Grief is a Lonely Path

It was a testing week. Started hard and fast, continued at a smart pace with surmountable obstacles, until Thursday when tragedy struck.

A young friend was cruelly struck down – an acute asthma attack leading to her demise within minutes. This community was left reeling. She was such a vibrant part of so many lives, how could she be gone?

In the turmoil and shock of the first few minutes of receiving the news, much happened, people reacted differently, and I left the meeting I was at feeling utterly bereft, not only over having to process her death, but the lack of what I perceived as needed support from those I thought would give it. Never surmise!

Then both my sons went awol. One lonely tick on my WhatsApp messages. They both enjoy remote breaks, taught by me, their mother, so who am I to be surprised? I am not, but I get cross when they do not let me know when they are going to be out of signal range. I am an asthmatic, so this death cut close to the bone. I am not fearful, but I am aware of how brief mortality can be, and how quickly our time here can end, and what that means and entails for those left behind.

Feelings of anger, indignation, resentment, and despair came and went in waves whenever I stopped doing what needed doing. At this age, I know that these feelings need to be resolved sooner rather than later, so I went to the only place I know for solace, on my knees before my Saviour Jesus and my Father in heaven.

After some thirty-six hours of chewing, and praying, and listening, chewing some more, praying again – “I don’t want to feel like this! I want Your heart, Your wisdom, Your peace, please Lord Jesus!”, I found myself whispering: I don’t want to be one of those who saw You hungry and did not feed You.

I was at my kitchen sink, washing the dishes – why do I eat? Or drink tea? I no sooner have all the crockery and cutlery clean, when I start imbibing and ingesting food and start the whole process all over again – when I had the epiphany.

Many years ago I was in ministry with a precious sister, Lulu Sibandze, in my homeland of Eswatini. We used to regularly sally forth to an impoverished area of the country, taking what food we had managed to gather to assist grandmothers who were struggling under the weight of many children orphaned by the HIV/Aids pandemic that struck the country late last century.

Mathew 25 vv 35,36 was our guiding scripture:

“For I was hungry and you gave Me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in;

“I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me.”

I suppose somewhere in my head I assumed that because the seasons of our lives change, the guiding principles of lives change, and of course, they do not. That injunction is as real today as it was twenty-five years ago. That is still what drives my heart. My heart. Not necessarily the hearts of those around me.

I have not given that much thought over the past few years, and I needed to go back there, to the roots of my faith in action, to what it looks like and how it plays out.

For me, it is a no-brainer to stop what I am doing when tragedy strikes and do whatever needs to be done for those affected. But not always. Sometimes I am not moved to act, and I need to accept that the same is true of my peers, regardless of what my calling may be.

I don’t believe for one minute that that call is for me alone. I think it is the minimum requirement of service to our King: that we be His hands and feet here on earth. But it comes at a cost, and each of us must count how much we are prepared to invest in this walk of faith that we call Christianity.

A few weeks down the line, what was my takeout from that awful week? I think I understand that grief is a lonely path, no matter how many of us are saddened by loss, I do not feel the same sense of loss that you do because my filters are not your filters. Because of this, I need to tread carefully, not judge how others respond, but make sure I am behaving within the parameters of my own mandate, feeding, and caring for those around me as Christ does for me.

Seldom easy!

Rest easy, young friend, we will laugh together again one day, on a better bench in a happier space.