God knows how the story ends.
It was true about the story of Easter, which we celebrated a few weeks ago. It’s true about the story of COVID-19—what has happened, what is happening, and what the world will look like when it’s all over. And it’s true about each one of our individual stories too.
After my dad died last May, I wrestled with “why” for several months.
He was 86 and had lived a long, useful life, so my questions didn’t necessarily have to do with the fact that he had died. They were more about the heartbreaking events that led up to his death—or, if you will, the way he died.
The decline of his health—which was perplexing and sometimes even inexplicable—forced him to spend the last six months of his life in a nursing home. He was at peace at the end, but the long walk home was at times arduous and painful—for him and for us.
Why did it have to be that way? I wondered. Why didn’t God just let him die at home in his sleep like he always thought he would?
As a general rule, I don’t devote a lot of time or energy to this type of questioning. If anything, I’m more inclined to worry about the future—to veer off into what-if land—rather than stew over what has already happened.
In the wake of my dad’s death, though, as I struggled to process the trauma of what had happened, this is where I often found myself. Logically, I knew these were questions that had no answers. I felt like I’d be better off banging my head against a brick wall than to continue to ask why, but my sad heart still wanted to know.
This is, of course, a completely human and understandable response. For a grieving daughter as well as a world full of questions about God’s role in the whole Covid-19 pandemic.
There’s no judgment here if you’re someone who struggles with doubt or wonders why God is allowing current events to play out the way they are. But if you’ve reached the point of head-banging or simply long for a more productive question than “why,” may I suggest an alternative?
Set aside questions like “Why me, God?” and “Why is God allowing this kind of suffering in the world right now?”
Instead, ask yourself, “What about God enables me to trust Him through or in spite of the suffering?”
I’ve written previously about my practice of underlining God’s names and attributes as I read the scriptures. About a month ago, I started going through the Book of Psalms in a new, unmarked Bible.
Every day I find more comforting truth about God and additional reasons to trust Him.
The Psalms don’t tell us why, but they do reassure us that God numbers our days and keeps track of our tears (Psalm 39:4, 56:8). That He understands how we are formed and remembers that we are dust (Psalm 103:14).
They remind us that our good Shepherd spoke the world into existence, that He is King of the whole earth, that He doesn’t withhold his compassion from us, that He is near the brokenhearted, that His way is perfect and His Word is pure. (Psalm 33:9; 47:7; 40:11; 34:18; 18:30)
The Book of Isaiah also provides solid answers when we ask “What is it about God?” rather than why. In Isaiah 12:2, for example, the prophet proclaims “Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The Lord, the Lord himself, is my strength and my defense; he has become my salvation.” (NIV)
And in Isaiah 41:10, God Himself promises, “ ‘Do not fear, for I am with you; do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, surely I will help you, surely I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’ ” (NASB)
As for me, the truth of Psalm 139:16—“that all the days ordained for me were written in [God’s] book before one of them came to be”—eventually helped me to release most of the whys about my dad’s death.
It helps me still, as I erase significant life events from our family’s calendar and repeatedly release my expectations of what the future might hold to the only One who knows that future.
I realize, though, that the specific elements of God’s character that are especially comforting to me right now might not be the same ones that encourage you. We’re all different, after all—and specifically designed that way by our sovereign Creator.
So what is it about God that enables you, personally, to trust Him during this uncertain time?
Write it down, all at once or as you read through the Bible each day. And please, if you don’t mind, share it with us too. We’re all in this together, and I can’t help but think that what encourages you will encourage someone else too.
♥ Lois
This post is part of a collection called Help for Parent Loss. To read more, please click here.
What is it about God that enables you to trust Him during this uncertain time? Share on X The Psalms don’t tell us why, but they do reassure us that God numbers our days and keeps track of our tears. Share on XYears ago, when Randy and I were waiting to adopt our older daughter, I wrote a book about infertility.
The book’s introduction is titled “My Pile of Stones.” Here’s how it begins:
My mom died in April last year—on Good Friday, to be exact—and my father passed away five weeks later.
Twelve months earlier, we never would have predicted any of this. My mom had Alzheimer’s disease and lived in a nursing home not too far from me. My dad lived in the nearby town where I grew up and visited her every day—rain or shine.
My mom had mobility issues but still knew us and seemed quite healthy. My somewhat frail dad was doing OK on his own, but his health deteriorated dramatically last fall. He was hospitalized with congestive heart failure in late November, got worse in rehab and joined his wife of 60 years in long-term care right around Christmas.
While it was touch-and-go with him, nobody expected my mom to start declining. It’s almost as if she snuck past him into heaven when none of us were looking.
The days and weeks following their deaths were a blur of mourning, questioning, processing, sorting and transitioning. While I still miss them both terribly, the grief has “softened” somewhat, as the leader of my GriefShare group suggested it would eventually.
For the last six months or so, though, thoughts of “this time last year” have crossed my mind frequently. Not just the events, as hard as they were to witness at times, but also my responses and feelings.
I’ve cycled through many what-ifs and found great comfort in the truth of Psalm 139:16, that all the days God ordains for us are written His book before one of them ever comes to be.
Still, each month brings the possibility of an unknown slew of emotions. And while it may seem a bit silly to be afraid of future feelings, I find that I often am.
As someone who almost always reads the end of the book first, I want to know what’s coming. I wish I could just go to the library, check out The Logical Girl’s Guide to Grief, make a chart of what to expect and start checking off boxes one by one.
But of course, there is no such book.
I especially dreaded December—the month my dad declined so steeply and in such heartbreaking ways. Now, in the days leading up to Easter—and the first anniversary of my mom’s death—I can’t help but wonder what it’s going to feel like.
I’m inclined to be a bit anxious about it, until a familiar scripture crosses my mind one morning.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” (Psalm 23:4)
Some translations use the word “danger” instead of “evil,” and I think that fits here. Feelings aren’t normally dangerous, but they certainly can feel dangerous.
As such, we might want to take steps to squash or bury them—to do anything in our power to keep from experiencing the hurt, grief or anger even more acutely than we already do.
Lately, though, I’m discovering that there is another way.
As we revisit the valley of the shadow—approaching milestone dates after the death of a loved one or when seeking counseling to help us heal from any kind of loss—we’re going to feel what we’re going to feel. Sadness, exhaustion, anxiety, pain, thankfulness, regret, joy, anger, peace—any or all of the above, at any given time.
There’s nothing enjoyable or pleasant about most of it.
We don’t have to fear any of these feelings, though, because God is with us.
The feelings come and go, sometimes like a flood or a hurricane, but He remains.
His rod and staff—representing His divine protection and guidance—are there to comfort us. The Holy Spirit and the truths of scripture point us back on the right path when our intense emotions cloud our perception of reality.
And when it all gets to be too much, the good Shepherd—our good Father—will tighten His loving arms around us and carry us until we are able to set our own feet on firm ground once again.
♥ Lois
NOTE: This post is part of a collection called Help for Parent Loss. To read more, please click here.
Each month brings the possibility of an unknown slew of emotions. And while it may seem silly to be afraid of future feelings, I find that I often am. Share on X The feelings come and go, sometimes like a flood or a hurricane, but He remains. Share on X
Easter is going to be different this year.
I’m writing this in early March (before Covid-19 effectively shut down much of our lives), and already I sense this.
I’ve walked past the billowy dresses in the girls’ clothing department and felt the pang of knowing that my girls who used to love such attire have different styles now. I’ve passed the “Easter” aisles at Wal-Mart and felt another twinge as I realize this may be the last year that both girls will be at home on Easter morning to open the baskets that Randy always prepares for us.
I’ve seen the blog posts, viewed the Instagram stories and even heard the sermon references to this season of sacred preparation. There’s so much good information out there about how to focus on the real meaning of Easter and teach your family to do the same.
But I haven’t given anything up for Lent. I’m not delving into an Easter devotional. I don’t even know if we’ll break out the Resurrection Eggs this year.
What I am doing, instead, is actively mourning the loss of my mom in a way that I wasn’t able to do last year because I was so focused on my dad and his swift decline after she died.
(That’s pretty heavy for a one-sentence paragraph, isn’t it? My word for 2020 is “full,” but it also applies to 2019, when my parents died within five weeks of each other.)
My mom loved food, so a big part of this mourning process includes intentionally making recipes she was known for—her famous spaghetti sauce, chicken cacciatore (passed down from her Italian mother), biscotti (flavored with my dad’s favorite, anise), Lazy Man’s Chicken (covered in foil “shiny side down,” as she always instructed), her Italian meatballs.
I’m not weeping into my sauce pot, necessarily, but I am thinking of her. As I do, I’m feeling both sad and incredibly grateful.
It seems like kind of a gentle grieving, if that makes any sense at all. And somehow during this season, that seems very appropriate and natural.
As the calendar moves toward Resurrection Day, it comforts me to remember that our suffering Savior is a “man of sorrows, acquainted with grief.” (Isaiah 53:3). He knows the joy my parents are experiencing in heaven, but He also understands how much we miss them.
He knits our families together, after all. And when some of those stitches unravel, even after a long and useful life, it still hurts.
I wonder how the next couple of months are going to go. Will I reflect on my mom’s passing more on Good Friday, the day she died last year, or on April 19, the actual date she died?
Will Easter Sunday feel joyous or sorrowful or some mixture of both?
I guess I’m about to find out.
Writing about grief and grieving is always a bit tricky. I don’t want to give the impression that because I haven’t written about this topic much lately, I’m all put back together—better than I was before my mom died in April and my dad in May.
I don’t want to put readers off with all the grief talk, but I also know that reading about someone else’s experiences before it happens to you—or perhaps while it is happening to you—can be helpful.
Maybe sharing what it looks like for me right now will give others a little bit of courage to fight their own good fight, whatever the loss.
Grief ebbs and flows, this I know for sure. And at this point in my own journey, I’m inclined to think that this movement is good.
If water just sits there, it gets stagnant; it needs to be stirred up every now and again. I’m finding that the natural process of grieving fosters this kind of turmoil too.
It’s OK to mourn, even when it prevents you from getting into the Easter spirit.
It’s OK to wish something bad hadn’t happened, and also to be relieved that it’s over.
It’s OK to feel conflicted, to not know why we feel the way we do, to wonder what convoluted stew of emotions the next days or months are going to bring.
It’s all OK, even when it doesn’t feel OK, because of Psalm 23:4.
“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”
♥ Lois
This post is part of a collection called Help for Parent Loss. To read more, please click here.
God knits our families together. And when some of those stitches unravel, even after a long and useful life, it still hurts. Share on X It’s OK to feel conflicted, to wonder what convoluted stew of emotions the next days or months are going to bring. Share on XI like my routines. And like everyone else, my routines have been completely disrupted.
Here’s a very minor example. The other day, Lilly was running on the treadmill in the basement right when I wanted to do my morning devotions, also in the basement. It would have been sorta hypocritical for me to get upset at her for disturbing my Bible-reading/prayer-journaling time, so I brought my materials upstairs to the dining-room table and popped open my tablet.