The Face of Jesus In Our Grief

I sat by the hospital bed, pitcher of ice in one hand, spoon in the other. I watched as she slowly chewed on the ice chips, her eyes closed. Her breathing was shallow and shaky. I knew her body ached from the violent chills that would every so often take over her body and take her prisoner. My tears didn’t ask my permission. The exhaustion had taken its toll, and there was no stopping them. 

It amazed me. I often forget the gracious gift of white blood cells. If I had the same infection, I would probably look a whole lot different than my poor Momma. Unfortunately, the treatment she received the previous weekend to keep the cancer at bay had left her defenseless.
I had just spent thirteen hours running around on a different floor in the hospital, attempting to figure out what I was doing in my new position as a registered nurse. My legs ached, my head was pounding, and my mind was swarming with all of the new information that I had been trying my hardest to absorb. I tried my hardest to stay calm as the hours passed by and I remained awake helping the woman who had spent many a sleepless night with me twenty something years ago. But when it took her sixteen attempts to remember her phone password, my mind went back to 2013. After her stem cell transplant, sepsis tried to steal my Mom. That was the last time she was talking nonsense that seemed to make total sense to her. So, fear crept in and my mind automatically went to the dark places. 

And then she looked up at me, tears in her eyes, hand wrapped around mine, and she whispered, “I’m scared.” I pushed my own fear to the side, relying on my own strength to stay calm. “Don’t worry, Mom. You’re going to be okay. I’m here with you. You aren’t alone.”
In my selfishness, in my desire for comfort, in my brokenness – I asked God when it would be done. I asked Him why couldn’t we just get a break. I asked Him, “Hasn’t there been enough? Can’t you just heal her already?” I confessed, “This is too much. I’m tired. I’m not this strong. And I’m tired of everyone telling me that I need to be. You say your power is made perfect in my weakness.” 

My last post was one on suffering. I announced it would be part of a series. My job took over, and it’s been a while. But this is turning out to be the second installment. When we suffer, what is God doing? 

I’ll admit, sometimes I think He’s far away – removed. Sometimes I believe the lie that He doesn’t want to give me good gifts. But in reality, He’s with us in our darkness. He’s grieving alongside of us. 

I think of Jesus at the tomb of Lazarus – weeping. Our God wept. The sovereign Lord, who knew that He was about to raise Lazarus from the dead, took His time to mourn. Not too long ago, my pastor reminded me of this story. It has been one story that has been balm to my soul many a time before. But I’ll admit, this past month, the words fell on deaf ears. My heart, heavy with insecurities and disappointments, has started to become callous and hard. God graciously has revealed Himself to me over and over, but I stubbornly kept him at arm’s length.
And then I read these words penned by C.S. Lewis in The Magician’s Nephew:

“But please, please—won’t you—can’t you give me something that will cure Mother?” Up till then he had been looking at the Lion’s great front feet and the huge claws on them; now, in his despair, he looked up at its face. What he saw surprised him as much as anything in his whole life. For the tawny face was bent near his own and (wonder of wonders) great shining tears stood in the Lion’s eyes. They were such big, bright tears compared with Digory’s own that for a moment he felt as if the Lion must really be sorrier about his Mother than he was himself.

“My son, my son,” said Aslan. “I know. Grief is great. Only you and I in this land know that yet. Let us be good to one another.”

And I was wholly undone.

Friends, we have a God who is great and mighty, but so tender and gentle. His compassion never wearies. He grieves with us. His heart breaks as He watches us tend to our hearts in ways that don’t bring Him honor or glory. When we take the broken pieces and build a wall around it, keeping Him out? When we give those broken pieces to other gods, thinking they can glue it back together? Our Lord weeps. He wants those broken shards of our hearts. He wants us to come and present the mess to Him, knowing that we can trust Him with it. He isn’t cruel. He is love. And that love motivates Him to do what is very best for us. We just don’t always see how it is the best. 

And one day? The tears will be wiped away. And we shall worship Him forevermore. It’s coming, friends. He is our hope. Jesus meets us in our dark and broken places now, and whispers “Hold on, child…I’m coming back. It will be glorious. In the mean time, look up at my face.”
So, I will continue to take steps forward – leaning on the One whose grace is sufficient. I will limp my way homeward. Crying out to the One who heals and performs miracles. And friends, please remind me to look up at His face. We all need help in fixing our gaze.