The One Where We Cry
There has never been a time she was not my friend. However, she and I walk through our separate adult lives sharing coincidental assumptions about the other one’s potentially packed agenda. One day she messages me, “I’d love to chat sometime soon.”
A couple of days later, I am traveling alone, so I call. The second sentence in, she volleys an innocent “How are you?” and as I’m considering how deep we wanna go, how quickly, my auto-reply of “I’m good!” is followed by an involuntary disclaimer, “ … yeah, I’m good, I guess.” And she just lovingly laughs. And then I laugh, mildly embarrassed by this surprising transparency which is clearly audible despite the hundreds of miles.
We talk for more than an hour. None of it small. We share our grief, share the humorous sides of life, and acknowledge the perpetual struggle. We crack up a bunch and break down a tiny bit too. We find comfort as we admit and admonish that the best we can offer is bound to be enough. Most importantly, we are not alone.
This is strangely similar to my experience with grief. It reaches out. I can stay busy and ignore the opportunity, or I can choose to return the call, willing to take some time, knowing full well there is no sense in pretending.
Notifications ping and sting without relent … reminders that we live in a broken mess of a world
His dad is dying. I remember how sad I was when my dad died. I feel a fresh version of it.
Her child is very sick. The uncertainty and fear resonate deep within. Grave concerns scream powerlessness. It’s all so hard.
Their marriage is strained, flustered and frayed. I've been there. But for grace I could be there again. The damage of discord lands heavy on my heart.
She stops responding to messages with no explanation. The fracture or fade of friendship is heart-breaking. I wonder how often I choose the easy route. I wonder who feels hurt by me. I am filled with feelings of rejection and remorse.
He makes terrible choices for all to see. I despise the clutches of sin. I rehearse the gossip and the judgement swirling at a close distance. In sadness and frustration, I want to strangle it. I want to make things right from every direction, but I can't. So I cry.
I see someone do the thing I thought I could. An opportunity or ability has been lost and discontentment must be laid to rest.
He stands at her side as she delivers her third stillborn baby. What on earth is there to do or say or think? Numbed in the excruciating sorrow.
I randomly realize ten years have passed since she died of cancer. She was such a sweet friend. I miss her comedic charm and the way she wielded wisdom to affect change and inspire. I recall how much there is to be thankful for and revisit the dreadful ache of silent separation.
Pain points.
Inevitable pain points us toward surrender. Surrendered grief bids us to empathize. Empathy compels us to pray, and prayer persuades us to reflect.
As our own sadness resurfaces, we can mirror the posture of our Savior.
Grief in all its forms and to every degree of severity can draw us closer into companionship with Christ. We find friendship with the One who claims to bear our sorrows, the One who is close to the broken-hearted and blesses those who mourn. We offer Him brokenness and He proves to be more than enough. Most importantly, we discover the comforting peace of communion. We are not alone.
When sorrow summons, resist the urge to ignore or redirect it. Perhaps we can engage grief like we would a childhood friend. We may not encounter her every day, but when we do connect, we will not shy away or fake an okay because the deep familiarity and time-tested comradery open a wide, welcoming door to true honesty [about the world and our place in it] as well as the tender-hearted, raw vulnerability necessary for real life and ministry.
