To those who weep, God is weeping with you.
To those who are tired, spent and worn,
May you find peace and rest.
And if peace and rest feel another world away,
May loving-kindness protect your heart and mind today.
To those who had hoped
And the miracle you waited for,
the healing you asked for – it didn’t come
May the God of comfort, comfort you in the disappointment.
To those who doubt, or still believe,
And are praying silent, anguished prayers
In the swirling confusion of messy, unhurried grief,
Jesus whispers: I am here. I am here. I am here.
To those who wait for the day when sadness
and weeping and pain will be no more
When death and the sting of it all, will finally die
May stubborn-hope, like a seed planted in the dirt, begin to rise.
Be honest and gracious with yourself as you reflect…
As we walk through these next 40 days of Lent, what might it look like for you to have the courage to believe that God is gently and graciously inviting you to mourn your losses? This isn’t about “getting over” grief or numbing it to make others, or ourselves, more comfortable.
Like Henri Nouwen writes: “We cannot talk or act our losses away, but we can shed tears over them and allow ourselves to grieve deeply. To grieve is to allow our losses to tear apart feelings of security and safety and lead us to the painful truth of our brokenness. Our grief makes us experience the abyss of our own life in which nothing is settled, clear, or obvious, but everything is constantly shifting and changing. . . . But in the midst of all this pain, there is a strange, shocking, yet very surprising voice. It is the voice of the One who says: “Blessed are those who mourn; they shall be comforted.” That’s the unexpected news: there is a blessing hidden in our grief. Not those who comfort are blessed, but those who mourn!”
Perhaps, this Lent isn’t about giving something else up but about receiving some sort of blessing hidden in your grief.