The Glass Floor

"Is she better?"

"When will they move past this?"

"Isn't she over it yet?"

Ask nearly any grieving parent and most will tell you some version of the above question has either been asked to or of them. This is a cruel consequence of living in a grief illiterate culture, and those within the body of Christ are not exempt. 

Those who ask such questions do so either from a place of (admittedly enviable) ignorance at best or cruelty at worst. How does one respond honestly? Often, honesty is either culturally unacceptable or not really desired. To give the palatable answer is to feed into culture's inappropriate "get over it, move on, be healed" mentality. 

 A recent conversation with a caring friend allowed me to find the words to describe the painful reality of grieving the death of a child. 

(The following illustration may be triggering for some.) 

When your child dies in this world the very ground you walk on becomes covered in shattered glass. Your heart and world are broken beyond repair. You find yourself walking barefoot over sharp and slicing shards of glass every moment of every day. Initially, the pain sends you to your knees. Your feet, your knees, and your hands are all covered in blood and cuts. 

Eventually you stand and even walk- glass crunching and slicing with every movement. It's a bloody mess. You're a bloody mess. 

Eventually, your feet start to scar (maybe callous, but I'm hesitant to use such a word given the cultural connotations that may come with it). Some of the sharpest pieces have either permanently lodged in your feet like shrapnel or have had the sharpest edges worn down by the weight of moving through life with heavy sorrow. 

You're not given the option to escape; you have to keep walking. To be clear, the glass is not going to miraculously be swept away in this life- just like a shattered vase will never be able to return to its original state. So, you walk. The time comes when not every step leaves your heart or eyes hemorrhaging. But there are still days when a sharp piece pierces your flesh anew. 

The scarred soles bleed again. 

This is walking in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. As long as the glass is shattered, we will bleed. We will hurt. 

So, "Am I over it yet?" When the Lord returns or takes me home, then the answer will be, "yes". Those who ask such questions will get the answer their ears are itching to hear. Until then, I hold the hands of the One who knows all too well the pain of pierced flesh. His own scarred hands hold mine. His own scarred feet walk beside mine. His own resurrected body kept the scars, but not the pain.