Sing Over Me: On Grief and Joy

The end of July is a strange shadow season to me. Some years are easier than others, but not this year. Perhaps it is the marking of the first decade, but even now, the feel of the hot Midwest wind, the position of the sun on the earth; all of the July-ness seems to drag me back to a moment in time when the fabric of our lives felt like it had been torn in two. It is a memory now, yes, but I’ve come to equate this time of year with a deep grief and it tends to resurface every year no matter how I prepare or how far away from it we are now. And every year, I ask myself why it comes up, where it goes when it passes (which it inevitably does), and finally, how to hold it carefully with open hands and a purposeful heart. 

I think I will probably ask these same questions until the day I die, but as I wrestle and ask my way through them this tenth year, I think about everyone who ever stood bedside and wished for less suffering even while they’re thankful the one they love still breathes. And I think about everyone who ever stood graveside with a broken, bleeding soul, still breathing pain-filled thanks that there’s no more pain. My heart goes out to everyone who has ever smiled through their tears and everyone who has ever cried for no reason other than that life is just so…very…hard.

My heart is for you as I struggle with the questions again, wrestle through the shadows of a timeline long past, because I cried most of this last week. The good and the bad were all mixed together and that brings a lot of feelings.

It’s such a gift. 

We are so thankful.

Chase is a miracle.

But he’s also been hurting more than not for ten years and we’ve all hurt with him. We are tired and I know he is too. 

Thinking through all of these pieces, I cried because I couldn’t see the purpose for the shadows. I cried because I wanted to move past this late July part and move into the place where I could feel the light again.

But the light didn’t come right away as it sometimes does. I felt empty. And after fighting it and excusing it and even trying to tamp it down all week, I realized that it is not so bad to need to grieve. It is not wrong to weep for the brokenness that is as ever present as Chase’s very life.

We celebrate Chase, but we weep for him too. Does that make sense? I hope it does. It’s how I can smile as I watch him run even as my eyes fill with tears.

The good and the hard rarely come in their separate turns – have you ever noticed that? More often, they seem to arrive all wrapped up together in such a way that thankfulness and grief walk hand in hand – usually with a white-knuckled grip. 

So where did I land in my grief this time around? I landed here: there is One who knows; who understands. Psalm 56 describes how our tears aren’t wasted to Him. Our grief isn’t meaningless and our struggles are important and known. 

You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book.

Psalm 56:8 NLT

So, if you want to, if you need to today (as I have needed to this week)…I hope you are able to cry. It is not a bad thing to mourn all the things we wish were other than what they are. And afterwards, dry your tears knowing they were Seen and remember with me (as I remember in this Chase fight) that while the pain and weariness might feel like forever and a day, it’s only a dark night and the dawn is coming. And when the dawn arrives, there will be joy once again.

Giving raw thanks for Chase’s life and unfolding story…

Moment by moment. 

With his love, he will calm all your fears. He will rejoice over you with joyful songs.

Zepheniah 3:17b