Walking With Others in Grief

In my last post, I shared some thoughts on the difficulty we have allowing ourselves to grieve. If you haven’t read it, might want to start HERE. As I’ve spent the last few days walking through a very close friend passing away, I’ve also noticed that at times we have (possibly even more) difficulty walking with others in grief. 

I very purposefully did not call my wife on Monday to tell her that our lifelong friend Mike had died. She was traveling on business. I did not want her carrying that weight alone. I also didn’t want her driving down the road all by herself with that heartbreak and burden. So I came home as soon as I could to tell her in person. It was hard. We cried. And then we told our kids. My kids knew Mike, but they didn’t KNOW Mike. He wasn’t someone they saw frequently or had a relationship with like we did. As I told the both of them individually, it was apparently clear: I need to teach my kids how to walk with others in grief. 

My daughter is overflowing with compassion. When my dad passed away, Libby wept. Yes, she was sad that Papa was gone, but she was most broken over the idea of her Nana being alone. There’s a HUGE heart in there! But she didn’t have a filter or context this week for Mom & Dad grieving over their friend. 

My son wants everything and everyone to be right in the world. He wants no one’s feathers to be ruffled and wants peace on earth and in every relationship. When you’re hurt, he wants you to be healed and well. When someone’s upset - especially his momma - he wants things fixed. So when Morgan came in from the back porch, clearly upset and crying, and started trying to cook dinner, he insisted that she “just come sit down on the sofa and relax!” Witnessing all of this, I began to realize: I need to teach my kids how to walk with others in grief.

For a moment, travel back about 6 hours with me on that Monday.

Not long after I got the phone call about Mike, as I was trying to avoid my grief (which I admitted in my last post), I began trying to work on my sermon for this Sunday. I tried to study. I tried to outline. I tried to focus. Honestly, I was just trying to remember what I was doing. I quickly became aware of the fact that I was in shock and there would be no focusing today. Or probably tomorrow. Not long after this I found myself in Chad’s office. I shared with him what had happened. As I did, there were 2 very specific things he said to me:

1. I am so sorry to hear this.
2. Is there anything I can do?

These statements may seem very trivial to us. It may feel insignificant in the grand scheme of things to utter these words to someone. But the truth is, if you mean them - if you’re truly burdened for your friend, family member, neighbor, or coworker’s grief AND you truly would physically, tangibly do something if you could to alleviate their burden - then those words mean something. When Chad asked me, “Is there anything I can do?”, without a moment’s hesitation I asked him, “Can you preach for me on Sunday?” He said absolutely. Then he prayed with me. He lifted my burden.

Now, back to the dinner table that night.

As we sat down to eat the meal that my son didn’t want his mother to cook while she was upset, I shared this with my kids: "I need to share something with you guys. You’re not in trouble and I’m not rebuking you or anything like that. But I realized earlier that it’s my job as your Dad to teach you how to respond to other people’s grief. When someone you love is hurting or grieving - when you hear that someone you love has lost someone close to them - there are really only 2 things you need to say to that person: I am so sorry to hear this (&) Is there anything I can do? This doesn’t mean you can bring someone back from the dead or make the hurt go away. But it lets them know that you’re there, you care, and you will carry the burden with them.” I went on to share with them how Chad had responded to me earlier in the day. It was such a beautiful and powerful example. I believe they understood.

Friends, we don’t have all the answers. We can’t bring people back or make the hurt go away. But we can carry the burden with our brothers and sisters. There is an old Jewish practice called Sitting Shiva. I won’t go into it in great detail, but over the seven days of observing grief and mourning in Judaism, there is great value placed on simply being there with the grieving. Just being present. Possibly even just sitting. No talking. No thinking you need to have all the answers. Just being present. Sitting Shiva.

This is very, very hard for us. 

Just being there.

Just sitting.

We want to fix things. We want to make it OK. We want to have all the answers.

We can’t. And most often, we don’t.

That’s not what the grieving need. We don’t need answers or fixing or everything to be OK. What we need is to know that someone else is walking with us through the confusion and the brokenness and the pain. Maybe not talking. Just walking. Just being present. 

Lord, help us to have the wisdom to know how to walk alongside one another through the valley of the shadow of death. Help us to be OK with only being able to offer you and offer ourselves. Let that be enough. Walk with us as we walk with one another in grief. Amen.

Jesus Wept. So Why Won't We?

Yesterday morning - the day after Easter - I woke up still thinking about resurrection. THE Resurrection! It was still fresh on my mind and flooding my thoughts. My heart was truly full. And then my phone rang. My friend Amy called to tell me that her brother, Mike - one of my lifelong friends - had passed away unexpectedly. She was in shock. So was I. In fact, I still am.

You're never ready for these phone calls. We aren't wired to be OK with a young husband and father of 2 suddenly being ripped away. It doesn't make sense; at least not in the way we want the world to make sense. These things never do. As I hung up the phone with Amy I immediately felt a wall going up. As I began making phone calls, letting friends know what had happened, trying to answer people's questions with answers I didn't have, I could already feel it happening within me. I've felt it before, so I knew what it was. My heart began erecting a barrier and building a dam. I have to be strong. I have to be here for others. I have to hold it together so I can tell Morgan. Morgan needs me to be strong. Everyone needs me to be strong. I'm sure sometime later I'll allow it, but right now...under no circumstances...am I going to allow myself to grieve.

I tell myself things like:

Mike's in a better place.

Mike is with the Lord.

Mike is home, for cryin out loud! He's with Jesus! How awesome is that!?

It's incredibly awesome for Mike. But the fact is it really really sucks for the rest of us. It's hard. It's painful. It's like ripping a hook out of your heart and your intestines. It's mind-numbing. Unexplainable. It leaves you wanting answers and placing blame. Grief takes every physical, mental, emotional, chemical, and spiritual fiber and synapse in your body and ignites them all simultaneously. We know this. And yet, we will call upon every stubborn resource within us to attempt to suppress, beat down, and contain this eruption. 

Why?

Why won't we just allow ourselves to grieve? To hurt? To cry?

I really don't know. I actually don't have that answer. 

But I do know we somehow have to get past this. We somehow have to learn to grieve.

In Psalm 56:8, King David describes the depths at which the Lord cares about our grief:

"You have kept count of my wanderings; put my tears in your bottle. 

Are they not in your book?"

There is not one single moment or instance or morsel of grief that I walk through that the Lord does not walk through with me. There is not one single drop of a tear that you or I shed that the Lord does not take notice of and shed with us. He doesn't just take notice; he grieves with me. He knows my pain.

Take note and consideration of this, though:
If I refuse to actually walk through the grief, he can't walk with me.
If I refuse to vulnerably allow those tears to flow, the Lord can't "put my tears" in his bottle.
The Lord can't grieve with me if I don't allow myself to grieve.

In John 11, Jesus returns after his friend Lazarus has died. His sisters are beside themselves. They don't understand why Jesus didn't come and heal Lazarus. [Of course, we know that Jesus winds up bringing Lazarus back from the dead. He allowed a death so that he could bring about a resurrection. We know this. They didn't.] As Jesus is swarmed by the crowd of friends and family, he asks them to take him to the place where they've buried Lazarus. When they arrive, everyone breaks down. Tears are flowing. Grief is there. Fully present. And what did Jesus do?

"Jesus wept."

Friends, if we think Jesus was weeping because Lazarus had died, I think we're wrong. He knows that Lazarus was about to walk out of that grave. Jesus knew that his own death & resurrection would ultimately defeat the grave! Jesus wasn't weeping or broken for Lazarus. He wept for his friends. 

He saw their heartbreak and felt it erupt within him. 

He saw their tears and he could no longer hold his own back.

Right before this, John tells us: "When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in his spirit and greatly troubled."

Jesus grieves with those who are willing to grieve.

Jesus wept. So why won't we?

I think something within us has incorrectly connected having peace about death with having a refusal to grieve. Like if I know the Lord and I have great peace about eternity, that this somehow also means I can't be sad or broken when someone I love - who also shares that peace about death - dies and is no longer here with me. This is messed-up thinking. A peace about death DOES NOT EQUAL a refusal to grieve! 

This Friday - and for the immediate forseeable future - I will celebrate my dear friend Mike's life. I will remember our friendship. I will laugh about memories and tell stories and share his legacy. But I will also grieve. I will hurt. I will cry. And my Lord and Savior will be right there with me. He'll put those tears in his bottle. He will bear the weight of my sorrow. He is there. He is always there in our grief.