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Beeping machines, medical supplies, and hospital bags were strewn across the living room. I resented every bit of space they took up in my home and their necessity for my son’s life. Lord, how do we go forward from here? Life must go on. And so my husband returned to work, the kids went off to school, and if one looked at the ticking clock, time did seem to be moving on. But I didn’t know how to move with it.
The adrenaline of attending to a crisis, the outpouring of support from family and friends, and the shuffling of plans and schedules had acted as a buffer. A buffer I loved and dreaded to part with. It is after the emergency, after the long hospital stay, or when the door closes after the last visitor that the magnitude and loneliness of loss are felt. Every look at my son filled me with grief: there was the loss of progress, the loss of ability, and even more, a loss of hope for his future. If only there were a way to take his losses for him.
And isn’t this the way of grief? Grief, that “weight of love” that we carry, bears witness to the value of what has been suffered or lost. Its presence settles on our shoulders and saturates every part of our being, particularly after the event, after the funeral, after the life-altering news. And even in the feeling of abandonment and loneliness, we can whisper with Jeremiah, “This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; his mercies never come to an end” (Lam. 3:21–22). Even in grief. Especially in grief. The Lord takes our losses as His own.
“Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows” (Isa. 53:4). Whether we are blindsided by grief, weary of it, paralyzed by its weight, or even sick to death of it, we are never alone in it. Our elder brother, Jesus Christ, carries not only our personal sorrows but even more, the collective grief and sorrow of His people. He knows the depth to which sin has caused suffering in the world, and He bore the curse of sin on the cross so that even our sorrows will end in restoration instead of devastation. I can scarcely bear the weight of my own grief, yet He carried the world’s. He sweat drops of blood. He cried out on the cross, forsaken in His anguish, so that we would never be forsaken in ours.
We don’t need to cling to grief or resist its reality. Instead, we are free to cling to Jesus through it and take courage—He carries us and personally bears our sorrows. He takes our heavy yoke and settles it on Himself and gives us His, one that is easy, light, and filled with rest (Matt. 11:28–30). And while we follow Him, He is constantly interceding for us, comforting us, and working out our everlasting joy: “And the ransomed of the Lord shall come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain gladness and joy, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away” (Isa. 35:10).