14 years.
It still hurts.
I would be lying if I told you it didn’t.
This year was unlike any other year. This year was a year that the bulletproof vest got taken off. This was the year that honesty became a part of my story one more.
I wrote earlier this year about how I lost the art of storytelling over the course of time, how I covered the pain with pretty words and the right biblical phrases. But I think this year I have learned how to come out of hiding and be authentic again- the process of making a U-turn and walking down a completely different path was restarting the grieving process all over again. But that is exactly what I needed to do because I realized I had never really started that journey, but instead just went ahead and claimed victory.
But here is the thing about grief….
It is not a race you have to win. There isn’t a victory lap. We have so adapted this idea of always wanting to win, we do it with everything in life. But life isn’t about crossing the finishing line, it is just about hitting the mile markers. It is just about always moving forward.
Maybe you are on mile one.
Maybe you are on mile ninety.
Maybe you are at the starting line.
Maybe you have fallen down.
Maybe you have been trying to make it to the next mile marker for months.
It’s okay.
Wherever you are today, it’s okay.
I was eight when my dad died. Take it from me; at eight you cannot grasp the idea of death, especially of a parent. Yes, I look back and remember certain days. I remember moments when I had melt downs as a kid. I remember the day my dad died. But now, at twenty-two, I am finally seeing how it truly affects people. It’s like a gust of wind came through with all the things I never saw, realized, or felt. It completely knocked me down. But it was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. Because being knocked down, put me on my face, and there is no better posture to be in.
I thought being in a full on sprint was the best thing I could do in order to be productive for the sake of the gospel, but I had it all wrong….
I was not in shape to “run the race” because I saw the race as a competition- as a way I could prove myself, and show my goodness. But I have seen the best part of the race really is the starting line, because it is there that Jesus stands- fully aware of all the broken pieces of our heart, telling us to hand Him them to Him. It is then, and only then He can truly send us on our way.
We wonder why the race gets so hard to run sometimes. I think it’s because instead of going back to the starting line and handing over some weights that are slowing us down, in our pride we keep trying to hike on.
That’s what I did.
I had so much doubt, confusion, expectations, anger, regret, and uncertainty that was rooted in losing my dad. But I was trying to run with it all because I couldn’t dare still need time to deal with this.
You are not on a timer. There is not a clock ticking in the background. Jesus would rather you come to Him, even if it is 14 years later, lay down your burdens, and start fresh compared to anything else.
Life is not a stage. You can lower the curtain, take off the mask, and stop performing. Think of it this way: would you rather go on stage during the middle of a concert and meet a singer? Or would you rather wait until the show is over and get to go backstage and actually meet them?
God doesn’t want the stage version of you and people don’t need the stage version of you.
People need the you that is willing to say 14 years later that you still miss your dad.
People need the you that is willing to say you are still struggling with (fill in the blank).
People need the you that is willing to say sometimes it is still hard.
People need you.
Why? Because someone like me is out there trying to march to the soundtrack of “To struggle is to show lack of faith.”
But that is such a lie. To struggle is not to show a lack of faith. Go read the psalms and take a peek into how David felt at times. David was called a man after God’s heart. His identity did not change, even when he said things like, “But I cry to you for help, LORD; in the morning my prayer comes before you. Why, Lord, do you reject me and hide your face from me” (Psalm 88:13-14)
Honestly I miss my dad more now than I ever have. I wish he were here more now than I ever have. I wish I could have a conversation with him more now than I ever have. But I am realizing that instead of trying to fight those feelings I need to instead to give myself permission to miss him. Because you are allowed to miss them, whoever that might be for you. It’s allowed to hurt. You are allowed to hurt.
How do I know this? Because I think about the story of Lazarus.
John 11:32-35
[When Mary reached the place where Jesus was and saw him, she fell at his feet and said, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled. 3“Where have you laid him?” he asked. “Come and see, Lord,” they replied. Jesus wept.]
Jesus didn’t tell Mary to get up and get her act together. He didn’t express disappointment when Mary said, “if only you had been here.” Instead He was deeply moved by her pain, even to the point of tears. The Son of God moved to tears. He wept with her.
I like to think that this was God telling us, “I get it. I see how it affects you.”
Granted, I know the story of Lazarus has a different outcome than my story did, but it doesn’t change the truth that Jesus is not disappointed by your tears, and He isn’t disappointed in the honest cry from our hearts. Even if it is you wishing the He would have showed up like Mary did.
14 years.
5110 days.
Everyday Jesus has been enough. Everyday He brought me through. Some days, I really didn’t think I would make it. But here I am, writing to you to make sure you know that you have permission to be right where you are. You have permission because God is that good. He is so good that He lets us move at the pace we need to. He lets us feel how we feel.
So feel it, feel it all.
I wonder if the boy with the five loaves and two fish stood there in all his innocence, as a child, wondering how Jesus was going to use what he had. I bet he probably did because I know I did. But the same thing Jesus said to the disciples that day, “gather the pieces, let nothing be wasted” is the same thing He says to us. That’s what He does, He uses the pieces. He uses the broken places of our hearts. He doesn’t let any of it go waste.
Today marks 14 years since my dad went to be with the Lord. As an eight-year-old, I didn’t know how God was going to use that, but He did and He does. He keeps saying gather the pieces. He keeps showing me that nothing goes wasted. A piece only comes to be by breaking the whole. If He is breaking you, take heart….
He is making pieces and the pieces never go to waste.
