In the journey of life, we all come face to face with grief. It’s a season that may make you want to retreat to a quiet place, to find solace in the shadows and wonder if morning will ever break.
As a dear friend shared her heartbreak, she voiced something profound: “It’s more than just sadness. I clung to hope for five long years, believing God would bring us together, but now it feels like everything’s unjust.”
I recall a time when I, too, faced the depths of despair. A fellow believer tried to encourage me, saying, “Praise Him in the storm!”
“How?” I asked. To my surprise, she couldn’t offer a clear answer. Many well-meaning Christians echo these words, but few truly understand how to put them into practice.
“Do we genuinely mean the praise we offer during those moments, or is it merely a facade?”
Grief often harbors unspoken anger and fear that can consume us from within, causing us to question ourselves.
Today, I want to address a topic that I’ve hesitated to discuss because it once felt like a personal failure to me:
Miscarriage.
Few knew of my experience, but some dared to question my faith, my fertility, and even speculated that it was a consequence of some sin. Their well-intentioned suggestions included phrases like “Do a chromosome test?” or “There’s a generational curse upon you; God revealed this to me!” or “Make sure to ask God for forgiveness for your wrongdoings!” Even random pastors chimed in with vague pronouncements like, “I see problems in your generations!”
Unfortunately, such behavior isn’t uncommon among some Christian communities.
It seemed that no one truly comprehended—or perhaps they didn’t want to understand—the pain and anguish I endured. Every question and comment related to the miscarriage cut deep in ways words cannot convey.
The experience was not only physically draining, with pain, weight gain, and other discomforts, but it was also mentally and spiritually exhausting. People are quick to cast judgment and question your faith when such trials befall you.
I remember the days when I simply wanted to sleep and never wake up, to peacefully pass away in my slumber. It wasn’t that I truly desired death, but I couldn’t fathom living under the weight of my sorrow and shattered expectations.
During that dark season, I discovered the beautiful, albeit unfamiliar, song of lament. It is a language of grief touched by a glimmer of hope for deliverance. Sorrow would strike like a sudden heat wave, and I’d cry out to God, often hearing nothing in response. His silence felt like abandonment, but in reality, it was His silent companionship.
God’s silence felt like abandonment, but in reality, it was His silent companionship.
Lament transcends mere sadness; it acknowledges the injustice woven into our pain. Surprisingly, nearly half of the Psalms are dedicated to lament, both corporate and personal. Yet, it is largely absent from our neatly ordered Sunday morning hymnals.
Lament beckons us to a liminal space—a threshold between what was and what will be. It implies a move toward something new, albeit through a transformation in the in-between. Liminal spaces can be disorienting, but they are also the grounds for profound growth.
Psalm 130:1-2 reminds us:
“Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my cry for mercy.”
Suffering doesn’t discriminate between the weak and the strong, the faithful and the faithless. It touches every human heart. When you’re overwhelmed by waves that threaten to drown you, you must allow your heart to feel the pain down to the very depths. Only there, at the bottom, can you realize that you’re still alive. There’s still hope. From the depths, we begin the journey of healing, making our way back to the surface.
The human heart is indeed fragile, but it is far more resilient than we often give it credit for.
I truly understood this when my younger sister-in-law became pregnant with her second child. I celebrated her joy without feeling sorry for myself or allowing others’ comments to affect me. One person once asked, “How will we tell your parents when you are… you know…”
“When I couldn’t even conceive once?” I silently completed the question in my mind. Yet, it didn’t wound me, because I realized that God did not let my pain go wasted.
The deep places of our suffering are not our enemies to be avoided; they demand our attention. Suffering, in all its forms, commands our attention. It cannot be mitigated by comparing it to greater or lesser suffering or by our perception of it. Your pain is your pain, and it deserves the dignity of acknowledgment, for it is there that the journey of healing commences.
Naming our suffering does not mean we become defined by it. Instead, it means we honestly recognize our need in the presence of Jesus. Our humility frees us to receive His grace, trading our ashes for His beauty—the divine exchange, God’s response to our pain.
In the midst of grief, it may seem as though your old world is crumbling, and you haven’t glimpsed the new one. You might feel your faith shifting as you realize that God’s goodness is not contingent on circumstances or the metrics we use when life is comfortable. It’s akin to learning to open your eyes underwater: initially awkward and daunting, but with practice, it becomes natural and liberating. Opening your eyes to God’s goodness, even in the midst of loss, transforms how you perceive everything.
As you journey through grief, you’ll discover that some days you have the strength to dive deep into Jesus, and He’ll meet you there. Other days, you’ll barely manage a faint inclination in His direction, and He’ll meet you there too. God’s grace is abundant enough for both extremes.
He doesn’t rely on our strength, our precision, or our spiritual prowess. It takes only the slightest desire, the faintest “yes,” and He draws us near. Our weakness becomes the canvas on which His strength is magnificently displayed. Our dependence on Him releases His might. People possess incredible resilience when tapping into their inner strength during hardships, but when that inner strength comes from Someone greater than ourselves, the reservoir proves even deeper than we imagined.Our present suffering reminds us that life often presents challenges we cannot face alone, which is why we need Jesus. My heart goes out to every woman who has lost their babies; your pain is not wasted–know that God has a good plan for you and even though it doesn’t feel like it, He is super close to you, mending your broken heart.
| Consider this: This week, I encourage you to bring all secret grief and pain you have been holding onto for a long time to the feet of Jesus, and: Embrace the Language of Lament: When facing grief and suffering, learn to embrace the song of lament. It’s a language of grief intertwined with hope for deliverance. Allow yourself to feel the depth of your pain and express it to God in honest, heartfelt lament. Acknowledge Your Suffering: Don’t shy away from naming your suffering. Recognize that your pain is unique to you and deserves acknowledgement. This act of naming your suffering doesn’t define you but opens the door to receiving God’s grace and healing. Shift Your Focus to God’s Goodness: Understand that God’s goodness is not contingent on your circumstances. Practice opening your eyes to God’s goodness even in the midst of loss and suffering. Shift your focus from relying on your own strength to embracing your dependence on God, who can provide the strength you need in your most challenging moments. |
