Have you ever known something in your head without knowing it in your heart?
I had learned about the stages of grief in college. I knew people navigated through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I had a head knowledge of grief, but I had not experienced the depths of anguish until December 7th, when my grandma, who was my very first best friend was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. In the coming weeks, we learned it had metastasized to her shoulder, collar bone, and hip. She did not want to seek treatment.
My head knowledge of grief became an experiential heart knowledge. First came Depression and a deep sadness. I cried on and off all day. I just wanted to sleep.
Then came anger and irritability. I was short with my kids. My grandma was 82, and great-grandma had lived to the age of 97. I was angry that I wasn’t going to get as much time with my grandma as I had expected I would–as much time as my mom had gotten with her grandma. I was angry that her diagnosis didn’t come until it was too late. I was angry that follow up testing that had been recommended last summer was ignored–at least then I could have visited more often. I was angry that I had felt like I couldn’t visit because I felt like my four kids were too much for my grandparents.
I knew that isolation was not healthy in grief, but how could I spend time with people while angry and irritable? It felt so…ungodly. How long would that stage last? Depression at least didn’t risk hurting or offending other people.
After anger waned, depression returned, this time mixed with a bit of acceptance. It was in that stage that I was able to speak openly with my grandma about how I was processing and feeling, and what God was teaching me in the midst of everything.
As I drove to work one afternoon, I called my grandma, and I told her that while I was so very, very sad because I was didn’t want her to suffer and I would miss her terribly, I was excited for her. This broken world pales in comparison to heaven.
I think we often view sickness and/or death as a lack of faith or as some sort of punishment. If we had more faith, surely we would be healed. If God loves us, why is He allowing our sickness or suffering? And because these views and these questions, there can almost be shame associated with sickness and death.
The Biblical reality is: heaven is the goal. This earth is only temporary, and it is not our home. In Philippians 1:21, Paul writes, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” (NASB95) To die is gain. Why? Paul answers this in 2 Corinthians 5 when he writes that being absent from these mortal bodies means that we will be at home with the Lord.
Eternal glory awaits us at the end of our days on earth. For our bodies to reach their ends means we will enter into eternity with our Savior–the One we are currently living for. To die is not to be abandoned, forgotten, or rejected. Far from it! To die is to be called home, to enter into the very presence of God. To die is to leave behind the brokenness, sorrow, sickness, sin, and strife of this earth and to enter into life as God intended where there is perfection, peace, wholeness, holiness, and joy.
I had the privilege of staying by my grandma’s side in her final days. A blood clot dislodged and caused a stroke. For a few days she was able to nod, sign “yes” or “no”, write with help, and say a couple of words with great effort. I was able to turn on an audio Bible and worship music, read the Bible to her, and pray for both my grandma and my grandpa. I was able to tell her how much she meant to me. I was able to remind her of the hope we have in Jesus.
Those days were weighty. They were days spent in the valley of the shadow of death. Brokenhearted by the thought of life without my grandma and by her suffering, yet praying for God to be merciful to her–even if that mercy meant taking her from me. I grew in that valley. I’ve always known of the hope we have in Jesus, but in that valley, I learned to cling to that hope.
Five months later, grief is still present. I still feel moments of sadness. I still feel the void of her absence. I still miss being able to call her on my way home or share updates on the kids or send her pictures and videos. I still miss her support and encouragement. Yet, the weight of grief has become easier to bear–it no longer feels debilitating and suffocating. In the midst of my grief is a taste of joyful expectation because this world is not the end. Eternity awaits.
In light of eternity, how are you spending the days you have on this earth, until Jesus calls you home? Are you investing them? Are you wasting them and letting them slip by?
Imperfect Pearl 