At the Intersection of Doubt and Grief

 It has been over a week since my Mom took her last breath on this earth and her first one in Glory. As if the grief of my life has not filled my cup to the brim, God seems to step in and say, 'Your cup is bigger than you knew...' I don't know if this thought is supposed to be encouraging or what. Maybe more of the 'what' in my case. And maybe God doesn't say that at all. Maybe that is my mind playing tricks on me.

How does one actually hear from God? I will not presume to answer this question, though it can be explored through the pages of Holy Writ (which I hold to be the Holy Bible). Beyond that, we do have historical church figures who give us perspective based on their own reading of Scripture and a lifetime of following after Jesus, albeit, imperfectly. I wonder if anyone will come along after me on their journey of faith and take clues from my experience? No matter, I will journey just the same. Not for their sake, but for mine. (Call me ego-centric if you like. I might take it as a compliment).

It's not that the cup of my life is big enough to hold this grief - at this point, I'm ready to chuck all analogies and mental images and helplessly cast myself on the mercy of God crying for yet more mercy.

No, it's when my cup overflows with grief and anguish that I find I cannot grow any more in 'dependence on God' but rather, that I find myself, like it or not, totally dependent on Him.

To compound grief, it seems life cannot be put on hold. There is no pause button on the screen of my life, as it plays out in my experience. The pause button seems to be created in the depths of my mind as I often dissociate from my own experience. This is both helpful and harmful all at once. It is lost time in my life's experience. I wake up and foggily recall the past days, weeks even, if I recall at all. It's like my mind and soul resist this new information: your Mom has left the planet. Some may call it denial. I call it pain.

But I've been here before...yes, I've tasted this kind of loss. But not exactly. Each person who leaves us is different and brought to our lives different things. My grief over this loss will be different to yours. It just is that way. Grief is a uniquely individualized experience. 

Death does not respect our schedules. It turns out that as my life has its twists and turns, a particular child is also struggling with some major issues with life direction and deficits in needed growth areas. (I'm intentionally vague here as a parent ought to be). It is a heavy weight to carry as a parent. As a grieving parent, I grieve not only for my loss, but for the painful issues rife in our family. It is like one grief wasn't enough. Add to that that I watch the news of Ukraine and grieve and weep and mourn, and I wish I could turn away, but I can't. I pray fervently for those who suffer, far greater than my own. My Mother left this life in a peaceful and relatively safe hospital. Not by violence. Not by distress. Not by war and tragedy, as tragic as death may be. And yet my grief is no less real, no less daunting. 

I sat by the fire last night and complained at God. 'Are you even there? Why don't you DO something? For our family? For our situation? For Ukraine? Am I just a fool to beg You for an intervention?'

Then my mind, and soul, went south. "Sarah, this is magical thinking. This is over-spiritualization. You are reaping the consequences of bad parenting. You could have been a better Mom.' 

Enter DOUBT. Big, glaring, 'I'm-standing-right-in-front-of-you-blocking-your-view-to-anything-and-everything' DOUBT. 

All the terms psychologists use float to the surface of my thoughts. I tell God, 'Why am I even talking to You? Don't You get it? I'm mad. I'm ticked off. And I wish You'd do something.' Yes, I still use a capital Y for You referring to God. It is my small effort at faith, in dark moments. I cannot be sure, but I almost hear, 'Why don't you do something?' Then I get all into it, saying, 'Yes, I know, You give us agency, choices, action we can take. You allow us to experience reality. If I jump off a cliff, I ought not pray 'God, spare me from gravity!'' I hash these things out in muddy, irreverent half-phrases. My thought conversations go like this sometimes:

 'Sarah, talk to your soul just like the psalmist did.' 

'Oh, I know about that. Psalm 77, one of my favourite lament Psalms. There's no happy conclusion. No neat and tidy box to pack it all up in.' 

'Yes, but what is his practice? What does he do with his grief, with his dismay? Even with his doubt?'

'He remembers. He remembers all the things You've done before. I suppose that would be good for me to do.'

I look back at my life, at my Mom's life, and if there's one bedrock truth it is this: God IS there. He has been and always will be. He doesn't cater to our whims. He doesn't act like a genie in a lamp. But He certainly hears our prayers. He certainly answers them, though not always on our schedule. 

Doubt challenges my faith. But I cannot help but remain full of faith, somehow. Perhaps that is the miracle. More than wanting Putin to back off (or worse), more than pleading for a change in the trajectory of my troubled child, more than looking at our circumstances and praying for God's miraculous intervention. I wonder if the miraculous intervention isn't that I still have faith - when hearts break, when losses occur, when the world seems to be breaking at the seams - both globally, locally, and microscopically (think, the microscopic corona molecule). It was sepsis that took my Mom in the end. There were about 10 white blood cells in her whole body. It was something on the microscopic level that ushered her out of this life. In one sense, the microscopic broke her at the seams. But was she broken? No. She was freed. She was liberated - brought into a state of perfection and release from the effects and presence of this world's decay.

I still pray fervently for Ukraine. I pray for protection. 

I pray for my children. I pray they experience growth and intimacy with God. That they walk in His ways, follow Him with their whole heart. 

I pray for my own grief. That the vessel of my body and soul will not break under the strain. That I open myself to all it brings. 

I pray for my sanctification. That my life be conformed more and more to the image of Christ. That His image in me shines through in who I am. That I cling to the promise that 'He makes all things beautiful in His time.' 

Grief changes us. It is like a refiner's fire, revealing the things deep within. It pulls to the surface the dross, the things that are of no use and that can be then seen for what they are: a chasing after wind. 

I suppose God has given me the gift of tears. Often not my own, often buried too deep to know they're there. But available to shed when God opens the door of my heart, even just a little. He collects  them in His bottle. And in my cynicism I say, 'Well, You can have Your bottle of my tears. I have no use for them.' Doubt, grief, cynicism all collide into the storm that is me.

Do you see my wandering? My ups, my downs? How I both audaciously challenge God, yet receive His gentle whisper? How the journey of faith and grief is not one of linear steps to follow, but more of a mud paste applied to the face of my heart, and left to sit until it seeps deep into the pores of my soul and renders a cleansing renewal? The mud mask is ugly. No one wants to greet their neighbour with green paste all over. But grief is like that. It seems dark and sticky and hard and ugly and I don't want to greet my neighbor with my soul in such a state.

But God didn't offer me a pause button, so I wear my grief with all the discomfort it brings. 

And I lay my prayers at His feet. 

And in His great kindness, He meets me, He holds me. He comforts me. He says, 'There is grace for this. My grace is sufficient for you. My power is perfected in your weakness.'