On the Floor in My Closet

Hold on to THIS when everything else crumbles

Photo by Darren Richardson on Unsplash

My children found me in my closet, face streaked and shoulders slumped. They asked, “What’s wrong, mommy?” and soothed me with wet kisses and aggressive hugs.

Just a few years before, I stared at my sleeping babes on our inaugural plane ride. I cried for the losses they would endure, for the friends and family they would miss, and each hurt they would suffer because of our choice to serve overseas. Parents focus all their fears on their children and grieve their losses in advance. They do this without acknowledging their own potential for pain. I never even considered it.

Apart from receiving youthful condolences, all I could offer was a whisper: “Serving God is sometimes hard, but He is still good.” We reminisced wonderful times with the family we learned was relocating to a village a day’s journey away. We prayed God’s blessings over them. We remembered so much good and believed for so much more. But we were sad together for a while. In the arms of my children, sadness was a sacred practice.

They returned to LEGO and Paw Patrol and left me in my puddle. I pushed my back against paint I forgot was still quite fresh. Grief robbed my strength. I rested my head on my knees. This will never get better. The thought came more quickly than I could condemn it. The deep roots we planted were like a chokehold now. How quickly a beautiful thing can transform into something that scares us.

I found peace as I fought for it in prayer. Grief clutched my neck, but I clung tighter to the Lord, breathing deep His serenity until my heartbeat slowed to match His own. I returned to my children who had forgotten finding me in tears on the floor.

“What’s wrong, mommy?” My 6-year-old son asked again.

“I just really want to play LEGO with you.” I said.

That was good enough for him. Sitting amidst piles of bricks, we dreamed to build something new.

At the breakfast table one morning, my daughter looked at her brother and said, “Should we tell mom the bad news?” They shared a knowing look. He shrugged. “Guess who’s leaving now?” I called them out on teasing me, but their poker faces were strong. Bracing myself for the impact, I asked, “Well, who is it?” Turns out, they were teasing me.

Their deception was believable because we’ve recently been ravaged by an avalanche of departures. Expat families have returned to their home countries. Beloved church members have sought work overseas. Grandparents have come and gone.

We mask the hurt with humor. Dad says, “Those people are dead to me.”¹ He doesn’t mean it, but it makes us howl. It bothers me how good the kids are getting at this. The losses must be piling up in the dark places. I worry that bitterness and anxiety will mount up too. We can’t classify any of our losses as deep grief. We have not lost anyone to death or disease. By all accounts, we are healthy and whole.

How do you measure many ‘shallow’ griefs? Do countless shovels of loss dig a deep well of pain? Are our souls in danger of being chipped away until only a shell remains? How much can we endure until our minds, our bodies cry out for mercy? Will we listen when they do?

We can’t nail people down in friendship and faithfulness to the ministry. We can’t lessen the possibility of persecution or protect ourselves from the realities of life in a fallen world. Grasping for joy when only grief is visible takes impossible faith. Dreaming to build something new when everything is broken demands it. I believe in the God of the impossible. Help my unbelief.

I will pray this desperate prayer again and again. I will doubt and be shocked by my own reactions. I will suffer hurt and harm others. But I will heal, I will repent, and I will keep coming back to the comfort of Christ.

In the middle of my ugly cry, He steps closer. He never considers His reasons to run.

I have questioned if God meant it when He said He works everything for good to those who love Him. Lord, you know I love you. Maybe it didn’t apply to those serving in hard places? Or to those suffering at the hands of manipulative personalities? To those sitting in the debris of destructive choices? Lord, you know I love you.

I have learned that the good is not always a solution. The good is His presence in the absence of a solution.

He comes to us on closet floors and tear-soaked pillows. He meets us at the altar where tears and confessions flow. He sees our wounds and binds them up in His love. How many times have I crashed into His safety? How many times has He stopped — or slowed — the bleeding?

There is goodness in the grit of patient endurance only because of His faithfulness. May we always remember the safest place to run when all crumbles around us. There is never a moment we are not held. When there is no solution, we will find peace in His presence, the most ultimate good available.

It may be true that This —whatever this is for you — will not get better. But by His grace, this can make you better. Given the power, grief will destroy you. But in the restorative hand of God, grief can transform you.

When the only prayer you can whisper is help my unbelief, He tends to your soul. Sit with Him in the sacred space sadness carves out. Give him all your pain. The deepest hurts and the shallow griefs too. He knows what to do with them all.

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I want to hear from you:

• Tell me about a time a child cheered you up.

• How have you experienced God’s comfort in both deep and ‘shallow’ grief?

• Is there a Scripture you hold close in times of suffering?

• How can you minister to someone walking through grief today?

On that note, I recommend:

1. A Place to Land and Letters to Grief both by Kate Motaung. I am waiting to get my hands on a physical copy of Letters to Grief, but I wholeheartedly recommend A Place to Land

2. An Empty Ocean and 10 Things We Must Remember about Grief by Jonathan Trotter of A Life Overseas

1. Not you, Mom!