Just after midnight eight years ago, I received one of those dreaded phone calls that brought news of the worst kind. My grandfather suffered a brain hemorrhage. The neurosurgeon performed a last-chance procedure but couldn’t predict if the man who walked me down the aisle on my wedding day would wake this side of heaven.

I wanted to cry right then and there, but the adrenaline shooting through my body converted my pain into energy. I nursed my son, packed a suitcase, and cleaned my kitchen and bathroom until every knob and and surface gleamed. A day later I was in Pennsylvania holding my grandfather’s hand, hugging relatives, and blinking back tears.

Crying felt wrong, as if tears would wash away hope. So for the most part, I steadied my emotions for the following seven years.

When my grandfather woke up with severe brain damage five weeks after his surgery, I refused to mourn losing the person he used to be. Grief felt selfish. He was alive. And although the doctors gave no indication that his condition could reverse, I prayed for a miracle. For one more meaningful conversation. It never came. I found solace in knowing that he remembered me, his eyes and smile told me as much. I longed for him to be whole again, but pushed anger and sadness to the side. I told myself to choose joy, count the blessings and praise God through the storm, without understanding that I could do all of those things and hurt at the same time.

On the fortieth anniversary of my life on earth, my grandfather celebrated the first day of his eternal life. All week we knew he’d leave his broken body on my birthday. Snow fell fast from the sky like it did forty years before and a road trip was out of the question. So I worked that day. Occasionally brushing off a stray tear from my chin, I finished project after project until my mom called with the news.

For four more days I held it together. I hated the all-business voice that came from my mouth when I talked with the pastor about the itinerary for the funeral. My tone felt cold and insincere, but it kept me grounded. I spoke at the service without getting too emotional, but when I finished talking my body shook so ferociously I needed help walking to my seat.

After the reception following the funeral, the immediate family traveled to the cemetery an hour away.

Almost. I whispered. This day is almost over. I can do this.

As the casket slowly moved deeper inside the ground, I braced myself against the sharp wind and my turbulent emotions until I turned and saw my youngest sister standing as I stood. Stoic yet stained with agony. Our arms stretched out stiff and we walked toward one another.

“Oh, PapPap,” she whispered. And in that moment, letting go of everything except each other, our souls began to cry. Choking sobs. Hot streams of fast-flowing tears. Gasps for air.

The hurt was too big to hold in. We needed that cry.

For almost a decade I tucked sorrow away because I really didn’t know what to do with it. I tried praying it away. I recited Scripture and memorized positive thoughts. Up until that embrace with my sister — the split second where I no longer had a choice in the matter — shame mingled with sadness. But here is what I know as true right now.

Suffering does not smother hope. Hope gives meaning to suffering.

This world and all her people know suffering. We cannot escape it, explain it, or contain it. When pain rips you raw, it is okay to allow your soul to cry.

When we numb painful feelings, that numbness will spread fast, deep, and wide and eventually paralyze all of our emotions. When we allow agony to spill from our deepest heart places — especially when we break with someone traveling with us — we open more space for hope, peace and joy; and in that moment of unleashing the overflow of our sorrow we are ready for the process of healing to begin.

“Praise the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and the God of all comfort. He comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any kind of affliction, through the comfort we ourselves receive from God. For as the sufferings of Christ overflow to us, so through Christ our comfort also overflows.” {2 Corinthians 1:3-5}

[linebreak]

Share on Twitter:

Suffering does not smother hope. Hope gives meaning to suffering.
{Tweet this!}

Leave a Comment