“Oh, that my words were recorded,
that they were written on a scroll,
that they were inscribed with an iron tool on lead,
or engraved in rock forever!
I know that my redeemer lives,
and that in the end he will stand on the earth.
And after my skin has been destroyed,
yet in my flesh I will see God;
I myself will see him
with my own eyes—I, and not another. (New International Version)
The biblical character Job expressed a feeling that all of us, at one time or another, have likely felt: Longing for someone to actually hear our voice, our words of grief, listen to them, and not let them fall into oblivion as if we were alone on this earth.
Job was hurting like no one before or after him. His grief was palpable. His pain was deep and intense. Not knowing what the heck was going on, he had zero understanding of why complete calamity came upon him.
Job’s family was killed, all but his wife. He lost all his earthly possessions to either theft or disaster. And his body was wracked with painful sores that covered his entire body. He was as miserable as one person could be. It was grief stacked upon grief.
In that misery and pain, after losing everything, Job didn’t want his words to be lost. He wanted them to be heard and remembered. Job needed to know that his voice was real, that he was not just speaking into the air.
This gets to the heart of what every grieving person likely wants: For someone to listen to their story of loss – for that story to be heard, listened to, and taken seriously.
I know the feeling. And I know it a bit more intimately than I would like to.
In this past year I was diagnosed with a health disorder that prevented me from continuing to work in a job I absolutely loved. This precipitated a move to another state to be near family. And there are many more losses and griefs to go along with all the changes in my life.
Going through circumstances that we neither asked for nor wanted is hard, especially when it involves significant losses. Without facing our grief, like Job did, we may end up losing ourselves and becoming lost or stuck in that grief.
Rather than me blithering on about the need for vulnerability, I myself will be vulnerable. One of the ways I accept, cope, and transcend hard stuff is through journaling. Here is a portion of my journal from today, unedited:
“I can feel myself sinking down toward the abyss. The darkness is beginning to overwhelm me. Everything – the changes, the transitions, the grief, the state of all things – is too much.
“Lord, have mercy.
“And so, I write, in the hope that my grief and big feelings of loss and of lostness will somehow fade into the background – not the foreground – of my life. Yes, it’s all a part of me. A very important part. And I never want to disavow it. Yet, it is only a part, and not the whole of me.
“Maybe that’s the thing I need to know and remember this day – that grief is not all of me; doesn’t define me as a person; and need not rule my life. There is some sort of ‘sweet spot’ in all this, in which I vulnerably and forthrightly acknowledge and talk about my grief without stuffing it away into an internal junk closet. But also, I do not necessarily focus on it as if grief is all that I am.
“Rather, I’m (like all other people) a complicated soul made up of many moving spiritual and emotional parts.
“It is ironic that a guy who once talked to grieving people on a daily basis is now grieving the loss of no longer talking to grieving people on a daily basis. Yet, here I am.
“One of the reasons I derived so much fulfillment from doing grief work with others is that it is so very much needed! I live in a society where everyone wants you to be okay, likely because they themselves are so very uncomfortable with grief and don’t know what to do with it. So, many people simply want everyone to be ‘normal,’ whatever the heck that actually means.
“Loss is painful, and no one (including me) wants to hurt. But the pain won’t go away magically. I (and everyone) must face the hurt, walk into and through the pain in order to feel better.
“To open-up to the unique pain of loss is the only way to realize emotional healing. In order to move on, we’ve got to stop trying to move on. Instead, let it out.
“In writing this I’m reminding myself what I’ve told hundreds of patients and parishioners who were going through their own unique circumstances of painful loss. Strength is found in embracing weakness, and not by trying to soldier on as if loss doesn’t bother me. It’s okay to grieve. And it’s okay to grieve any sort of loss. It’s more than okay; it’s absolutely needed.”
Eternally righteous God, merciful judge of all the living: In your love you called us to share the glory of Christ. Strengthen our hearts in every good work and word, so that we may be steadfast in your ways and always believe your truth. Amen.
Rev. Tim Ehrhardt 