Grief – The Word Worker

The Bridge

https://pixabay.com/photos/bridge-fog-river-night-mist-7703146/

It only appeared in the fog, the old bridge. Not the morning fog when the rising sun burned off the surface of the river. The rare sunset mist defying the golden glow spilling over the horizon. The mist that was both there and not there, with impossible shapes darkening it. With the bridge that couldn’t be.

She had seen it before. A child’s vision, obscured by the cynicism of time. Only his disappearance had made the memory real. She hadn’t been to the river that night, when they said he drowned. She hadn’t been there, but she knew anyway. He would never have drowned.

He had crossed the bridge. Of course he had crossed. He probably just wanted to look, to know where it went, what those dark shapes in the fog became when met face to face. He wouldn’t have thought about it at all, never would have meant to leave her like that. But mist never lasted.

She could see it now, old stone glowing gold in the damp. He could come back now. Any minute she would see him, a little older, rushing back to reassure her and plead his remorse. But how would he know? What if he missed the fog as she had that night? Already the mist began to lift, and she could almost make out the wall across the river.

With a gasp she ran, oblivious to the sole of her foot scraping through the hole in her shoe. The worn strap on her old knapsack fragmented under the sudden strain, depositing her entire life behind her. She clutched the stone as she stumbled onto the span, gasping, desperate. If she held on, if she kept going, it couldn’t vanish. He would come.

She stumbled forward, calling frantically. The sun flared once behind her before gloom closed in. A few more tottering steps, just a few more and she would find him. He hadn’t been able to come to her, she would go to him. They wouldn’t need to go back.

A shadow coalesced beside her. She whimpered, not afraid, relieved. Here was someone to help. The figure smiled, took her hand. She followed, docile. The mist had lifted, of course it had, she didn’t need it anymore. The bridge had brought her home.

Purgatory

https://pixabay.com/photos/theater-bratislava-old-town-6066228/

The harsh brightness of the midday square angered him. Even the fountain stood dead before the theater, colorful banners hanging breezeless above it, hallmarks of the latest empty dance of gauze and orchestral cacophony. Sweat beaded in the furrow above his eyebrows, daring him to mop it away with the napkin crushed in his grip.

He reached for the bottle again, the gesture oddly aimless, groping. Why were his eyes glaring at him from that warped sky? The artificial moon above reflected gables stung his cheeks like seaspray. The street dimmed through dusky glass belied its stillness, demanded the bustle of crowds and music and life. He shook his fist at it for its twisted pretense.

It should remain empty, an exoskeletal tomb for what was. What morbidity to lash himself with this scene, this memory. Not even ghosts remained to share a toast. Only frozen heat to layer dust on old chalices.

The clang of a solitary coin met the pavement, pulled from his pocket with the price of the wine. He let it spin to stillness in his wake, payment over a dry river.

I Remember

I remember.
The stunned faces of teenagers watching horrific history play out in real time on classroom tvs.

I remember.
Teachers calling relatives in New York and crying for missing loved ones and the inevitable death toll.

I remember.
The face of a president in a room full of children when the news was whispered in his ear.

I remember.
Emergency personnel running into debris storms and collapsing skyscrapers in desperate attempts to evacuate as many as they could.

I remember.
Civilians organizing rescue support while traumatized themselves.

I remember.
The voices of heros in the air who knew they would never make it home.

I remember.
24 hours of no parties, politics, or arguments as a nation reeled in unison.

I remember.
Impossible rescues from smoking, creaking rubble.

I remember.
The soot-streaking tears of rescuers over the dead they could never have saved.

I remember.
For days we watched footage narrated by red-eyed reporters with shaking voices, and we wept and prayed with them.

I remember.
When a handful of the worst humanity could produce wreaked destruction, the rest of humanity loved.

I remember.

Sunset

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/rustic-secluded-cozy-serene-7907859/

The deep rays surrounded her, burning deep into her skin. Her tears were flame, paths of umber scoring her cheeks. She screamed at the sea below, at the calm waves whispering against the rocks. Her hands trembled on the railing, knuckles white and stiff against the gray wood.

Where was the peace promised? Where were the crashing waves swallowing the cliffs? Where was the roar of raging wildfire on the horizon? A silent disc floated on a raft of molten gold, bathing in her pain. The roar inside her soul grew, tinting the gently waving leaves with its inferno. Her eyes ignited in the sun, searing the tears from her mind.

The memory of his hand was a phantom on her shoulder and she whirled to empty air. Flame faded, leaving black emptiness. Charred and crumbled, she lay staring into the fading glow of stone that cooled but never turned to ash.

Candles

https://pixabay.com/photos/black-blow-burning-candle-creepy-2941843/

The dried up, decomposing vines brushed her skin, tendrils of the darkness that protected what was left of her soul and crushed the breath from her lungs all at once. The candles in front of her flickered, pitiful against even the promise of wind in a trembling leaf at the edge of vision. Only three. How had three broken candles been all she had to offer for a shattered life?

Hot wax rearranged itself drop by drop into the shape of glass cups, insulation to prevent fire. As if she wasn’t already burning, endlessly unconsumed but raw. As if it had been her skin stolen from her instead of… instead. How many days since she had been able to breathe? A week? Two?

Orange globes peeking from a sea of green. Teeming life. Life on the edge of death; the smell of rot was more appropriate. Death for death. Orange flickered with the flame, mocking, demanding. Only three candles.

People did light candles for death, didn’t they? The trembling leaf released its hold, a moth fluttering to burn, disintegrated, forgotten. No. Never that. How can a chasm be forgotten? There should be stars. If there weren’t enough candles there should at least be stars. Where were the stars? Grieving. Maybe they would die, too; that would be fitting. Stars dying for loss of her Star.

Goosebumps rose under her fingers. Vines whispered. Flames guttered and fell. Only three broken candles.

Dry

Color surrounded her, the brilliant yellows and reds and greens of summer in the garden. The sky glared blue overhead, and she glared back at its near cloudless face. Her hand closed around the nearest white spray, twisting involuntarily, the crushed petals releasing their nauseatingly sweet scent as they fell from her fingers.

She took a shuddering breath, her chest aching as if with vacuum. The fountain nearby was as dry as her eyes; she resented it’s deathly emptiness. Perhaps the red that surrounded it was the remains of the bloody tears of its untimely end, an irrevocable stain on the land. She pressed her fists into her eyes until they ached, silently screaming for a single drop of relief.

A hand touched her shoulder and she flinched. “It’s going to be alright,” someone said, and the hand caressed the black of her sleeve like flame licking at tempered steel. Her arms fell nerveless to her sides and she walked away without a word.

Empty

https://pixabay.com/photos/ruin-monastery-graves-fantasy-3414235/

The blast zone was eerily quiet. Sophie walked slowly over the dead ground, footfalls crunchy in the charcoaled remains of the world she had known. Her heart thudded, as loud as the sobbing breath heaving in and out of her lungs.

Already long shadows fingered the valley, shades of glory made barren. The time between first light and sunrise was pitifully small, but it was her only chance at leaving the Settlement. The Conclave allowed no one into the Barrens. First offenses meant time in the brig; second offenses meant one ration per day for a month and exclusion from assembly for a year. This was her third.

They had thought the plague would be the end of everything. It was the reason the Settlement had formed, deep in the mountains with rules designed to prevent infection and preserve a pocket of humanity. Sophie herself had spent a month in quarantine outside the border after plague took her parents. They had remained on their own land in the shadow of the monastery, cared for the sick and frightened, but with them gone there had been nowhere else to turn.

She wished she had stayed; Hell had arrived within weeks of their deaths, ending the suffering of all outside the Settlement. Leaving her alone. For two years on the Day of Purification she had snuck away to their ruined graves, her tears the only memorial left to give. For two years she had been caught by the Conclave and ostracized. This year they would Purify her in the square, though nothing remained to be cleansed, her soul as empty as the excoriated land.

Peace, Be Still

When God called Moses from the burning bush, Moses already knew God. He had already felt a calling to help his people, a purpose greater than himself. Because his early efforts had failed, what he did not feel was equipped. He pleaded to be excused from the task because he did not think he had the tools to do it. God sent him anyway.

When Jezebel put a price on Elijah’s head, Elijah already knew God. He was a wanted man because he had taken a stand for God in the face of powerful retribution. He didn’t flee and hide because he didn’t believe in the cause, but because he felt discouraged. No one stood with him, and he could see nothing but lonely failure. God fed him, let him rest, then sent him back to stand again anyway.

When Saul’s entire focus bent toward killing David, the future king already knew God. Saul hated him because his great trust in the Lord had brought victory and respect of which Saul was unworthy. David didn’t flee Israel because he rejected God, and even in self-imposed exile he tried to help God’s people. He fled because he was tired and afraid. Not only was he in danger himself, but his entire family and thousands who supported him stood to lose their lives. God reminded him that danger was everywhere and sent him back to keep fighting anyway.

When Jesus sat in the garden facing death in the morning, He was God. He wept and trembled, not because He didn’t believe in His plan, but from the pain and grief of knowing what the people He loved would do, the suffering that was necessary for them to cause Him before they would understand His love. The angels comforted Him and He faced the cross anyway.

When the storm threatened the disciples’ ship, they already knew God. He was in the boat with them. They panicked, not because they weren’t aware of Him, but because they weren’t used to relying on Him. They thought they had faith because they believed He could save them. Jesus said they had none because they didn’t believe that He would.

So often we run – from the storm, from the task, from the danger. Perhaps we feel unequal to the challenge, think we lack tools needed to be successful. Perhaps we feel alone and cannot see how one person could make a difference. Perhaps the enemy is so massive that we see no other option but to hide, to pretend we are something other than we are. Perhaps the cost is so high, the loss so painful, that we must weep and tremble for a while. Perhaps we really do believe that, although God exists, we are still on our own.

It’s time to let God send us back to stand. Trust that He is equipped whether we are or not. Know that whether or not any human stands with us we are not alone. Shine against the pain of the world’s betrayal of our God. Let His peace still the storm.

Godly Emotion

Very often in the circles labeling themselves as Christian we find evidence of the idea that emotions have nothing to do our walk with God. It may be expressed as the noble sentiment that our actions should be ruled by reason, which is true but only to a point. The human brain is an incredibly complex organ, created with the capacity for both reason and emotion, so what is the godly view of emotion?

Think of a newborn infant. No longer automatically receiving sustenance through the bloodstream, it’s body experiences need for the first time. Physical discomfort awakens fear and sadness expressed by crying. When the baby is fed the need is filled, awakening happiness and contentment. No longer surrounded by warm, quiet darkness, the baby experiences cold and light for the first time, those discomforts awakening loneliness and anger. When the baby is snuggled in its mother’s arms it is warmed and sheltered, awakening love. As the child grows, those emotions will become tools for teaching reason and relationship. When the early needs of a child are not properly met, only certain emotions are awakened, and the child’s reasoning will be lacking some of the tools needed to form a complete picture of the world.

God created the human mind to develop in this way, to exhibit both emotion and reason, to require both. So what role does emotion play in the life of a person who bears God’s name? What do the scriptures have to offer about feelings?

Deuteronomy 16:15 (CSB): You are to hold a seven-day festival for the Lord your God in the place he chooses, because the Lord your God will bless you in all your produce and in all the work of your hands, and you will have abundant joy.

Galatians 5:22 (CSB): 22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,

Nehemiah 2:3 (CSB): and replied to the king, “May the king live forever! Why should I not be sad when the city where my ancestors are buried lies in ruins and its gates have been destroyed by fire?”

Ezra 10:1 (CSB): While Ezra prayed and confessed, weeping and falling facedown before the house of God, an extremely large assembly of Israelite men, women, and children gathered around him. The people also wept bitterly.

Ecclesiastes 3:3–4, 8 (CSB): 4 a time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to love and a time to hate;

John 11:33–35 (CSB): When Jesus saw her crying, and the Jews who had come with her crying, he was deeply moved in his spirit and troubled.
34 “Where have you put him?” he asked.
“Lord,” they told him, “come and see.”
35 Jesus wept.

Numbers 12:9 (CSB): The Lord’s anger burned against them, and he left.

Ephesians 4:26 (CSB): Be angry and do not sin., Don’t let the sun go down on your anger,

1 Kings 3:25–26 (CSB): 26 The woman whose son was alive spoke to the king because she felt great compassion, for her son. “My lord, give her the living baby,” she said, “but please don’t have him killed!”

Colossians 3:12, 14-16 (CSB): Therefore, as God’s chosen ones, holy and dearly loved, put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience,… Above all, put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity. And let the peace of Christ, to which you were also called in one body, rule your hearts. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell richly among you, in all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another through psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts.

The above scriptures hold just a handful of examples of emotion playing a central role both for God and for His people. One could even say that emotion is the driving force behind God’s interaction with, even His creation of, His children. His love for us, the deepest emotion we recognize as humans, is the source of our being and our salvation. What emotion do we offer in return?

The Box

She closed the door slowly, keys slipping from her fingers to the entryway table with an absurdly loud clatter in the silent house. A light showed dimly under the kitchen door and her feet moved automatically in that direction.

Her hand slid across the door as she pushed it open and a broad swath of light broke the endless night of the hallway. The overhead lamp blazed above the breakfast table, showing off the place settings for two ready for the next morning’s date. She touched the edge of one plate, fiddling with the paper napkin hanging slightly over.

She squeezed her eyes shut and sighed heavily before looking to the center of the table. Pink roses lay in no particular arrangement around a tiny cardboard box tied with brown cord. Her hand shook as she reached for the box, and nerveless fingers bent the edge of the note stuck beneath the knot.

He should have been the one to open it. He should have been waiting for her as they had planned. It should have been the beginning of the rest of their lives. It wasn’t fair. A panicked urge to flee backed her into the door that had swung shut behind her, and she slid to the floor with the box crushed against face, dissolving slowly in unheeded tears.