Interrupted

Have you ever been around someone who likes to finish your sentences? It’s pretty annoying, isn’t it? And they often get it wrong, taking your words in a direction you weren’t planning to go. It takes a minute to tamp down your frustration, collect your thoughts, and get the conversation back on track.

Loss has that effect on us, too—on a much larger scale. It interrupts. It takes life in a direction we weren’t planning to go. But unlike a conversation, we can’t reverse the interruption and shift things back to the way they were. Life is forever changed.

However, as difficult as it was to accept, the day I admitted that my life would never be the same was also the day I started to move forward. Though it stung to acknowledge the post-interruption reality of my life, I had to accept it. All grievers do.

This doesn’t mean we can’t still have a good life; it doesn’t mean this present heaviness will keep us pinned down forever. Sure, we now have a limp, an empty space, a lingering sadness. And we all know that a big loss cascades down into many smaller losses. Even so, all is not lost.

➢

So here we are, you and I, facing an interrupted life. Limping, but (hopefully) going forward.

We might say, Well, what choice do we have? We’ve got to go on. And that’s true . . . to a point. But here’s the thing about interruptions: sometimes they help us learn new things. “Going on” doesn’t have to mean just coping; it can actually mean that we’re changing. And growing.

There are conversations I might never have had, lessons I might never have learned, stories I might never have heard if some sentence-ending friend hadn’t interrupted me and moved our conversation into unplanned territory.

I’m not trying to put a positive spin on loss and grief. I’m the last guy who would try to do that. But I do believe that interruptions, while disorienting, can ultimately make us wiser. I believe that good can come from bad.

I’ll say more about the good changes grief can bring in another post, but here I’ll just say that I’ve seen this play out in the lives of many who’ve walked the hard road of loss. I’ve seen chronic complainers become grateful; I’ve watched grouches develop kindness; and I’ve seen timid people learn to be courageous.

There is life, good life, on the other side of the interruption.

© 2021 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.

Christmas #23

That first Christmas was a blur. I was still pretty numb, having been widowed all of twelve days. My parents were staying with us (I was glad for their company and their help), and a troop of wonderful ladies from church had decorated the house and done all my gift shopping. I joined in as best I could, but honestly, I don’t remember much about those holidays.

This is Christmas #23 without her. What is it about December that makes the wounds of grief bleed again?

A lot has changed since that first Christmas. I’ve added three sons-in-law and four grandchildren. The menu has been upgraded from chicken spaghetti to beef tenderloin. And we now put up an artificial tree (which I swore I’d never do until my son’s allergies made me unswear it.)

But much is still the same. We still celebrate the coming of Christ. In fact, celebrating His first coming and anticipating His next one is why I know that grief has an expiration date. That’s why I can sorrow . . . with hope.

And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died.

—1 Thessalonians 4:13–14

© 2021 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.

Don't Dare Compare

We wanted our home to be a welcoming place where friends felt free to drop in, so I wasn’t surprised when the doorbell rang late one evening. I opened the door to see my friend Nathan (not his real name) standing there. His downcast eyes and slumped shoulders signaled that he had more on his mind than iced tea and casual conversation.

It was a warm spring night—the humidity of summer had yet to set in, so we sat on the front porch and Nathan started unpacking his troubles.

A couple of years earlier, he had made a business decision that started out well but then took a downturn. His company’s value was sinking fast, and so was his personal net worth. He was facing the possibility of bankruptcy.

We talked and prayed, and then Nathan did something I wish he hadn’t … He apologized. He said he was sorry to bother me because he knew that my pain was worse than his. (This was just a few months after my wife died.)

But he was wrong, my pain wasn’t worse than his.

The Bible tells us: “The heart knows its own bitterness, and no stranger shares its joy” (Proverbs 14:10). This means that there is pain so deep and personal that no other person can possibly feel its agony, just as there is a joy so elevated that no outsider can experience its thrill. Some feelings just can’t be exported, which is why I’ve adopted a motto about grief:

Don’t dare compare.

Comparing our grief to others increases the likelihood that we will either exaggerate our pain and wrap ourselves in a cocoon of self-pity or downplay our pain and stiff arm the grace we need for healing to begin. The better choice, the choice to which Proverbs 14:10 points, is to own our pain.

Nathan’s pain was real. But if he continued to de-legitimize it by comparing it to mine, he wasn’t going to move forward. On the other hand, if he had viewed his circumstances as more severe than anyone else’s, he would have closed himself off from the help and comfort of others.

➢

My conversation with Nathan came back to mind a few years later when I was leading a grief recovery group at my church. A lady (I’ll call her Carmen) had attended several times but had yet to participate in the discussions. I didn’t push, but hoped she’d eventually open up to us. The night we talked about the pitfalls of comparison, she was obviously tuned in. The following week she told her story to the group.

Carmen explained that she had been attending because her mother had died many years ago and she had never really grieved. Carmen was a little girl when her mother died, and though she had been raised by a caring stepmother, she often experienced deep feelings of sadness over missing her mother. “Until last week,” Carmen whispered tearfully, “I never felt I had the right to be sad about something that happened so long ago. Thank you for giving me permission to cry.”

Across the room from Carmen sat a lady whose husband had died just five months earlier. Next to Carmen sat a lady whose parents had both died within six months of each other. A few rows in front of Carmen sat a man whose father had committed suicide. Across the aisle sat a man whose son had been born with multiple health issues and had died in infancy.

Tell me, whose pain was worse? Which person in that group had the most reason to grieve? And did Carmen have no right to be sad because her loss had occurred so many years ago?

We know the answer, don’t we? Each heart had its own private sadness. Comparing would have served no good purpose in that room of grievers. And it's not going to help you.

© 2021 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.