Gratitude & Grief

There is this thing in grief, that those who carry heavy loads hear.  We hear, ‘Be thankful,’ and ‘Count your blessings!’   I don’t disagree that both are a good word to those who can quickly feel consumed by darkness in their grieving, but I suppose I hear something underlying the admonishing that I wrestle with.  I hear that in some mysterious exchange that my gratitude should diminish or rid me of grief.  This concept just simply isn’t true.  

These commands are, in a sense, shutting down the aching hearts for a cheery perspective change.  Real gratitude doesn’t always look like cupcakes and rainbows.  This idea roams around in Christian circles and it is isolating to those who suffer.  My gratefulness doesn’t diminish my grief.  My grief doesn’t have to diminish my gratitude.  Unfortunately, it sometimes feels as if the imperative spoken is one that feels more like, ‘Hey, your sorrow is cramping my mood.’  The truth is that I am....cramping your vibe and thankful.  Very thankful.  I make lists every day in my head, in my prayers, and out loud.  None of those practices diminish grief.  

Although gratitude isn’t the opposite force to grief, I do believe it softens the landing sometimes.  It reminds me that all that I have is God’s.  There is profound evidence of God’s kindness, His generosity, in my life.  Thankfulness dampens this deafening ‘no’ that I am wrestling through, but it doesn’t remove my sadness or my tears.  It does help to give me perspective.  It helps me to see the gentleness of God’s hand in my suffering.  It helps me to sense the way He has tended to my every need.  The genuine admonishing to rejoice or give thanks is a tender reminder that Christ is still King, even after this life-altering tragedy.  Unfortunately, our culture on the whole is very uncomfortable with grieving, with silence, and with sorrow.  

As a sufferer from the tragic and traumatizing death of my son, the anguish is still here, rising and falling in my chest, tossing and turning in my bed at night.  Gratitude, thankfulness, is a wise and prudent choice to be made in grief.  It helps me measure just how little I have to do with the immensity of love that exists that is still within my reach.  It gives me deep, abiding hope for the love that exists outside of my reach currently that will one day be fulfilled, quenched, and redeemed in heaven.  Thankfulness brings my lips to rejoicing, and my heart to stillness and peace.  You see, I believe down in my bones that God is worthy of my gratitude.  He is so worthy.  I believe it is well within His right to take my baby Home.  However, I don’t believe that God expects for me to hurry through, and He doesn’t rush me in my anguish.  On the contrary, I believe He is using this pain in more ways than I can possibly calculate.  Furthermore, I feel His presence more deeply than I ever have before.  I believe He is calling me to gratitude, to submission, and to surrender.  There is something very powerful about resting in Jesus as my heart cries out to the God who took Haddy home.  He wasn’t wrong.  He wasn’t less trustworthy in those moments where I was giving every ounce of me to make my boy live.  Each compression, each whispered prayer in my heart, and each attempt to fill his lungs with my own breath was good and for His glory.  My friends, there is something to surrendering my will, my plan, my way to a God who knows all things.  Grief and gratitude are not two opposite forces.  They can coexist in one heart in harmony.  

All that to say, there is significant weight and toil in the minds and hearts of those who suffer.  This side of heaven, so many mysteries sit behind a veil.  I don’t understand why God took my Haddy home to heaven, but I long to know the God who has granted this bitter providence more deeply.  I have to believe these words to be true of my current lot.  

2 Corinthians 4:17-18

For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.

My good God is pointing out that this deep, life-altering tragedy is but a light, momentary affliction in comparison to eternity.  My good God is saying, there is divine purpose in my pain.  He is drawing me near, drawing all sufferers near, with this gentle reminder that He is preparing us for a better Home.  Do you hear that tender call?

 Psalm 23

1The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

2He makes me lie down in green pastures.

He leads me beside still waters. 

3He restores my soul.

He leads me in paths of righteousness

for his name's sake. 

4Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil,

for you are with me;

your rod and your staff,

they comfort me. 

5You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies;

you anoint my head with oil;

my cup overflows. 

6Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life,

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord

forever.

The longing, the waiting will be quenched in the new heavens and new earth.  For those who suffer, the longing and yearning are a real part of their journey.  Can you hear their silent pleading with the Lord?  Like David’s pleading, we sojourn together, with longing, with gratitude, and with faith that God will make good on his promises.  Let’s consider how we handle one another.  Let’s celebrate when a dear one who suffers sets their heart, mind, and lips to rejoicing in the midst of profound pain.  Gratitude doesn’t dispel grief, but it may dispel bitterness.  Admonish one another to look to the Giver and give thanks.  ‘Tis the season.