When the Thought of You Catches Up to Me

The other evening, I was lying in the hammock out back, just staring up at the sky. The wind moved gently through the trees, and the sun was sliding its way down the horizon. It was an ordinary evening. Quiet. Calm.

And then a thought caught up to me–seemingly out of nowhere. I hadn’t been thinking about my late nephew–not really anyway. I was thinking about the breeze, the bugs, and whether or not a rabbit or a chipmunk would come strolling across the yard again. But then, all of a sudden, I was back to last summer—back to that raw ache of wondering where he is now. Wondering if he’s okay, if he’s at peace, if he feels love wherever he is.

And just like that, an all-too-familiar lump found my throat, tears filled my eyes, and my chest grew heavy. Grief is as sly as a fox sometimes. We think we’ve moved beyond it, or at least tucked it neatly away, only to have it sneak up on us in the quietest, most mundane moments. When we’re driving down the highway, or folding laundry, or just lying in a hammock on a summer night.

I’m reminded of this verse in scripture—two simple words—that helps me remember that grief is not something we ever outgrow or finish. The verse is found in the gospel of John during the moment Jesus stands at the tomb of his late friend, Lazarus. The verse simply reads, “Jesus wept.”

It doesn’t say how long Jesus wept. It doesn’t say how often the tears came back in the days and weeks that followed. It doesn’t tell us if he cried again later that night as he lay under the stars. It just says he wept.

And I guess I found some comfort in those words the other night because they reminded me that tears are holy. Sacred. Needing no further explanation. Adhering to no timeline. They reminded me that love and grief are tangled up together, and that even Jesus--God With Us—knew what it was to feel the ache of loss catch in his throat and spill down his face.

So if today sometime you find yourself caught off guard by your own grief—if it sneaks up on you in the grocery store or when you hear their favorite song, or when you’re just lying in a hammock of your own staring up at the sky—know this: Your tears–that lump in your throat–that heaviness in your chest–they aren’t indicators that anything is wrong. They’re not evidence that you’re somehow failing at moving on, or that you don’t love the people who are still here with you. You are simply continuing to love the one you lost. And that love is holy.

Wherever this message finds you today, Beloveds, may you feel held in that holy kind of love, and may each and every one of us know the comfort of our tender God who weeps with us, for just as long as the tears come.

On the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

---