One of the common mistakes I see hurting people make is rushing the process of pain and being all too hasty to convince the world and themselves that they’re fine. Everything is fine. In the Christian community, we tend to offer hopeful platitudes and plaster a forced smile on our faces. I like to refer to this as “slapping a Jesus sticker on it.” We’ve convinced ourselves that admitting hurt or grief somehow diminishes our proclamation of faith in a good God.
While I will always point to Jesus and the hope I have in Him, I believe that acknowledging our pain, sitting with it a while, and opening up about it is not only healthy, it’s biblical. Don’t believe me? Read through the book of Psalms. Poem after poem written as laments — giving shape to loss, pain, anguish — universal parts of the human experience. God welcomed these psalms and the expression of pain because their writers were bringing their hurts to God, not turning from Him because of them.
Jesus took on flesh to live a fully human experience like we do. Part of that experience meant encountering loss. In the gospel of John, we read the account of the death of Jesus’s good friend, Lazarus. We also witness the rise and fall of Mary’s and Martha’s (Lazarus’s sisters) emotions as they sent word to Jesus for help when Lazarus got sick and were devastated when He arrived “too late” to save their brother. Little did they know that Jesus came to conquer death and was about to raise their beloved brother from the grave. However, the Bible tells us “when Jesus saw [Mary] weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in his spirit and greatly troubled . . . Then Jesus wept.” (John 11: 33, 35).
Jesus knew the end of the story. He knew Lazarus was not going to stay in that grave. He was full of hope and held the very keys to that hope. Yet, He too, wept. In that moment, Jesus acknowledged the sting of death, loss, and grief. He wept not only over the death of His friend, but possibly more so for the anguish Lazarus’s death left in its wake. Jesus stepped into Mary’s and Martha’s agony and sat with them in their pain. He didn’t say, “Get it together girls! It’s going to be fine. It’s all going to work out, you’ll see!” Jesus knew the good that was to come but still gave grief its moment. I imagine Him pulling Mary and Martha into a warm embrace, weeping with them, and not rushing this moment because He was showing them that He was there with them through it all, the highs and the lows.
I have felt Jesus do the same for me. I have wept on His shoulder more times than I can count. I know the end of the story. I know it is good. I know Jesus is victorious and I will see that fully realized one day. But, on this side of heaven, there is still loss. I take such comfort in knowing God sees me in my moments of pain and meets me there. I take comfort in the God who weeps with me.
Below, I’ve included a piece I wrote in the spring of 2024 during a season of loss. A seemingly small loss, but it represents one more layer of what disability has taken from us and it hurts. I share this with the hopes of encouraging you to not rush through your seasons of hurting. There is always hope. There will be brighter days. But Jesus is with you on the dark days too.
Lazarus died today.
Limb by limb, he was hacked apart. More like snapped apart. His brittle branches detached without protest, unceremoniously clattering to the ground like a pile of dry bones.
Only his trunk took some work. It was the only part of him that had any life left. Even then, the chainsaw sliced through over 20 thick rings of life in mere minutes. What once stood tall and mighty, now lay lifeless on the earth.
Lazarus wasn’t the only thing that died today.
A little piece of childhood died, too.
We left behind even more trees at our last home. Three whimsical River Birches and a sturdy Maple that stretched proudly toward the sky. The birches were home to a tree house that was home to the wild imagination of a little boy and little girl. The maple was the boy’s favorite climbing tree. We left them all behind to find a home for another little boy who would never climb any trees.
Our new home had Lazarus—a tall old Tulip Tree with a spherical canopy. Our only hope. We learned he was sick right away. Barren branch after barren branch where luscious leaves should be. We named him Lazarus and started praying life over him.
Mary and Martha waited four days for their Laz to return. We waited 400. But ours did not return to the land of the living. We made the call to let him go in peace.
There would be no trees for my children to climb. No miniature wilderness to be explored by curious young minds. Lazarus’s untimely departure only served to expedite fleeting seasons of childhood.
Lazarus wasn’t the only thing that died today.
A small corner of paradise died too.
At our last home, the branches of the birches and maple touched, creating a perfect canopy of green. We hung a hammock between the two trees and rested in its embrace. Hours were spent there–swaying, snuggling, reading, laughing, crying, listening to the whisper of wind as it rustled through leaves. That very spot, perfectly shaded in every season shielded us from the sun, but also from life’s burdens. Our peace banana, as we called it, strung between two majestic trees, was solace for the weary. Respite in the midst of shattering pain.
Our new home had only Lazarus to fill that void. Half of what was needed to recreate our slice of paradise. We settled for using an awning post where a second tree should be. We swung in our hammock beneath a sparse canopy that scarcely filtered the beating sun and tried not to think of what we left behind. And now, even Laz is gone. Our paradise is lost.
We are planting a new tree in Laz’s place. A baby. Young, but full of promise. One day, I’ll write about how the Sienna Glen reaches to the heavens. And how its leaves shade our yard in summer and burn like fire in fall. One day, I’ll write about how its limbs give my grandchildren a place to climb and play.
But not today. Today I remember and honor what had to die to make room for new life.
Good Shepherd 