This is my weeping willow tree. I’ve always wanted one, so when I bought this house, I went and bought a baby one and planted it out back, away from sewer and electric lines. I named it “Lament.”
Grief. It is our constant companion. As humans living in a broken world, we are constantly dealing with loss. Some are big, some are small, but they all add up, stacking the weight of their collective energies on our fragile souls. And grief that is not resolved will destroy us.
Grief is not something we can escape. We all wish we could. Grief surrounds us – the loss of a job, a loved one, a home. The loss of a friend, a marriage, an ideal. The loss of what we wished, what we dreamed, even what we feared. The loss of a child – to miscarriage, to death, to college, to an addiction, to another. The loss of control, of health, of strength, of stability. The loss of what was, or what would have been. Loss is everywhere. CS Lewis, in A Grief Observed, said, “We were promised sufferings. They were part of the program. We were even told, ‘Blessed are they that mourn,’ and I accept it. I’ve got nothing that I hadn’t bargained for. Of course it is different when the thing happens to oneself, not to others, and in reality, not imagination.” We don’t imagine that we will get through life unscathed by grief’s arrows, but when they actually strike, we are surprised and offended. Like we should not have been their target.
When I lived, for many years, in a place that was unsafe emotionally, I learned to cordon off all emotions except anger. That was the one emotion that felt like it could control some of the insanity. It didn’t. But I imagined it did. After getting to a place that finally felt safe, one of the surprising and unexpected things that happened was that I began to experience other emotions again. Emotions that had been packed away in an attic for years began to emerge and introduce themselves to me. And they felt like old friends. Sorrow was one of them.
Over the past couple of years, I have learned the value of embracing loss – and grieving it. It is right to feel grief. To cry. To lament. To mourn. It is not supposed to be this way. One of the greatest truths is that God is compassionate in our grief. Psalm 56:8 says that he collects our tears in a bottle and writes them down in his book! That’s a lot of caring! In 2 Kings 20:5 God tells Hezekiah that He has heard his cries and seen his tears. We can feel free to weep. God sees us, and He cares.
And the good news is, it doesn’t end there. Psalm 126:5 says that those who sow in tears will reap with shouts of joy. Psalm 30:5 says that weeping may last for a night, but joy comes with the morning. And with all the finality of victory, Revelation 21:4 assures us that a time is coming when there will be NO MORE tears – “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” No more! None – ever again. No crying, no mourning, no pain, no tears, no death, no loss. These are “the former things,” and they will pass away.
But until then, we weep. We cry. We mourn. Because loss is our ever-present companion. And so, we must learn to lament. The practice of lament is mentioned 60 times in the ESV Bible. Generally, it is associated with deep grief, and is accompanied by practices and ceremonies that give creative expression to that grief – tearing of clothes, putting on sackcloth, singing, and poetry. Generally, it is associated with an extended period of grief, not just a moment. Often it is commanded – because we need lamentation. It is usually corporate. And it is also a thing that requires learning and skill. The book of Jeremiah instructs the people to teach their children to lament, and the book of Amos tells the people to find those “skilled in lamentation.” We have to learn it, practice it, become proficient in it. Lamentation is good for us. And it is good for the Body of Christ corporately.
Lament is a skill – a skill we are sorely lacking. But we can learn from those who do it better. And we can take the time our souls need to learn to lament. For if we don’t, we will die the brittle death of those who grow cold and indifferent to pain and loss. In our efforts to protect our broken hearts, we will turn them to unbreakable granite.
| In an effort to begin to learn to lament, I want to give you a few snippets from a book called “Every Moment Holy.” This book contains amazing liturgies for every moment of life – from the ordinary things of doing laundry, to the momentous things of a marriage – there is a liturgy for every holy moment. One whole section of the book is for lamenting, and I want to share excerpts from 2 of them, in the hopes that you might find words for your sorrow, and a voice for your longing soul. |
For the Loss of a Living Thing (pg 213)
Be near us, O God.
Be near each of us who must reckon
with the sorrow of death
and the sting of separation,
for what we feel in this loss
is nothing less
than the groan of all creation.
Our finite minds cannot trace
the deeper mysteries of your eternal mendings,
but this we know with certainty:
You are merciful and loving,
gentle and compassionate,
caring tenderly for all that you have made.
We know that the final working of your redemption will be far-reaching,
encompassing all things in heaven and on earth,
so that no good thing will be lost forever.
For Inconsolable Homesickness (pg 222-223)
O my soul, have there not always been signs?
O my soul, were we not born with hearts on fire?
Before we were old enough even to know
why songs and waves and starlight so stirred us,
had we not already tiptoed to the edge of that vast sadness,
bright and good, and felt ourselves somehow stricken with a sickness unto life?
Hardly had we ventured from our yards,
when we felt ourselves so strangely far from something –
and somewhere that we despaired of ever reaching –
that we turned to hide the welling of our eyes.
We knew it, even then, as the opening of a wound this world cannot repair –
the first birthing of that weight every soul must wake up to alone,
because it is the burden of that wild and lonely space
that only God in his eternity can fill.
And as we wait, this sacred, homesick sorrow
works in us to cultivate a faith that knows
one day, he will.
That is the holy work of homesickness;
to teach our hearts how lonely they have always been for God.