This morning I found myself weeping in the shower, no, not weeping, sobbing. I was overcome by grief. It has been about seven weeks since my dear sister, Karen, passed away. This is the first Christmas without her. She lived in California with her husband and three children, so she was not always here in Phoenix every Christmas, but this is the first Christmas knowing we will never again, this side of heaven, gaze into her eyes that would almost disappear when she smiled.
As I stood in the shower sobbing, the wall was the only thing that kept me from collapsing onto the shower floor. I felt the warm water washing over me and I heard the Lord speak to me. It was not an audible voice, I'm grieving, not psychotic (although the line between the two can be razor thin). Jesus reminded me that He wept for Lazarus as He stood near Lazarus' tomb.
Jesus then asked me why He would have wept for Lazarus. I had to think about that for a while. I don't think it was because Jesus thought He had lost His friend forever. He knew he was going to raise him from the dead. It may have been because of His empathy for Mary and Martha, Lazarus' sisters, and the pain they were going through. But I imagine it was much deeper than that. I think Jesus wept because this was not the way things are supposed to be.
Grieving is a physical reaction to a loss. It can be the loss of a loved one, the loss of dear pet, the loss of a marriage through divorce, or even the loss of one's innocence from being sinned against. Our bodies yearn for the way things are supposed to be. Our soul longs for the time when Jesus will set all things right.
Jesus will come back one day soon, and in that day, He will restore everything back to the way it was meant to be from the very beginning. And in that day He will wipe away every tear from our eyes. Until then we will have death, sorrow, and tears.
Someone once told me, "Grieving is a process, not an event." How true that is. Sometimes it feels like a desert. I am writing this from Canaan In The Desert, a prayer garden in Phoenix. It is a desert garden, not a lush, green, European style garden with green grass, tall hedges, and beautiful aromatic flowers. Right now, there are no flowers. It is cold, dry, and desolate, and that is the way I feel at the moment.
I don't always feel that way. Sometimes I want to be around people and laugh. But sometimes I want to be all alone and weep. I want people to ask me how I am doing and alternately I want people to say nothing at all. I tend to be a logical person, and yet I find myself doing or saying things that are totally illogical.
What I have learned is that people who are living through the grief process need much grace. Grace and prayer. I don't need to be reminded that Karen is in a better place. I know that. I don't need to be reminded that one day we will be reunited. I know that. I do not weep for Karen, I weep for me. I know that sounds selfish, but it is the truth. Karen is with Jesus and I weep for my loss. And that is okay.
Does the grieving process ever end? I don't know, I'll let you know if I ever get there. But I hope it does not. Oh, I don't want to stay forever in this phase, but I am afraid that if the grieving ends totally I will never be able see her face or hear her laugh again.
So if you see me and I am not my normal jovial self, extend to me the grace I need, and say a silent prayer for me as I am in the Desert of Grief.
