Riding the Waves of Grief: Finding God in the Overwhelm
Later today, I’ll stand by a graveside in Coupeville. I will watch soldiers meticulously fold a flag, a symbol of a nation’s gratitude and a family’s profound loss, and present it to grieving parents. Men who served alongside Andy, their brother in arms, will honor him by embedding their pararescue badges into his coffin—a final, tangible act of respect and shared sorrow. Today will be a day of deep grief.
If you’re part of our Cascade Christian Reformed Church family, you know some of Andy’s story. You know about the invisible wounds of PTSD, the valiant struggle, the unwavering support he received, and how our church community is now striving to surround his family with love, prayer, and the tangible presence of Christ.
But Andy’s story, while unique and precious, taps into a universal human experience. Grief, in its many forms, is a common thread woven through the fabric of our lives. We grieve the loss of a spouse, a parent, a child. The pain is searing, the absence acute. Sometimes, as many in our community know too well, we even grieve people who are still alive, incrementally lost to the fog of dementia, their familiar light dimming before our eyes. We grieve dreams unrealized, health irrevocably changed, innocence lost.
I used to think grief was a linear process, a one-time event. You lose someone or something precious, you grieve for a season, and then you somehow "move on." But years ago, a metaphor I heard, perhaps on a Focus on the Family broadcast, stuck with me and has proven true time and again: Grief is like the ocean's waves. It can crash upon you with overwhelming force, a tidal wave of sorrow that knocks the wind from your lungs and sweeps you off your feet. Then, just as suddenly, it can recede, leaving a deceptive calm. You might catch your breath, think the worst has passed, only for another wave to rise from the depths, sometimes from an unexpected trigger—an anniversary, a song, a scent—and pull you under once more. Over time, the intensity or frequency of these waves might diminish, but for many, that aching motion, the echo of the ocean's power, remains a gentle, or sometimes not-so-gentle, hum in the soul.
The Uninvited Guest: Understanding Grief's Nature
This wave-like nature of grief is something Christian counselors, like Dr. Dan Allender, often highlight. Grief isn't a tidy series of stages to be checked off. It’s a messy, disorienting, and profoundly personal journey. Allender’s work encourages us to confront the raw, untamed reality of our sorrow, not to sanitize it or rush through it. As he puts it, "Lament cuts through insecurity, strips pretense, and reveals the raw nerve of trust that angrily approaches the throne of grace and then kneels in awed, robust wonder."
When loss strikes, it forces us to ask profound questions. I recall a story of a young child at her grandmother’s funeral. Her mother, trying to comfort her, explained, "Honey, that isn't really Grandma in the casket." The child, looking puzzled at the familiar face, replied with profound simplicity, "But it looks like Grandma. Where did she go?" It’s a primal question, echoed in every grieving heart. When the spirit of life departs, we instinctively feel that something essential couldn't have merely ceased. There must be more to the story.
Christians have biblically-grounded answers about where our loved ones who trust in Christ go – to be with the Lord, in rooms He has prepared (John 14:2), by rivers in a God-saturated city (Revelation 22:1-2). There's mystery, yes, but also profound hope. However, when we are personally engulfed by the waves of our own grief, clutching onto these truths can feel immensely difficult; the intellectual assent can struggle to penetrate the emotional anguish.
But what about us, the living, caught in the turbulent surf of grief? Where are we going? Where do our losses lead us? As you shared from your own reflections, "Why don’t we ask where a live human is headed while the heart still beats and the blood still runs? Where is our soul being led tomorrow by the losses we face today?"
Sorrow Carving Depths for Joy
Loss has a way of excavating our souls. Kahlil Gibran wrote, “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” It's a paradoxical truth: grief can make way for gladness. Perhaps the sharp edges of our losses—be it cancer, dementia, suicide, or the slow fade of a relationship—gouge out what is superficial, leaving us with a greater capacity for what truly matters, for passions and beauties we were blind to before.
But this newly carved cavern in the soul, like an empty stomach, echoes with a longing for satisfaction. The world offers countless distractions to numb these pangs: fleeting pleasures, material comforts, intellectual diversions, even unhealthy relational dependencies. We chase dopamine hits, adorn our fading frames, and seek delightful distractions, hoping to quiet the echoes. But these things, at best, offer temporary solace. They don't truly fill the void.
What we crave in the face of loss isn't just something to fill the emptiness; it's Someone to invite us in, to meet us in that hollowed-out space with genuine presence.
The Longing for Presence and the Courage of Lament
C.S. Lewis, in "The Weight of Glory," speaks to this deep longing. When we lose someone, we don't just miss their physical being; we miss their presence, the unique glory of their being fully there with us. Lewis suggests we are often on the "wrong side of the door," observing beauty and goodness but unable to fully enter into it. Yet, he writes, "all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumour that it will not always be so. Some day, God willing, we shall get in."
Grief, then, pulls us not towards a vague sense of peace, but towards people, and ultimately, towards the Person who embodies all true presence: Jesus Christ. He is the divine Insider, the one from the heart of God who stepped outside of glory to make a way for us, the outsiders, to come in.
This is where Dr. Allender’s emphasis on lament becomes so vital. Lament is not faithless complaining; it is a faith-filled, brutally honest cry to God from within the waves. It's acknowledging the pain, the anger, the confusion, the "Why, God?" that often accompanies deep loss. The Psalms are filled with such laments. Think of David crying out, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Psalm 22:1). Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of Lazarus (John 11:35) and cried out in anguish from the cross. Lament, as Allender suggests, is a "search for God," an authentic wrestling that refuses pious platitudes or arrogant self-reliance. It’s the courage to bring our brokenness into His presence, trusting He can handle it.
Further illuminating this journey, Walter Brueggemann, a renowned Old Testament scholar, categorizes the Psalms into three primary types: Psalms of Orientation, Disorientation, and Reorientation.
Psalms of Orientation reflect times of stability, gratitude, and a clear sense of God’s goodness.
Psalms of Disorientation, much like the experience of acute grief or trauma, cry out from places of pain, confusion, anger, and abandonment – they are the language of lament when life unravels.
Psalms of Reorientation speak of a newfound hope, a restored trust, and a deeper understanding of God, often born out of the very struggles voiced in disorientation. .
These categories remind us that our journey with God includes rhythms of settledness, struggle, and renewed faith; grief often plunges us into disorientation, but lament can be a pathway toward reorientation in Christ.
For those of us who have watched a loved one succumb to dementia, this lament can be particularly prolonged. As you so poignantly shared about your mother, "When you lose a loved one to dementia, you grieve twice—once when they lose their mind, and again when they lose their life." There’s the anticipatory grief, the slow, painful realization of "losing them," the wrestling with guilt and "what ifs." And then there's the finality of physical death. The ability to sing "It Is Well with My Soul" even amidst such pain, while allowing tears to flow, is an act of profound, sorrowful hope.
When grief is compounded by trauma, such as with PTSD, the waves can feel like a relentless, chaotic storm. Allender’s work on trauma reminds us that these experiences are stored not just in our minds but in our bodies. Healing requires acknowledging this deep wounding with kindness and seeking God’s presence even in the darkest valleys of memory and sorrow. For those grappling with a loved one's suicide, it is vital to remember that this tragic act is not more powerful than the saving grace of Jesus. Our salvation rests in His finished work, not our own strength or final actions (Ephesians 2:8-9).
Navigating the Waves: Not Numbness, but Giving and Grounded Hope
So, how do we navigate these waves without being utterly consumed?
The world says numb the pain. God’s Word, and wise counselors like Allender, encourage us to engage the pain, but with hope.
Embrace Lament: Give yourself permission to grieve honestly. Find trusted friends, family, or a pastor who will listen without judgment, who will allow you to voice your sorrow, anger, and questions. Bring these to God in prayer. He is not afraid of your raw emotions.
Seek Community: In loss, we all need to be surrounded by the love of the church. What's been happening for the Nichols family these past few weeks is crucial. We are not meant to grieve alone. The body of Christ is designed to "bear one another's burdens" (Galatians 6:2).
Ground Yourself in Truth: Mourners need more than ethereal sentimentality that a loved one is “in a better place.” We need the substantive truths of our faith.
A Grounded Hope: Our hope is not wishful thinking. It’s anchored in the historical reality of Jesus Christ’s resurrection. As Paul declares, because Jesus was raised, we too will be raised (1 Corinthians 6:14, 15:20). This is the confident assurance that we will see our believing loved ones again.
Sorrowful, Yet Always Rejoicing: We grieve, yes, but "not as others do who have no hope" (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Our hope doesn't eliminate the pain of absence, but it provides a profound context and a future promise. We can feel joy for our loved ones at home with the Lord, even as we weep for our loss. God's Word is big enough for these conflicting emotions (Lamentations 3:22-24; 2 Corinthians 1:3-4).
Further Up and Further In
Where do our losses lead us? If we allow them, and if we turn to the One who entered our loss, they lead us "further up and further in," as C.S. Lewis beautifully penned. They lead us to a deeper reliance on Christ, a greater longing for His presence, and a more profound understanding of the hope of resurrection.
The waves of grief will come. They are a testament to the love we had, the significance of what (or who) was lost. But they do not have the final say. Jesus, the "Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief" (Isaiah 53:3), is also the risen Lord who has conquered sin and death. He is our anchor in the storm, our comfort in the sorrow, and our sure hope that one day, 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" (Revelation 21:4).
Until that day, may we have the courage to ride the waves with honest lament, supported by community, grounded in the truth of Christ, and finding in our own giving a reflection of the One who gave His all for us. He is our way in. He is where our losses ultimately lead.
With You;
Pastor Tim
