I remember every card and word whispered in my ears in the grief of loss of my firstborn son, Benjamin. They are used by the Holy Spirit often to spatula my emotions off of the precipice. The small cards and the big cards the pieces of paper and the glances of compassion, all seemed to burn and ache in the days following his death. Every touch, every good thought, every emotion was an ouchy. Some doctrines got through. I remember noticing the angels running interception in the family interactions. Some words that should have hurt seemed to be shielded completely from even getting to me. All I wanted to do was forget. ie. Forget good things, forget creature comforts, forget my body, because it was his house and his nutrition and forget God, because He took him. There is no way out of that crazy cycle.
I couldn't sleep and I couldn't stay awake, I just stayed in a dream state of ambivalence of life. I worshipped, because it was a discipline of my life. I gave the sacrifice of praise. In worship and at the cemetery was the closest that I felt to my baby. I couldn't go to him and there was no comfort in the things that remained. Many nights of tears I held my remaining baby in my lap and sang to Jesus.
The scrap book of the words of comfort lasted for years. Now, they are memorized. I haven't got the book anymore. A few scrap papers lasted. I have the tattered remains of Pastor Blaize's letter, with his handwritten reminder of "God Moves in a Mysterious Way".
I remember looking up to see if I could see the clouds of grief bursting with blessings on my head. It just looked dark. I know now that my heart was in the hand of God and that He used the hymns to suture the tears and splits. I am grateful for every single good thought. The doctrinal ones and the hedonistic ones, as well. God is still good and He shows the ineptitude of human comforts in grief, So that we will not miss the only real healing there is. The words of people are so vain, even the best words are bandaids, when the cut is deep, only the Spirit of God can suture well the spiritual injury.
My wounds open up and bleed from time to time and probably will until Heaven. But God never says, will you get over it already, like people do. He always puts you on the table and pulls out the box and sews you up again.
God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sov’reign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow’r.
Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.