The Bitterness of Grief in the Rubble and Ruins

When I opened my Bible it was in 1 Samuel 15-16 where the page contains lots of pink scribbles; presumably those of Abigail. Oh, how I miss her, and her death to this world is not something I will "get over". My eyes landed on 15:32, "Agog came to him [Samuel] confidently, thinking 'surely the bitterness of death is past'." My first thoughts? What a foolish and ignorant thing to say! Samuel is grieving, not over the loss of his own child per se, but over the children of God, the Israelites. The "bitterness of death" and grief is not something that just passes with an assumed sufficient period of time. When I read or hear things that refer to grief "being completed" or grief "having done it's work" there is this rising up within my heart: an affronting. 

Do I hope and believe the sharpness of grief becomes a little softer? I absolutely and desperately do. I'm counting on it, but it's never gone. One can hit every textbook stage of grief and yet never be finished grieving. Grief is having it's work in me and I in it; but it will never be complete this side of heaven. To presume so seems foolish and ignorant (in the truest sense of the word). I will never not ache for my little girl. 

I love what my precious new friend Karen Harmening says, "[grief] is not a list of stages or steps to be completed. It is simply deep sorrow in response to deep loss. The presence of grief does not eliminate the possibility of joy and happiness. Grief and joy exist simultaneously. The permanence of my grief does not enslave me, but it does change me and mold me. God, who uses all things for the good of those who love him, is using my grief as a sanctifying flame to refine and transform me more and more into his image." (Sifted, by Karen Harmening)

Given this perspective, why on earth would we want then to rush grief, "get over it," or bring grief to an end? Karen goes on to say, "I am not working through the stages of grief. But God is working through my grief to transform me, equip me, and to use me in ways he has foreordained (see Ephesians 2:10). My grief is part of my offering to Him. Just as I offer up my life to Him, I offer up my grief, knowing that He who is faithful will use it too, for his glory and my good."*

With thoughts of how difficult and exhausting this stewardship of grief still tumbling in my head, I moved to Nehemiah 4. God's people are in the process of rebuilding the wall from a pile (an overwhelming one at that) of ruins. Their opposition mockingly states, "Can they bring the stones back to life from those heaps of rubble- burned up as they are?" (verse 2). Lifeless. Burned out. Charred. HEAPS of rubble. I won't pretend I haven't felt this way. I can never "fix" what is now broken in my heart or the hearts of my husband, children, and other family who miss our girl. I also realize "fixing" is not my job, but it's really hard to look out over these heaps of ruins and not be discourage, intimidated, or fatigued by the work of grief. Just as the people of God said, "the strength of the laborers is giving out, and there is so much rubble that we cannot rebuild the wall", I too wearily lay my complaint before the Lord himself. My strength has been sapped. I also am tempted to fear what this grief will do to my children and their young faith, my family, my marriage. 

When all I see are ruins instead of the power, strength, love, and compassion of my Heavenly Father; and when my fear threatens my faith the Author and Perfecter of said faith reminds me and reassures me. He is the cornerstone firmly set amid the ruins. "Don't be afraid...Remember the Lord who is great and awesome, and fight for your brothers, your sons, and your daughters and your home." (verse 14)

Remember. I am not alone in the ruins. I am not even in charge of the finished product. He will breathe life into the ruins, stone upon stone. I am called to the work and stewardship of grief. Yet I need not fear because my strength is gone. I need to remember. This is me, boasting in my utter weakness "so that Christ's power may rest on me. For when I am weak, then I am strong." (2 Corinthians 12:9-11). Remembering seems to extinguish the fear and strengthen for the fight. Perhaps that's why it's sandwiched between the two in verse 14. 

This is exhausting, but I can fight the discouragement, the fears, the lies of the enemy and threatening darkness in HIS power with HIS promises. As the people then began rebuilding with bricks in one hand and a sword in the other (Neh 4:17), I too will not enter this hard work without the necessary tools. The promises of His Word will be the sword in my hand as I dig and carry one stone at a time through the rubble. I will not throw them down and give up. I will fight. I will fight for my sons and my daughter and my home. It's a two sided battle. Building on the right, defensive on the left. It is exhausting, this work of grief. 

I do not expect the bitterness of death to pass this side of Heaven, but I eagerly await the day I no longer need a sword in one hand and a stone in another. I long for the rest of heaven. Until the day I hold my little girl while I'm simultaneously held by my Savior, I will remember. I will fight. 

*Sifted: Diary of a Grieving Mother, by Karen Harmening