Living with grief is a strange experience. Sometimes grief is nowhere to be found–as if he’s finally moved away. Other times, you can’t get him to leave you alone and stop pestering you. When grief first visits you, it’s as if he moves in to a spare room in your house that–before you met grief–you didn’t know existed. In my experience, once grief moves in he never moves out; he’s always in the next room. Another interesting thing about grief is that he comes and goes whenever he wants to.
You’ll be doing something that has nothing to do with him, when–suddenly–he barges in and forces you to deal with him.
That’s what happened to me this morning at 5 a.m.
I’m just minding my own business–writing a chapter in my book on the subject of intimacy and listening to my mp3. I had my mp3 set for random play, when–out of the blue and completely unannounced–grief walked into my office singing a David Phelps’ song, “No More Night.”
Grief sang this song at my Dad’s funeral over 20 years ago.
What an amazing song.
So, here I am, trying to write about having Christ-like intimacy with sinners and I find myself missing my Dad.
What an amazing man.
I don’t want to mislead you. Grief and I have a good relationship. I embraced him early on and made peace with him. He knows he can visit me any time he wants. Locking him out permanently is impossible. He’ll get in one way or another. It’s best not to resist him.
He’s really not a monster; he’s actually–once you get to know him–a benevolent visitor who wants the best for us.
I’ve found, over time, that his visits are helpful and healing.
This morning, he reminded me that–in Christ–a day is coming when there will be no more night, no more pain, no more tears, and we will live in the light of the risen Lamb.
And, although I wasn’t expecting a visit from grief this morning–like most of the times he visits unexpectedly–I’m grateful he decided to pop in.