of this season of grief and loss you are experiencing. He cares. He sees. He knows. And one day we shall see Him and all that seems so unjust and inexplicable will come into focus in the much bigger picture of eternity. Along with you and many other sisters and brothers, I am longing for that day! Maranatha! Come, Lord Jesus.