Weary and Heavy Laden

 I was recently asked to speak at a hospice memorial service. Admittedly, I was honored, but extremely nervous and hesitant. Who am I to do such a thing? I'm not a speaker. Often times I think people expect me to speak as I write. They are soon disappointed. (I was obviously having a Moses moment.) As I was considering the invitation, I was reminded of a constant prayer of mine since February 25: "Lord, please don't let anything be wasted; not one tear, not an ounce of this deep and heavy pain, and most definitely not my baby's life. Please, use it. May nothing be wasted." Hence, I humbly decided to accept. The following are words I shared with such a precious group of people, praying their hearts would be encouraged and comforted as the Lord has done for me.

I am so sorry for the grief and sorrow which brought you here today. Some of us here are aching to hold our child again. Some are missing a sibling with a deep intensity that one cannot understand without having experienced such a loss. Some are here yearning to be held just one more time by a parent, grandparent, or spouse. Whatever the relationship, we are all learning to live with a hole in our hearts where our person fit so preciously and perfectly. Today we are in a room filled with the complex intermingling of joy and sorrow, regret and relief, broken dreams and eager expectations, the darkness of death and the light of eternity, anger and peace, questions and confidence, hurt and hope, and resilient and fragile hearts. 

These things are not mutually exclusive: one INSTEAD of the other. It is very often one WITH the other. We are a complex crowd: a crowd many shy away from and a select few graciously and mercifully press into. 

Thank you. Thank you for trusting me and allowing me to join you. When asked to join you today, my heart felt the weight of somber responsibility while acknowledging the solemn privilege. One might be tempted to assume suffering a heartbreaking loss would somehow equip one with confidence when speaking to fellow grievers. As I prepared to speak with you today, I found it was not so. If anything, I am more acutely aware of the power of aptly spoken or poorly chosen words. 

I realize we are all different branches of this tree called Grief. I cannot fully understand your grief, nor you mine: each of us having unique relationships with the ones over whom we grieve. The circumstances surrounding all our griefs are varied. While it is comforting to be among fellow branches of the grief tree, I still do not presume to completely understand your pain. So, thank you for allowing me to be here, for sharing your stories and loved ones with me, and for the grace you extend in understanding no two people grieve exactly alike. I'm honored to be here. 

For those who don't know me or my family, I am a wife of an amazing husband and four beautiful children: three of whom are still entrusted to me and whom I still have the pleasure of holding and tucking into bed at night and one of whom is now held by Jesus and is waiting for me in Heaven. 

February 25 of this year changed our lives forever. That's the day my precious three-year-old, Abigail Guire, suffered complications from a common cold, ran on ahead of us to Heaven, and thus we were suddenly forced into this role of "bereaved parent": a role I neither wanted nor wish upon anyone else. I recently read a statistic quoted in an article put out by The Gospel Coalition. Only 24 out of 100,000 children will pass away prior to the age of four. That's 0.024% of parents losing a child younger than four years old. This is a lonely grief. I can truly say, "may the odds be ever in your favor". Yet, even if you're in the majority as nearly all people have or will one day experience the loss of a parent, grief can still be very lonely I presume. Grief is like that. It does not discriminate.

Bereaved. It's a funny, perhaps cruel word, isn't it? It almost seems mocking. Bereaved is defined as being deprived of a close relation or friend through their death. Bereaved parent. Bereaved spouse. Bereaved sibling. One word in front of a title that turns our life upside down. Eight letters in a word which holds a deep well of pain. Yet, eight letters put together in such a way to wrap indescribable pain up in a tidy package for those who hear it but are not living it. Eight letters attempting to make pain more palatable. The audacity! There's nothing tidy or palatable about losing one you love. My daughter's name, Abigail, is seven letters. Seven letters beautifully put together representing life, laugher, and deep love. And there it is. Bereaved. It mocks. One more letter. Infinitely more pain. 

Eight months. Eight months I have now walked this earth without a piece of my heart. It seems surreal. If you asked me a year ago what I would be doing today? This is not it. A year ago, I thought I'd be figuring out coordinating costumes for FOUR children, planning a pink puppy themed birthday party for a precocious FOUR-year-old, and deciding upon Christmas gifts for FOUR children. But I'm not. 

Instead, I am standing here with you today. I imagine many of you also didn't imagine this to be how you would spend today one year ago. I'm sorry. Truly sorry. 

I've read A LOT of books these past 7-8 months. A LOT! But the one which I cling ever so tightly, desperately even, is the Word of God. 1 Chronicles 28:20 states, "Be strong and courageous. Do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, MY GOD, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you." 

Did you catch that? Do. The. Work. Grief is HARD work. Grief is heavy, and we often feel anything but strong. Now weak? That I can identify with. 

Courage? Our desire to escape our pain feels anything but courageous. 

Grief is hard work. 

We often find ourselves wondering, "am I doing this right? Am I coping in a healthy manner? Am I crazy? Is this normal? How do I help those who rely on me grieve well when I can barely function myself?" It's easy to become afraid of all the ways we may feel ill-equipped, as well as all the unknowns that may continue to come. It doesn't take much to discourage us.  

I don't know if you've experienced this yet, but many people have so kindly told me these past months, "you are so strong". Now, those may be needed words of encouragement for some to continue the work. I personally recoil a little each time it's said, despite knowing it is being said with genuinely tender intentions meant to encourage me. There is NOTHING in me capable of being strong enough or courageous enough to endure the death of my precious child. 

The strength and courage to do the work of grief are found in the Lord. One of my favorite biblical names of God is Jehovah Shammah. The God who is there. All the days prior to February 25? The Lord was there. Even though he wasn't there in the way I begged him to be on February 25, the Lord was still very much there. Every day since? The Lord is here. 

My ability to see him or understand what he allows in his sovereignty does not determine his presence, promises, or provisions. Though my prayers were not answered the way I hoped they would be he has not failed me. He has not forsaken me. Nor has he you. 

He CARRIES me in those many moments I simply cannot go any further. He COMFORTS me in my deepest, darkest pain. He COVERS me when fear and lies assail me. Jehovah Shammah. 

There is an intermingling of joy and sorrow while we grieve. Each day holds varying measures of each. On days I'm obviously struggling people will sweetly ask, "Is it a hard day?" or I'll even find myself tempted to justify my tears or frustrations by saying, "today is hard." Yet, I find myself in conflict over this because saying one day is hard seems to imply other days are easy. They may be easier, but NEVER are they easy. One does not easily live without their child, their loved one. Some days are hardER. That little suffix -er has brought me a sense of freedom. I can honestly say "today was a hardER day." 

Jesus says in Matthew 11:28-29, " Come to me all you who are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls". 

Some days are so heavy and weighted with sadness it is hard to come. It's hard to carry such heavy sorrow when I'm so incredibly broken. I come limping, lame, wounded, and weary. 

I am so weary. I am heavy burdened, as are many of you. I come, yet some days I don't know if I can come any further. 

I am desperate for "rest for my soul". 

Thus, I beg the Lord to throw the yoke upon my shoulders that yokes me to Him. Only then, when he is bearing the brunt of my burden may I move forward in-not through- grief. His shoulders are bigger, broader and stronger than mine. Hence when I come under and am covered by his yoke the weight crushing me is supported by him. 

I'm not a farmer, and in my line of work I generally caution people to avoid googling things of factual importance. I broke my own rule and googled "large ox yoked to smaller". The first thing to pop up was this: "when training a young ox to be yoked, it is placed with a larger, stronger ox so that the yoke (and thus the burden) rests almost entirely on the larger ox." I understand this to mean there is a form of rest one can find in the strength of another. 

Do the work. 

This is a work of grief.  Coming. Coming under the yoke of the one who bears my burden until the weight of this world is lifted and I join my daughter. 

Hebrews 3 reminds us to hold onto courage and hope. This too is a work of grief. Holding. 

Hebrews 4 reminds us the promise of entering HIS rest still stands. Even here, amid the work of grief, the promise of rest still stands. 

We will be strong and courageous as we lean into his rest and strength. 

I will do the work of grief. My daughter is worth it. Your loved one is worth it. We will do the work, but we will not do it alone. We will do it together, and we will do it with Him. When, not if, I am afraid or discouraged I will remember my God did not, has not, and will not forsake me. Jehovah Shammah. 

The Lord is there, even in the painful work of grief. Especially in the painful work of grief. Therefore, I encourage you to hold on to courage. Hold on to hope. Courage is not the absence of fear, nor is hope the absence of hurt. Grief is hurt lingering in the shadows of hope. 

"Be strong and courageous. Do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, MY GOD, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you."