“For
the Lord does not cast off forever. Though He causes grief, yet He will show
compassion according to the multitude of His mercies. For He does not afflict
willingly, nor grieve the children of men.” –Lamentations 3:31-33
There are not many words.
Just a loud sort of silence that hurts to hear. We prefer it to noise, but we
still scream things inside. Or we did… how we hated pain and suffering before
we faced it. Near defiant anger raged throughout the approaching hours.
Strength feels more a theory than anything. Weakness, though so unattractively unhelpful on our faces, is what our selfishness needs. Or maybe our bare souls require. To let heart-rain run down from eyes to hands to shame and admit—I won’t be brave here.
And maybe that is okay?
I turn this idea around in my swollen brain. Are we allowed to tremble? Particularly when it is not followed by notable courage? They say we are; “It is okay” is a common theme here. But “okay” is not the “it” before us now. And I falter in every way I hate to. God help me, I want to help. I want to walk away from this with a sliver of dignity, or at least a sense of usefulness. I get neither. Because it is not, especially now, about me… not in any way.
Funny, how in our eagerness to help, to comfort, to be strong for others, we can still be selfish.
Let it be.
That is what the faint voice of Wisdom taught in those moments. And how hard a thing—to just feel and show it. To let tasks and words be. To love simply, truthfully, even in the end, when under pressure to say and do grandiosely.
No, grieving one, let it be.
We love superfluously, it seems, when love threatens to deny us. When it says cruelly, “What you love won’t be here long.” We fling our hearts before it in passions brought on by fear and possessiveness.
Let it be.
Be quiet, instead. And for the sake of He who came before and gave us love, cry. This is the strength, if you can manage to bear it, that you are called to.
“And I, brethren, when I came to you, did not come with excellence of speech or of wisdom… I was with you in weakness, in fear, and in much trembling.”[1]
Can we say, “we look heavenward”, rather than, “we are strong”?
Is it us, or Christ, we know best in these seemingly endless minutes of shaking and sobbing? Perhaps our weakness is a way, even if we hate it, to learn His heart more intimately.
I see a Shepherd that cries, “My soul is exceedingly sorrowful…”[2] A Man and Lord who walked amongst all those of weakness. Who saw loved ones weeping and “groaned in the spirit and was troubled.”[3] A Savior who cried to His people, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem… How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings...!”[4] A God who wept, “saying, ‘If you had known… the things that make for your peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.’”[5]
He is here. In sorrow. With us.
It is His assurance we cling to in this—what is so hard before us—“You will weep and lament… but your sorrow will be turned to joy… I will see you again and your heart will rejoice,” and then, oh grieving ones, “your joy no one will take from you.”[6]
Let it be.
Oh, how your words and references touched me this morning...thank you so much, dear girl.
ReplyDeletemom