Reflections for the Grieving Soulಮಾದರಿ

Now when Mary came to where Jesus was and saw Him, she fell at HIs feet, saying to him, “Lord, if You had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come with her also weeping, He was deeply moved in His spirit and . . . . Jesus wept. So the Jews said, “See how He loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not He who opened the eyes of the blind man also have kept this man from dying?” JOHN 11:32–33, 35–37 ESV

It is the Friday after Thanksgiving. Black Friday as they call it in retail. Though I’m supposed to be preparing to celebrate the birth of Christ, I find myself instead thinking about Mary, the sister of Lazarus, and how she wept with Christ.

Bible historians tell me that Mary was to Jesus a “special friend and devoted follower.” [1] That Christ always had a home when He came to Bethany because Mary lived there—because her family always made a place for Him to stay. That she sat at His feet soaking up His presence, longing only for more of Him. That when she wept…Jesus wept. That He voluntarily took for Himself the sorrow that was hers, in the moment when it was hers, knowing it would only minutes later be turned to inexpressible joy. And yet still, He wept. With her.

So late last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I too fell facedown at Jesus’ feet, nose buried in the musty carpet of my bedroom, asking a question similar to hers:

“Lord, where were You? If You’d been paying attention, my wife would not have died.”

And like the Jews, I’m asking myself today, “Couldn’t He who opened the eyes of the blind man . . . who raised Lazarus from the dead . . . couldn’t He have kept Amy from dying?”

One year ago today, Amy and I set up our Christmas tree in the family room of our house. When I say that, what I really mean is that Amy set it up and I watched.

It was always our tradition to decorate the tree the day after Thanksgiving. This was probably our second-favorite night of the year—second only to Christmas itself. Amy’s job was to assemble the artificial tree, to lovingly unpack all the ornaments, and to make beauty out of the ragtag decorations we’d collected over our last few decades together.

My job was to make sure we had plenty of Christmas music. Originally working with piles of CDs, I finally got smart and put all our holiday music onto a few playlists. So after getting the Christmas supplies out of storage, my job was really just to enjoy watching my girl do her thing with them. It was a treasure to watch her work. She was rarely more beautiful than when her heart was fixed on Christmas.

On this After-Thanksgiving-Day last year, Amy was still struggling through difficult chemotherapy treatments. She was unable to eat solid food, barely 100 pounds, and surviving solely on fourteen-hour-a-day infusions of IV nutrition. And yet she was so filled with joy.

She laughed and sang along to Christmas songs, and she delighted in pulling her ornaments out of storage. In our house, there are no cookie-cutter decorations. Every ornament for our tree has a history and comes with a story. “Tony made this lambkin ornament in grade school.” “You gave me this Mickey ornament for my birthday.” “I’ve had this elf since I was a child—it was my mom’s. I have to find a good place to hide it in the tree so Tony can find it next time he comes over.”

When our tree was finally ready, we indulged in our family’s second Christmas tradition. Amy made two mugs of hot cocoa, gave one to me, and kept the other for herself. We turned off all the lights except those on the Christmas tree. We sat close to each other on the couch, held hands, and sipped from our steaming cups as we watched the tree lights wink and grin in the darkened family room.

My girl was so happy she started sobbing next to me. “I love Christmas,” she said to me, gripping my hand in tight little squeezes, making the couch tremble as she let her tears flow. “I’m so glad I’m here for it.”

“Me too,” I said. Me too.

The tree lights flickered and danced. We let silence be our conversation for a bit, while Kenny Loggins serenaded us with “Walking in the Air” (Amy’s favorite Christmas song). We didn’t say it out loud, but I think we both knew then that maybe . . . probably . . . it was going to be our last Christmas together on this earth.

Now it’s a year later. Only one year. Such a short time, really, even though it feels like ages have gone by. I’m staring at the space where our giant tree is supposed to go. And wondering what I’m supposed to do now.

PRAYER FOR TODAY I feel lost today, Jesus. Alone. When I weep, will You share my sorrow and weep alongside me? For some reason, I think that’ll make me feel better. I love You. Amen.

[1] Merrill C. Tenney, general editor. The Zondervan Pictorial Encyclopedia of the Bible, Volume 4 (Grand Rapids, MI: Regency Reference Library, 1975, 1976) 104.