Two years seems like enough time to grieve, right?
Sitting cramped in my economy seat with a pit of emptiness in my stomach leaving China with no return ticket, God comforted me through another’s loss.
“By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept. We remembered Zion. If I […] forget you o’ Jerusalem may my right hand forget its skill. Psalm 137:1 & 5 (NIV paraphrase)
Leaving the Shanghai airport, one of China’s east coast ports, the tarmac was my river of Babylon. My former life in China lay disheveled behind me. Birthed from the ambitions of a wide-eyed 20-year old and matured by the ebb and flow of the daily life of a wife and mom in a foreign land. Jumbled in a haze of memories in my mind were faces, moments, lessons, struggles and joys now piled before me on the shores. I wept for the loss of her; the place of my growing up.
Fast forwarding two years, here I am on the anniversary week of our leaving and I am still weeping. Reading through old journal pages remembering our last days opened wounds I’d been trying to stitch together. The loss involved more than saying goodbye to China—I lost deep relationships, culture, food, daily activities, memories, ministry, and identity.
Grief by definition is the sadness and pain of losing someone or something. I imagine the Israelites’ despair on the edges of Babylon involved more than the loss of place; rather a conglomeration of losses including the favor of God. Yet immersed in all the rubble of loss, a glint of hope pierces through the cracks; favor is not all lost. Our memories. Remembered experiences are woven into our flesh, structurally a part of who we are as much as our heart and bones. These people, moments and places grieved have sculpted us and brought us to where we stand today. They influence how we view the world, experience love and make decisions. The loss is a physical presence gone, but alive through our being.
This time three years ago my family gathered in Florida to celebrate six birthdays. Our first time in my living memory, where my entire family from both sides were together—a historical moment. One of the celebrants was my grandfather who turned 80. We took photos to immortalize this miraculous occasion, but the memory of that day impressed on my heart for one reason. It was the last time celebrating with my grandfather. Less than two months after returning to China he suddenly passed away recovering from surgery. Unable to return to the US, I grieved alone in a foreign land. Even the memory of grieving him lay cataloged in my China memories when we left. I still miss him. My grandmother still misses him. For me at this moment grief from those losses linger, leaving my heart tender in its sadness. The pain of them bubbles to the surface from time-to-time and I relive it all again. My grandfather filled a big space and a part of our hearts remain vacant. China filled my life with color, and some days are just gray.
Loss forces us to remember. To remember the goodness. In remembering my tears may well up, but laughter births out of tears too. Sorrow and Joy are paradoxical friends. My grandfather loved to tell jokes and eat chocolate. Remembering his comical stories and stashes of goodies bring joy back into my heart in spite of losing of him. He was a man who loved to laugh and so I laugh for him. Remembering him reminds me of joy. The scenes of my life in China still play in the background of my day reminding me to smile for what I have seen and lived. They remind me I am grateful. People and places become sorrowful in the loss of them, but remain alive and joy-giving in our memory of them. In looking back into our memories, we find the strength to move forward.
On this anniversary season of loss, I pause to remember that ashes do become beauty and after sorrow comes rejoicing. Though my grief may be heaped on the shores of China or a vacuous hole in my heart, because of Christ the end of one season leads to new beginnings, and in loss of a person there is hope of reuniting. I cannot forget China nor my grandfather and thankfully that’s not required. Though grief on earth is real and tears are needed, they never go unnoticed by God.
Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book? Psalm 56:8 (KJV)
Two years is not enough, nor three. I doubt a lifetime will be enough to grieve. And that’s okay.
Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. Psalm 30:5 (NIV)
Reflections:
- Is there a loss you are grieving?
- How long has it been since that loss? What sorrows remain and what joys have birthed from the season of waiting in the loss?
- If you are still tender in your grief, what is a simple prayer of thanksgiving you can offer to God today to remember the goodness of the past?
- Perhaps you need comfort. Read Psalm 147 and be reminded of God’s mindfulness and promises to you.
