Post #53: Grief, Tears, and Forsythia

When I brought out my laptop to start this post, the late evening sky was what I focused on as the computer booted up. We are into April now, so the sun was still in the sky, but it had the golden hue unique to late evening. I love that time. I love watching as everything becomes bathed in that light shortly before the sun disappears beneath the horizon.

We went for a walk this afternoon. I went for a walk or run every day this week, but didn't notice any of the little green buds on all the trees until today. We walked past one forsythia plant, and Jordan and I both just breathed in the beauty of those yellow blooms. I can't begin to describe what it did to see that new life.

This has been an interesting week. It has now been four weeks since I came into physical contact with anyone other than a delivery person or my husband in kids. That's four weeks of isolation. As an introvert who is on mat leave, my day-to-day life didn't change too much. But it changed enough that this last week was a hard one. Anson is 2.5 and is in a huge boundary-testing phase right now. Totally normal. But also totally exhausting. Gwen just cut another tooth, but it has been a month of very little sleep for me as we waited for that tooth to make its appearance. I found myself grieving my plans and dreams for the summer. No walking to the playground that is about 300m away from our house for after dinner play. No going to pick out flowers for planters. They are such simple things. But they were the things I have been dreaming about all winter and now spring.

We had some gorgeous days this week. And on those days, the kids and I just spent our time outside.

I thank God for a backyard, because I don't know what I would have done if we still lived in our old place.

But that doesn't change that this week was hard. That I felt like I had just enough strength to deal with the day-to-day, but not capacity to deal with anything else. I feel bad when I think of the number of times my children saw me break down and cry because I was so tired. Because I felt like a failure. Because I felt alone. Yesterday morning, as I sat playing with my kids, I had to fight wave after wave of loneliness. Of grief. Of sadness.

That isn't to say that there haven't been bright moments. Gwen has learned to wave and loves to mimic. When I put Anson to bed at night, he has started to rub my back and to sing to me the lullabies I have sung to him (only he swaps out the word "baby" for the word "Mama"). And God has still shown Himself so present. On March 30 I picked up my daily devotional (Tim Keller's The Songs of Jesus where he works through the book of Psalms over the course of a year). On that day I read Psalm 42:6-11:

6 My soul is downcast within me;
    therefore I will remember you
from the land of the Jordan,
    the heights of Hermon—from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
    in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
    have swept over me.

8 By day the Lord directs his love,
    at night his song is with me—
    a prayer to the God of my life.

9 I say to God my Rock,
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why must I go about mourning,
    oppressed by the enemy?”
10 My bones suffer mortal agony
    as my foes taunt me,
saying to me all day long,
    “Where is your God?”

11 Why, my soul, are you downcast?
    Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
    for I will yet praise him,
    my Savior and my God.

When Keller does his comments on this, he talks about the phrase "I will yet praise him." About how this isn't "a mere prediction of change but an active exercise" (89). Then he went on to say, "When we are discouraged, we listen to the fearful speculations of our hearts. 'What if this happens?' 'Maybe it's because of that!' Here instead we see the psalmist not merely listening to his troubled heart but addressing it, taking his soul in hand, saying, 'Remember this, O soul!' He reminds his heart of the loving things God has done... [and] also tells tells his heart that God is working within the troubles" (89).

Two days later, my Facebook memories involved a quotation from George Macdonald:

"As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."

It was like God was preparing me for the week to come. Like He was reminding me that what is going on right now is awful. It sucks. Life is scary and uncertain, and we don't know how to deal with it. But that doesn't mean He is absent. As He reminded me of the connection between sorrow and joy and love, I realized that this weekend is Easter. Was ever there a better picture of true darkness and sorrow conquered by true Love?

Tomorrow we celebrate Jesus' resurrection, the fact that He didn't stay dead. We celebrate the hope of the Gospel.

Today, in the midst of my tears and despondency, God gave me forsythia. He reminded me of hope.