I didn't know what to say. I had replayed the appropriate response in my mind multiple times but could never land on something substantial. Now, here I was in the moment I had been preparing for with absolutely nothing to say. I was really a stranger, after all, to this very private person. We had only met once before. So what could I say to them knowing that they had recently lost a child? Other strangers standing there with me said, "I am so sorry for your loss," and "I'm praying for you." Me? I stood there in awkward silence.
I drove away that day replaying my idiotic behavior. I felt so foolish. Why hadn't I offered condolences? Why hadn't I said that I, too, was sorry for their loss? At the time, it all sounded so flat, so hollow. Now, I just felt like a fool, like one of Job's friends who just sat there and said nothing for an entire week. An entire week! Yep. I was now that fool.
I had never suffered such devastating loss as the passing of a child, but I had suffered losses of other kinds. When I was twelve, I experienced the loss of my mother's health and comfort when she had a complete mental breakdown. That same year, I suffered the loss of my covering when my father left home. By the time I was fourteen, my parent's divorce was official and I was legally thrust into the loss of my family structure. Even further, I experienced a loss of sorts when my older sister escaped to college, leaving me at home in the chaos of my mother's illness and my father's abandonment. She was the only trace of normalcy I had left. And now she was gone.
Through the years, I have experienced losses that should pale in comparison to the loss of a child or to my childhood pain. And yet each loss brings a very real and legitimate pain of its own. I have found that the loss of security, the loss of friendship, and the loss of a dream are surprisingly no less painful than the devastating anguish I felt throughout my adolescence. Yes, through the years of trusting in Christ, I have learned how to not let the pain define me, but it doesn't lessen the reality of living "under the sun" (Eccl. 2:17), it only amplifies it. You see, wisdom has grown in me with every gray hair I receive and the older I become, the more perspective I gain through the Valley of the Shadow. It is with age and wisdom I have learned that life is unfair and God is good and that these two things are not in opposition to one another. They are simply both realities, they are both truths. One is life under the sun...one is Life above it. While waiting for the day when that greater Life fully comes, I am here...I am now...living in a world where pain is real and where loss is certain.
If anyone knew loss, it was Job. He lost it all - his health, his wealth, and his family. He was a man who was considered wholly righteous by God and yet he suffered greatly. Job's friends heard of his devastation and came to comfort him. What did they do when they saw him? They wept and wailed for him. Then, they sat next to him in silent anguish for an entire week. For so long, I considered their silence excessive. To sit there an entire week without saying a word? What cruelty! I mean, at least I barely knew the person to whom I was silent, but these guys were Job's actual friends! But through the years, I have come to appreciate the wisdom of their silence. You see, I am going through another one of life's losses and I can earnestly say that Romans 12:15 has never been more alive to me. It says, "Rejoice with those who rejoice. Mourn with those who mourn." I cannot exactly tell you why, but today, more than I ever did in my youth, I need someone to look at my suffering and simply say, "This stinks."I need someone to weep with me, to sit in silent sorrow with me. It's not a lack of faith. It's not a lack of trust. I truly believe God is going to turn it all around. My life is living proof that He always does. But right here and now, I don't need a pep talk - I need a friend who will weep when I weep and mourn when I mourn. Life under the sun is tough and faith is not a denial of that truth; faith is the embracing of that truth while still running the race. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Mourn with those who mourn.
Notice, Job's friends didn't get a rebuke from God until they opened their mouth and tried to explain away Job's pain. They gave him a spiritual pep-talk and a 'pick yourself up by your ash covered boot straps' pitch which only added insult to Job's injury. They might have meant well, but their reasoning got them reprimanded. Their pep-talk got them punished. The wisest thing that Job's friends did was to simply sit with him mourning in silence. Sometimes words are needed, but I have found that if they are needed, very few of them should be spoken. The wisest man in the Old Testament said, "When words are many, sin is not lacking, (Prov. 10:19)." It's okay to not know what to say. It's okay to simply be there or agree with your friend by saying, "This stinks." It is not a lack of faith. In fact, it takes a whole different kind of faith to say, "Though he slay me, yet I will trust in him (Job 13:15)." But, Church - we don't have to be superheros who have all the answers: we simply need to be friends who know how to mourn with those who mourn. Don't avoid. Don't hide. Just be there, comfortable enough to know that life under the sun is not one that is full of answers, but one that is full of mystery - mysteries that will not be fully revealed until The Man of Sorrows, the One who is acquainted with grief, swallows up sorrow once and for all. If loss has taught me anything, it has taught me that silence is so very often golden, indeed. So maybe that day I stood with my new acquaintance in awkward silence wasn't the failure I perceived it to be. Maybe, just maybe, I was the wisest friend of all.
I drove away that day replaying my idiotic behavior. I felt so foolish. Why hadn't I offered condolences? Why hadn't I said that I, too, was sorry for their loss? At the time, it all sounded so flat, so hollow. Now, I just felt like a fool, like one of Job's friends who just sat there and said nothing for an entire week. An entire week! Yep. I was now that fool.
I had never suffered such devastating loss as the passing of a child, but I had suffered losses of other kinds. When I was twelve, I experienced the loss of my mother's health and comfort when she had a complete mental breakdown. That same year, I suffered the loss of my covering when my father left home. By the time I was fourteen, my parent's divorce was official and I was legally thrust into the loss of my family structure. Even further, I experienced a loss of sorts when my older sister escaped to college, leaving me at home in the chaos of my mother's illness and my father's abandonment. She was the only trace of normalcy I had left. And now she was gone.
Through the years, I have experienced losses that should pale in comparison to the loss of a child or to my childhood pain. And yet each loss brings a very real and legitimate pain of its own. I have found that the loss of security, the loss of friendship, and the loss of a dream are surprisingly no less painful than the devastating anguish I felt throughout my adolescence. Yes, through the years of trusting in Christ, I have learned how to not let the pain define me, but it doesn't lessen the reality of living "under the sun" (Eccl. 2:17), it only amplifies it. You see, wisdom has grown in me with every gray hair I receive and the older I become, the more perspective I gain through the Valley of the Shadow. It is with age and wisdom I have learned that life is unfair and God is good and that these two things are not in opposition to one another. They are simply both realities, they are both truths. One is life under the sun...one is Life above it. While waiting for the day when that greater Life fully comes, I am here...I am now...living in a world where pain is real and where loss is certain.
If anyone knew loss, it was Job. He lost it all - his health, his wealth, and his family. He was a man who was considered wholly righteous by God and yet he suffered greatly. Job's friends heard of his devastation and came to comfort him. What did they do when they saw him? They wept and wailed for him. Then, they sat next to him in silent anguish for an entire week. For so long, I considered their silence excessive. To sit there an entire week without saying a word? What cruelty! I mean, at least I barely knew the person to whom I was silent, but these guys were Job's actual friends! But through the years, I have come to appreciate the wisdom of their silence. You see, I am going through another one of life's losses and I can earnestly say that Romans 12:15 has never been more alive to me. It says, "Rejoice with those who rejoice. Mourn with those who mourn." I cannot exactly tell you why, but today, more than I ever did in my youth, I need someone to look at my suffering and simply say, "This stinks."I need someone to weep with me, to sit in silent sorrow with me. It's not a lack of faith. It's not a lack of trust. I truly believe God is going to turn it all around. My life is living proof that He always does. But right here and now, I don't need a pep talk - I need a friend who will weep when I weep and mourn when I mourn. Life under the sun is tough and faith is not a denial of that truth; faith is the embracing of that truth while still running the race. Rejoice with those who rejoice. Mourn with those who mourn.
Notice, Job's friends didn't get a rebuke from God until they opened their mouth and tried to explain away Job's pain. They gave him a spiritual pep-talk and a 'pick yourself up by your ash covered boot straps' pitch which only added insult to Job's injury. They might have meant well, but their reasoning got them reprimanded. Their pep-talk got them punished. The wisest thing that Job's friends did was to simply sit with him mourning in silence. Sometimes words are needed, but I have found that if they are needed, very few of them should be spoken. The wisest man in the Old Testament said, "When words are many, sin is not lacking, (Prov. 10:19)." It's okay to not know what to say. It's okay to simply be there or agree with your friend by saying, "This stinks." It is not a lack of faith. In fact, it takes a whole different kind of faith to say, "Though he slay me, yet I will trust in him (Job 13:15)." But, Church - we don't have to be superheros who have all the answers: we simply need to be friends who know how to mourn with those who mourn. Don't avoid. Don't hide. Just be there, comfortable enough to know that life under the sun is not one that is full of answers, but one that is full of mystery - mysteries that will not be fully revealed until The Man of Sorrows, the One who is acquainted with grief, swallows up sorrow once and for all. If loss has taught me anything, it has taught me that silence is so very often golden, indeed. So maybe that day I stood with my new acquaintance in awkward silence wasn't the failure I perceived it to be. Maybe, just maybe, I was the wisest friend of all.
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