Written by Lindsey Smith, Missionary Care Team Member
Grief is a heavy word. Even the shape of it on a page stirs something in us. It enters our lives with a force that can bring clarity, yet it also leaves behind a haze of confusion. For believers, the source of this confusion often flows from the fact that our Messiah, the hope of the world and God of all comfort, fully lived into His own sorrow and grief and yet we are told that He faced it with joy and endurance. Further, at the end of the most tragic event in history-–the Crucifixion—He declared to us: “It is finished.”
We may find ourselves asking: “What exactly was finished, Jesus?”
Your life on earth? But You rose again.
The work of redemption? But You are still redeeming now and into the future.
Pain and suffering? Those things are definitely still present.
No—it must be something else.
Over a year ago, I faced the reality of walking through the loss of multiple loved ones while I was abroad, serving as a missionary. The first, and most significantly felt, of these losses was my grandpa.
The way I found out foreshadowed what the following weeks would feel like. It was just another family FaceTime, when one of my siblings offered, “I’m really sorry about your dad, Mom.” In a second, my mind went from curiosity—to confusion—to comprehension—to disbelief—to the heart-sinking understanding of what those words meant.
“Wait, what?” was my response, but I knew exactly what it all meant. Then came the apologetic looks, reluctant clarifying statements, and the hesitant conclusion I already suspected was confirmed: “Grandpa died.”
“Oh,” was all I had.
I did not cry that day, though I did ask for the day off. That seemed like the thing to do. But then I found myself despising the quiet. I was supposed to be grieving but what difference did it make? Everything on this side of the world was the same. My house, my work, even me—I had no proof that this loss was real. Meanwhile, on the other side of the planet, my family was grieving together, enduring together, and comforting each other.
But where was I in this picture? I wasn’t there. I wasn’t able to hug my mom or weep with her. I couldn’t walk into a room and meet the knowing eyes of others whose lives were likewise changed.
And so the next day I went back to work. I did cry, as I shared why I had been gone the day before with my sweet Vietnamese fifth graders. They were kind and understanding, but even their sympathy faded by the afternoon, and why wouldn’t it? It was just as distant a reality to them.
I found myself extremely frustrated that week. I had to decide quickly: do I spend $2000 and four days of travel to go home for a week? I had just returned barely a month before that after recovering from an illness. I sought the Lord and reasoned to make my decision. What felt like peace and wisdom convinced me to stay.
However, on the day of the funeral while my family sought closure, I was left in turmoil. I felt guilty for not being there, as if I had put a price tag on my grandfather’s life or a tangible cost on my mother’s comfort.
The hour came when I knew the service would begin, night for me but midmorning for them. I knew the city it would be in. I could picture who would be there. I could imagine the tearful memories that would be shared, the choked up laughter that would accompany the more lighthearted stories.
My emotions became muffled—like when someone tries to speak to you while you are underwater. You know it’s a familiar voice, you may even be able to imagine some meaning behind the words, but they are so distorted and the sound waves cannot pierce through the barrier enough to take on meaning.
How I longed to just emerge from this realm of confusion, to surface, and finally take in what was being said. But I could not. It was like my heart and my mind were disconnected somehow, unable to feel and understand simultaneously. So, I identified a loss I could recognize: the loss of not being at the funeral today. It seemed so silly at first, to cry over a missed opportunity, when everyone else was grieving the loss of a life, especially when I was the one who had decided to stay.
But it was the only clear loss I could grieve as I sat there, alone in my room with nothing but the moon for company, while the sun was shining outside the windows of the church where my family was gathered to mourn together. Allowing my heart to ache and honoring the pieces of pain I could hold began to drain away some of the confusion. It was a relief in some ways, but as the disorienting fog dissipated, it was replaced with intense fear.
What if my home—my people, my place, my sense of belonging—dies while I am here? What if all that I found familiar disappears and I am left as an orphan, alone in a world that no longer knows me? What if I’m left alone in a world that I no longer recognize?
These fears swirled around my mind constantly and surfaced at the worst moments. Whether or not they were likely didn’t matter because the last month had taught me they were at least possible. I knew I could not silence them and so I had to face them as best I could. It was here that the Lord gently invited me to bring the whole mess before Him, to reflect not only on what I’d lost, but also on what He had already secured—that my true home is Him, and even if everything familiar were gone, I would not be alone or unknown. I would still have Him. I would still have the fullness of His presence.
In the weeks that followed, healing came slowly, and not all at once. It came in small, quiet ways. It came through my roommate who had known this grief too and checked in often, simply asking how I was doing that day. It came through journaling the tangled mess of emotions, and bringing them honestly before the Lord. It came in allowing myself to grieve the little losses, not just the big ones, and in giving myself permission to not “move on” too quickly. Time was a grace I had to receive.
And so we find ourselves back at the question that was asked at the beginning: “What was finished?”
I think there are many meaningful ways to answer this question, but the one that rings most true in the circumstances of this story and this grief is: In Jesus’ death, the full weight of sin’s separating force was enveloped by the full payment of His perfect sacrifice, and so judgment has met justice and Christ’s payment is complete.
How does this apply to grief? How does this speak to the fear and agony of loss? It declares that loss and death no longer have the final word. What was finished was the tyranny of every ending. Hope now speaks promise over every conclusion because now we have access to the reality of total restoration and redemption. Now we can mourn our deepest losses, while still holding tightly to the promise that they will not be losses forever. Finished are the days of hopelessness in the face of death and suffering. This is true comfort, one that does not need to minimize the gravity of our suffering in order to bring healing and hope to our weary souls. This is the answer Jesus offered with His dying words—though they were His dying words, they were by no means His final words.
A Word for Those Grieving from Afar:
Grieving is already an extremely difficult process, and doing it from a distance can be one of the most conflicting and disorienting things to walk through. You are not crazy, and you are not alone. Let yourself grieve the little things too. Don’t be afraid to let your pain and fears have a place—they are not too big for God. Resist the temptation to walk through it alone. Holding onto the hope you know doesn’t mean ignoring the reality of what you’ve lost. God has made space for it all.
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