Some Days Are Harder Than Others

 Some Days Are Harder Than Others

      My family and I have started the process of boxing up items to move.  We have to be out of our current home in four months and needless to say, we have quite a bit of purging to do.  I'm so proud of my kids for getting rid of things that they no longer want.  But getting rid of things can be hard for a person grieving.  Out of the blue one small forgotten item can often open the faucet of tears.  Just yesterday I was sitting in my living room with my mom and kids.  I was cleaning out the tv stand and my mom was simply watching a Tik Tok video.  The music in the background of the video was the Canon in D, which for many people doesn't mean anything, but for my grieving heart it does.  The Canon in D is the song that Tiffanie came down the aisle on our wedding day.  I automatically stopped what I was doing, swallowed hard, and fought back the tears.  I was ambushed by grief.  Later that night I was cleaning out my kids old medication.  I was shocked by how old some were.  But then I stopped and found the bottle of cough medicine that was given to Tiff when she first discovered that she had lung cancer.  My left thumb rubbed over her name and I sat on the bathroom floor and cried.  I cried when I emptied the bottle out and when I threw it away.  Grief ambushed me again. The last five days have been harder, resulting in my first anxiety attacks in a long time. A matter of fact I’ve had anxiety/panic attacks out of the blue each of the last five nights. 

      Some days arrive quietly, like any other—and then, without warning, the weight shows up out of no where.  It's like entering a room and getting sucker punched.  Grief doesn’t always knock. It slips in through memories, songs, dates on the calendar, or moments you didn’t prepare for. One minute you’re steady, the next you’re undone. And that can feel confusing, even discouraging.  It can make you feel undone because it's so unpredictable.  It has no rhyme or reason.

      For those who are grieving, this is not a sign of weakness or lack of faith, though it might feel like it at the time. It’s love that lost it's person on earth. It’s the heart remembering what mattered deeply.  Scripture never rushes grief. In fact, God invites us to bring it to Him honestly. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matthew 5:4). Read that again.  God doesn't rush grief.  The world might rush grief, your family might rush grief, your employer might rush grief, your friends might rush grief, your pastor might even try to rush your grief, but God isn't in a rush.  Comfort isn’t a dismissal of pain—it’s a promise that pain will not have the final word.  God has the final word.

      Some days are heavier than others, but even on the hardest days, there are glimmers of hope. They may be small—strength to get out of bed, a kind word, a quiet moment of peace, a reminder that you are not walking alone. Hope doesn’t always roar; sometimes it whispers, “I’m still here.”  Hope.  What a beautiful word for the grieving person.  Hope might seem like a long lost idea, but it's tangible and available to each person grieving through Christ.

      Grief may change shape over time, I know it has for me.  My grief started out as a raging storm that blackened my sky, but over time the storm quieted, the fog lifted, and the sun started to shine again.  There are still stormy days, dark days, dreary days, but not as often and not as heavy.  But I want to assure you of a Biblical truth, God’s presence does not change over time. He holds every tear, every ache, every unanswered question. And while today may feel unexpectedly hard, it is not the end of the story, nor is it the end of your story. Light still breaks through. Healing still unfolds. Joy, though delayed, is not lost.

      If today is one of the harder days, rest here, you are seen. You are held. And even now, hope is gently making its way toward you.  You have a found a place to be held and a friend that will walk with you through your grief.