Climbing the Summit of Grief

Climbing the Summit

of Grief

“I lift up my eyes to the mountains—where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth.” —Psalm 121:1-2

      I know this might sound hard to believe, but there was one time in my life that I enjoyed climbing rock walls.  That might stretch the imagination now since I am forty, I don't gravitate to adventure or danger, and needless to say there was a little less Matt to fit into a climbing harness.  I started doing climbing walls in my early twenties when I worked at a Christian camp.  I became certified, bought some gear, and spent a few summers building up some major core muscles.  I would fly up the wall just to ring the silly bell at the top.  But not every wall was easy to climb.  There were usually levels.  I could easily ascend the beginner wall in a few seconds, but the more advanced walls, the ones that meant jumping to the next hand hold or almost having to hang upside down were nearly impossible.  But none of those walls could ever compare to grief.  Grief is literally a mountain

      Some days it feels like I’m standing at the base, staring up at a peak too high, too steep, and too treacherous to climb.  The thick fog of grief doesn't always allow me to see the summit.  It is almost dizzying. Losing Tif left me with a trail I never asked for and a climb I never wanted to make.  No widow or widower elected to take this trip.  No one who weeps at a grave raised their hand saying I'll do this.  In essence we did because we agreed to a sacred covenant to love, but we never envisioned how things would end.  Each step forward feels like carrying the weight of what used to be—our laughter, our plans, our shared dreams. And sometimes, the climb feels impossible, daunting even.

      There are a lot of mornings when my heart whispers, “Why bother climbing?” The silence of an empty house presses heavy, and the thought of moving upward—of pressing on without her—cuts deep. Yet, it’s in those moments that Psalm 121 steadies me.  Psalm 121 was always one of our favorite passages.  We actually had a dear friend do an engraving on wood for our new office.  I read the words often, almost on a weekly basis. The psalmist doesn’t say, “I look to the mountain for strength,” but “I lift my eyes beyond it, to the Lord who made it.”  The Psalmist sees the scary, looming mountain and he trembles.  The mountain seems impossible, and to be fair, it is impossible.  The mountain cannot be climbed without an aid.  The writer says in verse two "My help comes from the Lord!"  He writes this with such confidence.  A confidence that each of us need as we walk a difficult path mired with sorrow.  The Lord is our helper and invites us to simply ask Him for His aid.

      God is not only at the peak waiting for me—He is with me on the climb. He places His hand beneath me when I stumble, He shelters me when the wind cuts harsh, and He whispers hope when despair tells me to turn back. The mountain is real. The grief is real. But so is His presence.  He has never failed me on this upward climb, and He never will.

      Maybe today, the climb feels too hard. If that’s you, you don’t have to sprint up the mountain. You don’t have to conquer it in a day. You just need the strength to take one more step, trusting that the Lord to walk beside you. And one step at a time, He’ll lead you to the place where sorrow softens into peace, and where the view—though not what you once imagined—holds glimpses of His glory.  He will bring you to the summit, by His grace and for His glory.