The Grieving We Do

I remember the clingers.

I can feel those little arms that hugged tight around my neck and the legs circling my body. I remember the process, of disentangling a hand, then a leg, then the other hand and leg, as if they were glued to me, those little clinging people.

My son commented as he watched his son at play, “Last night when I put him to bed, I sang the song we sang to him when he was a baby. He’s getting so big. Maybe it will be the last time.”

My son’s voice held a wistful sadness and such pride. I thought about that letting go. I couldn’t remember the last cling I peeled away, or the final time my children’s little hand slipped into mine. But I could remember swinging them down, away from my tired body, to land them on their own two dancing feet.

I remember the stages of leaving, of independence, of worry, and thinking of the worst scenarios.

And the bits and spurts of grieving we do in life, wrapped around my heart and squeezed.

I remember a conversation with another mother once, while we walked a hospital hallway, when illness took my daughter farther and farther away. I told her I’d always tried to imagine what it would be like if something terrible happened to my children.   

“Don’t bother trying to imagine,” I said sadly. “I wasted my grief for something unimaginable. It’s so much worse.”

We worry and grieve within for what has happened, what might happen, what eventually will happen, almost as if we live and relive our own personally projected reels.

A slow seeping, everyday grieving, inhabits our passing moments of time. It’s all part of the grieving we do.

“For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.” (Romans 8:22-23 ESV)

The whole earth groans (systenazo, mourn jointly) as if we live crushed by the fall of man yet cushioned by the Sovereignty of God. Within this painful squeeze, while anticipating more ahead, sometimes it seems too much weight to bear. As if the strength we need has already been spent, even before it happens, and there is no more in reserve.

These little-big, insignificant-significant, pieces of our lives that join together are like a giant indecipherable puzzle. Its pieces are scattered and we long for completion, to fill the cavernous holes, to fit the gaps and make sense of it all. This too is part of the grieving of humanity, the grieving we do.  The whole earth groans, as if we live crushed by the fall of man, yet cushioned by the Sovereignty of God. Share on X

“,,,the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now.” (Romans 8:22 ESV)

I ask God for the best kind of path and the happiest outcomes, yet, I know He sometimes picks the very ones with sinkholes and boulders. The ones I must go through on my knees.

Paul looked at it as if something better awaits our present groaning.

“If the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For in this tent we groan, longing to put on our heavenly dwelling…” (2 Corinthians 5:1-2 ESV)

In the grieving we do, between the crush of a fallen creation and the Sovereignty of God there is a will and purpose. In that space, faith is tested and grows.I ask God for the best kind of path, yet I know He sometimes picks the very ones with sinkholes and boulders. The ones I must go through on my knees. Share on X

We lift one another through our good-byes. We grab a corner of another’s hardships, fear, loneliness and carry it together. We pray, encourage, and admonish the body of Christ.

God’s plan in the grieving we do is forever perfect and good.

I remember that cling of my children, their tight grip that I had to pry off at times. And I am comforted. Because my Father invites clinging arms. He never sets me down to run in my own silly circles.

On the rough and bumpy roads with its deep potholes, He pulls me tight  to His side and says, “Cling child, cling hard, for the path ahead will be tough. But I will hold you.”

“For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” (Romans 8:18 ESV)

I yearn to cling more, to grip harder in my everyday grieving. I wish to learn to wrap my arms tighter around Him when uncertainties and fear darken my way, and feel Him near as I step through muck and mud.

I want to be a clinger.

For I am, despite my years, just a child and the journey is not yet finished.