It’s been a few weeks since I’ve posted anything. This is in part because I’ve gone back to work and have been quite busy and also because I haven’t really had anything to say. But today I feel like letting a few things out.
The other day I was listening to a sermon. The preacher was teaching from the text in John chapter 5 where Jesus heals a man who had been an invalid for 38 years. This, he said, was an instant healing, and he went on to explain other ways in which healing occurs through God, one of which is by expediting a normal healing process. This particular point wasn’t new to me. I have thought and learned about miracles before, and one definition of a miracle is the supernatural speeding up of a natural process. Even though I knew this, it was like I was discovering it for the first time. It seemed to highlight exactly what I'd been thinking about for the last few weeks. See, I feel that the majority of the grief process is behind me, but I’ve struggled with accepting this.
From an emotional and spiritual standpoint, I believe that my sorrows had been relieved within about two weeks of Abram’s death even though there was still a degree to which my mental processing had not caught up. After those first few days, the suffering came from social situations more than anything. How do I respond to people when they ask how the baby is? How much and how quickly do I share with new people I meet? That person’s face betrays that they think they've said something offensive, but it didn’t offend me... and things like this.
But the continual sorrow seemed to have been relieved. In my post about denial on June 26, I think I was within two or three days of being generally okay. What did this relatively quick return to normalcy mean? Did it mean I didn’t love my son as much as I thought I did? That’s obviously ridiculous, but it’s one of the little lies I had to strike down in my mind. Did it mean I’m a sociopath? Now, I’m not (precisely) a hypochondriac, but I do try to consider every possibility! After probably more thought than it warranted, I determined that this was equally as ridiculous.
So I examined myself, as I had been examining myself even before his death, to see if I was doing anything to try to escape the sorrow too quickly. I saw nothing that indicated I had been trying to rush through it. If anything, I was trying to prolong it. Sorrow truly brings an uncommon intimacy with God, a spiritual brokenness that allows us to hear him more clearly. This is so sweet, and I actually desired for it to continue. But it didn’t.
So was I being cheated out of intimacy with God by God because of this expedited grief process? I know the concept of God “cheating” anyone is an absurdity. God is just, and merciful. But the lie popped up a few times. This is one of those situations where something that is felt conflicts with something that is known. I still kind of felt like God was short-changing me, but I knew that this was ridiculous. Perhaps this was God being merciful in another way.
Perhaps the prayers of the dozens, maybe hundreds, of people who had been praying for us were answered. I know God seemed to grant me peace following my own prayers, as there have been three moments throughout this process in which my prayers have been followed by a truly remarkable peace. The first was the time I prayed at our oldest son’s birthday party just days after finding out there was something abnormal with the pregnancy, the second was the time I prayed moments after Abram was born, and the third was the time I prayed the night we came home from the hospital. Each of these prayers was uttered from a heart uncertain of what lay ahead but absolutely certain of God’s goodness and his ability to carry us through it.
In any event, it is probably futile to try to "figure out" everything God is doing. As John Piper has said, God is always working innumerable things in your life, and he graciously allows you to (maybe) see two or three of them. Who knows, I could be totally wrong and may still have tons left to endure. I'm going through uncharted territory, at least in my own experience. Yesterday I nearly cried a few times talking about Abram, and this morning I was trending toward the emotional.
I don’t think occasionally being moved to tears is ever going to go away. Abram is, after all, my son, and I love him and miss him. But I know where he is and to whom he belongs; he is with and belongs to a far better Father, a Father who rejoices over his children and works miracles to help them see his love more clearly.
Soli Deo Gloria