Journey 26: Strange Giver

What gifts did sorrow bring me, mounted high within her piercing arms? What are the packages I shuddered to accept that now lay heaped beside me while she lingers close, refusing to yield her grip on me? I wanted none of them. I crossed my arms across my chest and denied their welcome, but she would not relent. Savage friend. She drew near to bless dressed in the blackest form and while her lips bore a mournful frown she pressed them to my cheek. I loathed the smell upon her breath and cringed from her yellowed teeth. But she stood resolute, and would not fade away or know retreat until I accepted each gift she bore. The weight within each box brought agony but she forced me to hold it to my breast and cradle what I found, though darkness obscured the contents of each one.
In the dingy grayish hues I strained to recognize each present as grief curled herself around my chest. I waited for light to crack the shadows open wide. With unaccustomed eyes, as time slipped through seasons, days moved and rearranged and fell and drifted by, I slowly realized that she had brought me the ability to see another’s pain. Through the window of my broken heart I now quickly identified the wretched state of others in my path. Indifference could no longer impede my sight for I now sensed distinctly those who drew near me with shattered dreams or splintered lives. I understood their weak defense and grasped their silent ache in the torrent that spilled from their wounded eyes. And with this understanding came the ability to still my lips from pouring out advise on how to fix the loss, and I turned instead to listening and holding out my trembling hand to steady them rather than provide a remedy to soothe temporarily. Many had brought me comfort with their silence and I returned the favor when compassion was asked of me.
As the colors shifted, as dim flickers of light merged and sunlight timidly poked its head inside, I heard an unfamiliar, haunting tune floating out of another bundle pain had brought. The cadence grew, and from within the strains filled the air in volume loud and unrestrained, powerful and strong, magnificent in depth and pitch and frame, and I heard anew the passion sorrow had bestowed on me.
From the very place that made me cringe, from the rawest agony within, came the deepening of love between my husband and me. We, who had been torn asunder by the gravest loss, were bonded in an unbreakable hold as we clung desperately to each other for support. The grief, that if God’s hand had not stayed would have destroyed us with its brutality, he used to cement us tightly together and to forge a love stronger, richer, sweeter than before.
This love spills out upon our children too. Together we value them as one who has traveled through a desert cherishes an ordinary cup of water as an exquisite, refreshing goblet. Sorrow bestows the high treasure of gratitude and appreciation and declares with a resounding voice that nothing, not the smallest act or simplest moment, should be taken for granted. As she squeezed life from us, this unlikely messenger brought life to us in subdued tones that grow more brilliant with each day’s passing.
Sorrow stands before me still. Her intense presence fades with the passing of days, her suffocating embrace loosens and she remains a vague, unsettling reminder that she has clutched me with her hand and will forever reside nearby. She colors every portion of my world and scents the fragrance of each day. I am learning lessons from this most complex companion and perhaps the greatest one lies in the call to worship that she extracts with her presence. I realize I can choose to quiver, whimper and withdraw when I feel her intense pressure in my core, or I can use her cry as a prompt to worship the God who does all things well. She can hold me captive with her dreariness or I can turn from her and turn towards the Master of my soul.
Worship does not require that I feel good. Worship does not need me to understand the place I presently stand. Worship does not declare that I must rejoice in the situation I find myself. I am learning to worship right in the middle of the pain, exactly where I am, regardless of how I feel or what thoughts flood my mind, or what memories quench my spirit. Grief brings me the greatest gift of all if she draws my heart to worship my Creator and he in turn draws me to himself in an intimate embrace. I am learning through worship that God does not have to provide the answer to my dilemma. In grief’s company I learn that he himself is the answer. I need nothing more than him. Can I explain this most precious gift of grief? Are there words to defend grief as a friend? I think not. The One who calls himself “a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” has given me himself and walks me through territory he is long familiar with.