Dear Grieving Heart,

The finality is the worst part. The fact that there’ll never be a next time, you’ll never get a do over, and there’ll be no chance to make up for everything you did wrong or did not do at all. That’s what breaks us. That is what makes it hard to breathe. Coming to understand that all that has already been is all there is, and that you’ve already spent all the time that you had and you did not even know, that’s what drives us into denial. That, and the pain that makes it almost impossible to draw air into our lungs. That pain.

You know, it’s no surprise that the mind struggles to understand the concept of death, be it of a person or a reality. Because how do you explain that you were having a conversation with someone last night, mere hours ago, and suddenly you’ll never see them again? Or that you saw them on your way to church, and somehow you’re waking up to realize it’s been sixteen years without them since that day? Loss mercilessly strips us, lays us bare in the eyes of all without the masks and makeup of day-to-day existence, in a way nothing else can. And you’re not even conscious of your nakedness because you keep struggling to breathe. For days, that’s all the world is reduced to: muffled sounds of existence surrounding two central thoughts —Inhale. Exhale.

You run those thoughts over and over in your head until they meld into an unchanging loop that somehow becomes the tune to which you do anything and everything. You breathe because you literally have no choice. Even if it feels like someone is using a diamond tip to carve “anguish” into your very heart muscles. Even if you want to stop. You breathe because you must. And because you breathe, you automatically shoulder the responsibility to be, with all the actions that come with it. You walk around with a hole in your heart, somehow function even though you can swear that your brain has stopped doing the same, have conversations you will never remember, all the while repeating the mantra —Inhale. Exhale. Because you know that if you stop, if you pause for even one tiny second and yield to the storm of torment you hold within you, you would be lost.

People say it gets easier, and in a way it does. The steady passage of time dulls the blade and stems the tears somewhat, until the hollow in your heart begins to echo with bittersweet memories, and your reward for surviving is the wisdom of foresight because now you know. But even that is temporary because life lulls us back into this false sense of security, and we forget. We are aware of the possibility, but we eventually begin to forget to do what we should for those we have while we have them. And this is not judgment, it’s understanding. Because I do understand. This is my story, for although you can see your reflection in the mirror of my words, I stand before the glass and ecourage you to look.

We’ve all lost something, or someone, or some piece of ourselves. Unfortunately, death is a function of time, and as Ecclesiastes 3 warns us,

^“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted…”

Again, we know, but we forget, as all men inevitably do with the passage of time.

In the midst of our sorrow, we may be tempted to fall into the trap of believing nobody understands how we feel or what we’re going through. And although we might be right in the sense that everyone experiences their realities in unique ways, it would be incorrect to dismiss the experiences of others who have been placed in similar situations. Our families, and friends. They know, they hurt, they are healing too, and can help.

Even Jesus was not spared loss, and He grieved. He mourned his friend, even though He knew He held resurrection power. He wept over His people and their city, even though He knew He was their Salvation. He was in torment over humanity, even though He was offering us His Divinity. So He understands it too. Maybe even better than we do, because He can make sense of it when we cannot. He sees the full picture of what we can only know in parts. And in love, He wants to help, although it might not seem like there’s anything to be done. They’re gone, or it’s done. But you’re still here, and you need to live, to go on living, somehow.

That’s what He’s offering help with. To wipe your tears while you weep, or sit beside you if you will. To handle the shards of your broken heart with the gentility only He can give, and help you piece them back together until you’re whole again. He’ll hold your hand while you figure out how to do life without the one you love, and show you the path the light touches when you are in the dark. And if you let Him, in the very worst of it, when you’re stuck in the never-ending loop of tears and heartache, He promises hope and resurrection, and will help you learn to live again.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.“ – Jer. 29:11 (NIV).

“Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.” 1 Thess. 4:13 (NIV).

Dear heart, never forget. Inhale. Exhale.

Live.

From my healing heart to yours,

Gabrielle…

Photo by Mayank Dhanawade on Unsplash