Pulling Weeds
Pulling Weeds
One thing that advice-givers never mention is that grief is subtle. When you lose a loved-one, the initial wave of pain smashes in and rapidly sweeps you past the visitations and ceremonies and pedestrian details of notification and dispensation. It isn’t until the intensity fades that the ‘firsts’ slip the knife between your ribs.
This past Sunday was the first time I drove to church services alone since John died. Normally, we would be halfway through our Sunday morning breakfast ritual and I would be splitting the McDonald’s hash brown potato crisp with him. After I ate half, I burst into tears because I didn’t know whether to eat his half or throw it out the window. Both felt wrong and since I was trying to drive a 2.5-ton vehicle at 50 miles per hour with one hand and hold my breakfast with the other while tears and snot were running down my face, I threw the food back in the bag and pulled out of traffic. I turned down the music and mopped my face all the while vowing to NEVER order hash browns on Sunday morning EVER AGAIN and that would be the end of that painful reminder. As I turned the music back up and pulled into traffic, the next song began to play.
I love the music of Salvador, especially their album Into Motion. The imagery evoked by so many of their songs has stuck with me over the years. This one was Black Flower, and its impact was profound. I’ve heard the words many times but never truly grasped a meaning so personal:
The sun is gonna shine tomorrow
The good and the bad both feel the rain
Faith, hope, and love outlive our sorrow
So, let the black flower grow where it may
Lately, I’ve been engulfed in black blooms. Clawing my way through thorn laden vines of sadness is difficult enough but dodging the unconsciously inflicted lacerations of well-wishers and the jabs of stupid hash browns makes this business of mourning downright brutal. I remember telling someone that Jesus feels our hurts and God mourns with us. I admit it can be comforting to know we are not alone but having the same quoted to me now made me angry. I inwardly rolled my eyes and thought why in the world would you think it will COMFORT me to think that even the Lord was feeling this pain? Praying about it that night, I was mortified. How could I be irritated by someone who loved me enough to try and encourage me? Sigh – weeding my garden of all the black flowers was proving to be a thankless and back-breaking chore.
But the big BUT here is the beautiful imagery of the garden of our lives. It’s where God paints a million flowers that bloom joy, the Rose of Sharon blossoms and black flowers grow right alongside of them. It’s a place where the Lily of the Valley reigns and makes the job of weeding the black flowers unnecessary. I like the wording that says to ‘let the black flower grow where it may.’ We get to disregard the influence of these pesky troubles because ‘faith, hope and love outlive our sorrow.’ Now THAT is comforting. Grief is a part of this life in the nasty here and now and even if you can find a way to numb it, you are only delaying the inevitable. Loss WILL be dealt with emotionally now or later. I am choosing now,and I am comforted that my faith in God, my hope for eternal life and my love for Jesus (and for my beloved John) will live much longer than my sorrow. I am going to cease my black flower weed pulling and enjoy theflowers that bloom joy. And order hash browns with my English muffin next Sunday.
To God be the Glory.
