Lament

Lately I’ve been quiet, living in my head a whole lot, unable to finish much of anything I start writing.  I am wrestling, begging God to teach me to lament.  Maybe nobody does this adeptly, but sometimes I feel like a flopping fish out of water.  I am reading, praying, and still trying to make sense of it all.  I want my boy.  I want us all together.  I want to remove the dark clouds of death and grief that loom so heavy.  I beg.  I still beg God for mercy.  I am trying to gain some footing in the realm of anguish and grief.  I haven't, but I keep trying.  How do I walk this treacherous path with holiness?  How will I be self-controlled with my children in their grief when my own heart is shattered and I need so much myself?  Sometimes I want to scream the most guttural scream as an attempt to release the absolute hatred for death, for this lot. This book in particular has shaken things up a bit, in the most beautiful way.    

This type of book is a rare find.  Few talk about lament.  As I wrestle, struggle to find words to place around my own experience, I find deep rest and hope that God’s Word gives us striking beauty with contrasting emotions through lament.  I need it.  My heart is desperate.  My prayers are often groans.  His Word shows me over and over that I am not alone.  Mark Vroegup says, “Lament is the path between heartbreak and hope.”  He also refers to lament as a song sung in a minor key.  I have said that very phrase to Jason over and over since Haddy died.  Our life is still beautiful, but our song is so full of sorrow. 

Psalm 77

I cry aloud to God,

aloud to God, and he will hear me. 

In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord;

in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying;

my soul refuses to be comforted. 

When I remember God, I moan;

when I meditate, my spirit faints.  

You hold my eyelids open;

I am so troubled that I cannot speak. 

I consider the days of old,

the years long ago. 

I said, “Let me remember my song in the night;

let me meditate in my heart.”

Then my spirit made a diligent search: 

“Will the Lord spurn forever,

and never again be favorable? 

Has his steadfast love forever ceased?

Are his promises at an end for all time? 

Has God forgotten to be gracious?

Has he in anger shut up his compassion?”  

Then I said, “I will appeal to this,

to the years of the right hand of the Most High.” 

I will remember the deeds of the Lord;

yes, I will remember your wonders of old. 

I will ponder all your work,

and meditate on your mighty deeds. 

Your way, O God, is holy.

What god is great like our God? 

You are the God who works wonders;

you have made known your might among the peoples. 

You with your arm redeemed your people,

the children of Jacob and Joseph.  

When the waters saw you, O God,

when the waters saw you, they were afraid;

indeed, the deep trembled. 

The clouds poured out water;

the skies gave forth thunder;

your arrows flashed on every side. 

The crash of your thunder was in the whirlwind;

your lightnings lighted up the world;

the earth trembled and shook. 

Your way was through the sea,

your path through the great waters;

yet your footprints were unseen. 

You led your people like a flock

by the hand of Moses and Aaron.

In my pleading, my groaning, and begging, I move toward remembrance, meditation, and hunger for Him.  Only He can quench the utter longing and aching within.  He has left me with longing that I have never known, anguish that I may take to my own grave.  However, none of it will go with me to Glory.  I am asking God to teach me to pray, to lament, in the furnace of affliction.  To pretend that I always see His goodness, feel His nearness, or understand His providence would be an absolute lie.  To proclaim my desperation in this ocean of grief is honest.  In my anguish, I have asked God ‘why’ over and over again.  I always return to this: He is my only hope.   He holds the key to death (Revelation 1:18) and He brought my boy Home with delight (Psalm 116:15).  I did not want this.  I still want him here.  I can reason with myself that Haddon is now experiencing the fullness of God's glory.  Yet, this side of heaven, my finite mind has so many limitations  In the throes of grief, in the utter anguish that my God numbered Haddy’s days (Job 14:5) and included this bitter providence, and when I feel spurned by God, this passage always comes to mind.  

John 6:67-69

So Jesus said to the Twelve, “Do you want to go away as well?”  Simon Peter answered him, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life,  and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.”  

Where would I go but to His throne with my pleading?  Countless times I have bent over with anguish as I wretch and weep over the loss of my child.  The grief wrecks my heart, my mind, and my body.  The pain becomes physical over and over again.  I exercise to relieve myself of just a small measure of the grief within, so that I can gather myself to pray, think, and be.  I wear out my body and eventually my soul gives way to worship.  Who am I?  I am weak.  I am small.  I cannot fathom the holiness of  God.  Inscrutable are His ways (Romans 11:33).  I don't have all the answers.  In fact, I have more questions now than I did before.  I find myself wrestling so often, but He's the only One I trust with the weight, the gravity of this bitter providence.  After all, the Father chose to give the life of His only Son, that we might not perish but have everlasting life.  Ephesians 1:5-6 says, "In love he predestined us for adoption to himself as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved."  For love, He chose to suffer, to lay down His own life.  In the depth of my grief, the beauty of that sacrifice holds new meaning, new hope, and a deeper understanding of his lavish love and extravagant grace.  It's there that I am utterly compelled to worship, to surrender, and to trust that my God sees me, knows me, and loves me.  In all of my wrestling, He has never left me alone.  Just as Psalm 77 closes with the Great Shepherd leading his flock, I have to believe that my gentle Shepherd will lead me through the waters of profound, life-altering grief.  

If you are suffering, please consider this book.  It is giving me a clearer voice, raw and honest.   I have a very long way to go.  In a culture so consumed with instant gratification, pleasure, and pushy positivity, I find it fitting to use my voice to plead with those who suffer.  Don't be silenced by those inside or outside of the church.  Your grief needs to be heard.  Please consider the beauty of grieving towards God rather than silence with Him in your questioning, bitterness from the ashes of despair, or shame because of your doubts.  In the deepest of suffering, we find ourselves stripped bare, disoriented, and full of emotion.   He knows your every thought.  You are not alone, and He is not surprised.  Grieve toward God.  It is an extravagant and faithful move toward Him.  Lament is a pathway toward hope.