The Jesus of My Grief

Chapter 1 Introduction to Sorrow “Everything I had hoped for from the Lord is lost.” Lamentations 3:18 (NLT) One cold morning on the edge of spring during my junior year of college, I was driving to campus when I heard a voice, that is, the still, small voice, giving me directions. The whisper spoke to my mind, and I clearly discerned, “Drive straight.” I looked to my right as I passed my destination in a trusting state of shock and wonder. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. “Turn left.” I continued driving as if I were going home, a route worn with familiarity, and yet I hadn’t a clue. After several more directions, I found myself pulling through the large wrought iron gates of the Lexington Cemetery. I was overcome by confusion and also certain that this was exactly where I was supposed to be. I parked my car and timidly, yet anxiously, got out and began walking. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but I felt in my heart that when I found it, I would know. Several minutes went by as I followed different paths through the cemetery, and then I saw it. I was standing at the top of a steep hill which led down into a small circular valley. The day was brisk and hazy, but the sun seemed to create a spotlight on the space below. I saw a tiny pond, a few large rocks, and a couple of dainty trees. Surrounding the spot were ancient oaks sitting as an audience, each with its own story to tell. It was a breathtaking, perfect sight, and it seemed so familiar, like I had seen it before hanging on a gallery wall. The contrast between this sea of graves and this hollow space of simple, natural beauty was striking. I stood there for a moment taking in the scene with one full breath before I took another step. As I started down the hill, I remember wondering what Eve felt like as she strolled in the Garden of Eden almost entirely alone in the world. I felt like a part of history and somehow important as I made my journey to this place that had practically sent me an invitation. I nuzzled down next to a big rock looking at this humble little water hole, and I was instantly at home in the sunlight that warmed me. Every single flower caught my attention. The blooms were small and tiny and just an inch from the earth, but the changing seasons and the sun had called them out of hibernation and into a spring bursting with the promise of new life. I felt guilty that I was inspired in this haven embedded in a place where so many had suffered. But it was only a fleeting thought as I relaxed into the moment and took in the glory of having been led by God to such a threshold of His presence. I imagined a place just like it in eternity. It had been a dark year in my life, one marked with loneliness, the loss of a love once shared, and the agony of knowing it would never return. I picked up a few purple buds, mementos, placed them in my journal, and wrote… The difference between me and Eve as I walk in this garden is that I know my need for the Lord as I walk, run, crawl, hide, and am found in Him. I have the privilege in my weakness of knowing I need a Savior. But who is Jesus? My greatest desire is to know Him. I have felt Him and tasted Him so powerfully at times, and at other times He feels so distant. The valley I am in now makes me plead for Him to be my fullness, for loneliness is so terrible. As I sit here it almost feels like a dream or a room in my heart. I was made to be in glory with Him…this place whispers of that. One day… The winter had frozen life out of me, and now the scattered warmth and rain of March told a new story. This secret place bursting with energy and glory was a beacon of hope for me in the midst of a season of loss. Everything in me resonated with this moment, and I felt so loved by God that He would allow me to experience His reminder of hope in such a supernatural way. As I pulled out of the Lexington Cemetery that day, a seed of hope was planted in my heart, and I was sure that joy, purpose, and intimacy with God were new and permanent fixtures in my life. I never could have imagined that five years later on a similar March morning, I would be entering those wrought iron gates for the second time, like the unnumbered sufferers who had come before me. Five Years Later My husband parked the car, and I watched as he slowly walked inside the main building of the Lexington Cemetery. As I sat there alone, I suddenly remembered the day five years earlier when the Spirit had led me to this graveyard. I had felt so near to and so cared for by God. This was not such a day. The irony made me cold, and it would be several years until I could embrace these parallel encounters as a sovereign gift. I sat bracing myself for the suffering I knew was about to overtake me. The past month had passed in the same manner. Every day I braced myself until the inevitable wave of grief struck and wiped me out. Sometimes I was crying before I knew I was awake, and on other days I made it until noon. Chris opened the car door and reluctantly, but lovingly, placed a small brown box crowned with a death and cremation certificate into my hands. I was done. On the evening of February 22, 2005, my husband and I received the most shocking and painful words we have ever heard. I was nearly 37 weeks along in my first pregnancy, and two nurses were unable to find our daughter Anna’s heartbeat. We waited for the doctor to arrive to relieve our unspeakable fears. As he said his, “I’m sorry,” I began to scream as I stared at a monitor revealing my daughter’s fully developed, yet motionless, heart.