There were days, dark and bare. Black and silent.
And though those days are mostly past, sometimes even today, when I least expect it, the veil, which holds suffering inside, seems to evaporate with fresh tears.
Grief is like that. It swells in unconfined waves, and calms again like peace in a storm. And sometimes, just rubbing shoulders with another’s pain, grief revisits when met with its kin.
Yesterday, in a medical waiting room, I heard a wife’s words as she positioned her husband’s wheel chair.
“I think I’ll just lie on this recliner and sleep while you go in,” she whispered to him. I looked up at her words and saw the shine of tears etching their pathways down her cheeks.
She leaned tenderly over her husband’s chair and stroked his face.
“You were in such pain, I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Although her voice was soft, in the quiet of the room, I heard. The jagged unevenness of her voice cut to my heart.
She put her hand in his, then leaned back. And it was as if I felt his rough dry skin in my own hand. I know the feeling of sharing sorrow as one. She closed her tired eyes, her hand rested in his.
Recently I feel as if there’s been a tsunami of bad news from friends and relatives. So many prayer requests. So many suffering. Deep sorrow and heart wrenching need in both young and old oppresses me. And the pot of sadness stirs as if it’s my own cauldron of woes. I’m so moved by all of it that my days feel foggy and my heart leaden.
I am not good at sharing the sorrow of another without owning it.
As we drove home after our appointment, I told my husband about that woman’s care for her husband. I was so moved by it. Their exhaustion, their sorrow, their uncertain future, all poignant, and familiar.
In the day of my trouble I seek the Lord; in the night my hand is stretched out without wearying; my soul refuses to be comforted. (Psalm 77:2 ESV)
The Psalmist seems to have been there before us. The cycle of long years and devastating loss felt unending. Its grip wearies us, like it did this Psalmist centuries ago.
This morning, underneath my still unopened eyelids, I could see that wife and her husband in the waiting room, and although I didn’t know them, I somehow did.
But, as so often happens in the Psalms, the writer of Psalm 77 redirects his anguished soul.
I will remember the deeds of the Lord; yes, I will remember your wonders of old. I will ponder all your work, and meditate on your mighty deeds. Your way, O God, is holy. What god is great like our God? (Psalm 77:11-13 ESV)
God is not afraid of our darknesses. He sent Jesus to walk into the same gloom and blackness. Jesus experienced humanity with its sadnesses and joys. He felt it all, sorrow, shame, and death. Yet, without sin.
In a somewhat shadowed-mood I took a walk in our neighborhood. The sun shone bright. It promised spring ahead with greening buds, daffodils in bloom, and a warmth in the air.
Walking toward me, I saw someone I often meet on my path. He was out with his dog.
“What a glorious day to be alive,” he said as I approached. His big smile and confident voice invited my agreement.
At first, his words seemed to accentuate those dark valleys that surrounded me. Trials of others felt like they belonged to me. They inhabited a space within and took up lodging. But, that’s where I erred. Troubles, mine or others’, belong to God, filtered through His own nail pierced hands.
The yapping dog and his owner’s wide open gesture, as though his arms could embrace all the beauty of the outdoors, redirected what I saw.
“You are the God who works wonders…” the Psalmist declared. (Psalm 77:14a ESV)
As the Psalmist turned his thoughts to the truth of God, to the absolute grandness of His character, his own heart changed. God wants the cares of this world to draw us into His arms.
I looked around, really seeing the wonder of the day’s beauty for the first time.
“Yes, it is,” I agreed, surprised by it, and a bit chastened that I’d not seen it before.
Your way, O God, is holy… God intersected my path with that broken-hearted couple. I could bring them to Him. As I placed them into God’s faithful hands, sadness lifted.
Yes, there are days, dark and bare. Black and silent.
But, You are the God who works wonders…who takes my hand, and bottles my tears. You are the God who promises to be there in the dark of night and brilliance of day. Not just for me, but for others in that same dark, bare, silence too.
The veil, which holds suffering inside, loosened and I smiled back at the man and his dog.
God’s holy ways in sharing sorrow brings worship.
For truly, What god is great like our God?
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