There is No Finish Line for Grief

There Is No Finish Line for Grief

      I am a sucker for the Olympics.  I vividly remember my grandmother sitting in front of her tv, holding the TV guide, and cheering for every American. The Olympics are a fairly rare event.  They only come about every four years and they capture the attention of the world.  Recently I was watching the Winter Olympics, specifically the men’s downhill skiing.  The skier pushes out of the gate, tucks low, and flies down the mountain at nearly 80 miles per hour. Every turn is razor thin. One mistake and he’s out. The camera follows him all the way down, snow spraying, edges carving, muscles straining, until finally the finish line comes into view. The red banner stretches across the slope. The crowd grows louder. He leans forward, crosses the line, and collapses into relief.

      It’s over.  There’s a clock.  There’s a line.  There’s a clear end.  Grief is not like that.  There is no red banner across the valley of loss.  No clock that stops.  No moment when you collapse in the snow and think, “I made it. I’m done grieving.”  Grief doesn’t end with a clean crossing.  It lingers.  It changes shape.  It softens some days and sharpens on others.  It surprises you in the cereal aisle of Wal-Mart, on anniversaries, in quiet drives home while listening to the radio, or when you are cleaning an old junk drawer at home.  And one of the hardest parts about grief is this: you don’t know where the finish line is, because there isn’t one.

      We live in a world that measures everything.  We measure time, progress, outcomes, improvement, weight, success, finances, etc.  We strive for more and better.  Even healing is often framed as something you “achieve.” People ask, “Are you doing better?” And it’s usually sincere. But underneath the question can be an assumption, that there is a better out there somewhere. A final stage. A point where grief politely wraps itself up and leaves.  But grief doesn't play by the rules of others.  People that have the strongest ideas about how to grieve are typically those untouched by it.  Those that judge the grieving most are those who haven't walked an inch, let alone a mile in sorrow.  My dearest Leslie lived in Uganda for ten years.  The people there would ask her, "you're better now, right?"  Those questions came up only a few short months after losing her Sam.  Someone a few months ago had the audacity to say to me "I'm surprised you're still grieving."

      But Scripture never promises a finish line for grief.  It promises a Shepherd.  “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me (Psalm 23:4)."  David doesn't give a lot of details about this valley.  He doesn't mention how long or short the valley is, he doesn't mention how long we will be there, he doesn't say if the journey will be easy or hard, he also doesn't share if there is a clearly labeled exit in two miles.  That's some vague details.  But David does mention that most important detail about the valley, He says that the Good Shepherd goes with Him.  He says, You are with me.  The comfort of the valley is not its length.  It is His presence.

      I want to make a very clear point regarding someone's grief journey, Jesus doesn't eliminate grief, instead He enters it.  I think of John chapter eleven.  Jesus enters the city of Bethany already with the knowledge that His dear friend Lazarus had died.  The crowd probably questioned Jesus.  They knew He was able to raise the dead, the stories had spread far and wide about Him, but Jesus didn't come early enough to save His friend.  When Jesus stood outside the tomb of Lazarus, He knew what He was about to do. He knew resurrection was moments away. He knew death would not have the final word.  And still  He wept.  I find it amazing that the shortest verse in the Scripture can carry so much weight.  The shortest verse in Scripture carries enormous weight.  “Jesus wept (John 11:35)."  Note that Jesus didn’t fast-forward through the sorrow.  He didn’t shame the tears.  He didn’t tell Mary and Martha to move on.  He stepped into grief.  That changes everything.  Because if grief has no finish line, it does have a Companion.  Christ does not stand at the bottom of the mountain yelling instructions.  He walks the valley floor with us.

      Olympic athletes train to shave off seconds. Every movement is optimized. Every turn calculated.  But grief is not about speed.  There is no stopwatch for those grieving (though at times people make them feel like they should be on a watch).  There is no medal for “fastest recovery.”  No podium for “most composed.”  No applause for “strongest faith under pressure.”  Some days you feel steady; other days crawling is a victory.  Christ is not holding a stopwatch.  He is holding you.  Jesus tells His followers "I am with you always (Matthew 28:20)."  For me always included hospital rooms and waiting for test results.  Always includes empty chairs.  Always includes when birthdays feel different.  Always includes when your big feels bigger and the nights darker.  Grief may not have a finish line — but it is not a solitary journey.

      Christian hope does not erase sorrow.  Instead our hope is like an anchor that holds us during the tempest blast.  It steadies it.  Paul writes: “We do not grieve as others do who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13)."  Notice what he doesn’t say.  He does not say we do not grieve.  He says we do not grieve without hope.  Hope does not mean the ache disappears.  It means the ache does not define the end of the story.  Hope reminds us death doesn't win and that resurrection is coming for those that are in Christ Jesus.  One day, there will be a finish line, not just for grief, but for death itself.  That day is certain.  But until that day, we walk.

      In downhill skiing, victory is crossing first.  In grief, victory looks different.  Victory is not pretending you’re fine, or rushing the process, or “getting over it.”  Victory is trusting Christ when your heart is still breaking.  Victory is worshiping through tears.  Victory is believing He is still good when you don’t understand.  You may never “finish” missing them.  You may never stop feeling the absence in certain moments.  But you are not abandoned in it.  There is no banner stretched across the valley of grief.  There is no clock that tells you when it’s over.  But there is a Savior who walks beside you every step of the way.  And sometimes, His steady presence is more powerful than any finish line.