Shortly after my son lost his battle with leukemia my husband expressed his desire to begin a Grief Share group. And I mean, not just begin one, but lead one. “Are you kidding me?” was my no hesitation, immediate, and impulsively spontaneous reply. “Not over my dead body! Let alone my son’s.” I was having a hard enough time accepting the fact that my son was gone let alone being part of a support group where I was going to have to … lead others through their grief.
I watched the training video just to appease my husband. If body language could speak, mine was screaming with tantrum resistance and utter refusal. As the video played, I sat across the room from my husband glaring at the screen in a fetal position with my hands clenched, swiping my stubborn tears as they slowly trickled down my cheeks.
My struggle was not simply in leading a grief group. I hadn’t even gone to church the entire year my son was sick—a difficult feat when you’re a pastor’s wife. Instead, due to his compromised immunity, I chose to remain at home with him. He became my primary ministry focus. And maintaining a semblance of order in my household was my past-time. What was it even like to go out in public again after a year of sterility and solitude? Apparently there was no time to give it any thought. Ministry called. There were people to attend to and a new associate and wife to help navigate. So we returned to pastor our church two short weeks after the funeral.
I wasn’t really sure what to expect as I re-entered the church building. I unassumingly took my regular (pre-cancer) pew—three from the front on the left side. Whether real or perceived, I felt every eye on me. There was almost an audible gasp and stifled mutters “There she is.” “I wonder how she’s doing?” “How is she feeling?” “Is she crying?” “Why isn’t she crying?” “Didn’t she just lose her son?” Even complete strangers who’d begun attending during the year of my absence inquired, “Who is she?” “Oh that must be the pastor’s wife!”
How could I encourage someone to hold onto hope while any hope I had was gone? How on earth could my story be one of hope? One woman's simple response still rings clearly in my heart, “Lisa, you don’t understand. The fact that you’re able to stand after losing your son is hope!”
To add salt to my gaping wound, a woman sat down beside me after the service and shared an idea she obviously thought was brilliant. “There’s a woman from another church whose child was recently diagnosed with leukemia. I think you’d be the perfect person to reach out and minister to her.” Had she completely lost her mind? Did she know that this was my first week back at church in a year? How on earth could I be of any use to someone who was just beginning the journey I’d finished… unsuccessfully? How could I encourage someone to hold onto hope while any hope I had was gone?
With as much grace as I could muster, I replied, “I’m not sure how much good I’ll be able to be given the fact that my story doesn’t have a happy ending.” If I was ever going to be able to attend church again, I’d have to find a new seat.
The next week I arrived at church as the first song was being sung and made sure my path was clear before unsuspectingly slipping into the back of the church. A woman I knew was sitting there and, when she saw my look of panic, graciously stepped into the aisle and allowed me to slip into the pew. Then she quietly let me be. The next week, the same thing happened. The only thing different was she had a box of Kleenex waiting for me. From that day on, she would save me a seat and we followed the same routine. Was it providential that her name was “Joy”? I’d weep my way through the service. Then bolt for the door before the end of the final song, daring anyone to get in my way.
Panic attacks! Who knew this people-person-plus would ever be afraid of people? When I was asked how I was doing I would say, “I find joy in the back pew of the church!” Both to assure them I was fine in a way that wouldn’t rouse more questions, and to keep me from saying something I’d later regret.
God’s message of hope came out of the death of His own son, Jesus. And soon it became clear to me that I, too, represented the hope of life after death.
Soon thereafter we began our first Grief Share group of a dozen people grieving a variety of losses—parent, spouse, friend. At my husband’s encouragement, I accompanied him to our weekly meetings. Every week I sat with my arms crossed and held back my tears as much as possible so that I wouldn’t create a scene. What was I doing here anyway? I could barely breathe, let alone talk. And why did I have to grieve in public?
As the weeks and months unfolded, I gradually discovered my answer. I slowly re-entered my speaking ministry. Given that I was still experiencing panic attacks and fearful of public places, I made sure to bring along a good friend to be my bodyguard. Not only did she provide me with company, she kept track of details my grieving mind still couldn’t contain.
My first speaking engagement was a scant six months after my son’s death. I was asked to give a ten minute version of our journey through Ben’s leukemia. My paranoid self was calmed that morning when I read Isaiah 60:1-2, “Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. See, darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you.” I sensed I needed to shine God’s “light”—offering hope to a people living in darkness. Did I say hope?
Speaking of hope, one woman’s conference gave my story the title, “Hope for the Journey.” I wasn’t sure how “hope” had a part in any of it given the way our story ended, but I didn’t tamper with the committee’s choice. Every speaking engagement I was asked to share about my loss, I sobbed my way through. But the title stuck.
After one particular engagement where I shared my hope for the journey and struggled to get through my message, I had the opportunity to speak to a woman and expressed my sense of betrayal. How on earth could my story be one of hope? Her simple response still rings clearly in my heart, “Lisa, you don’t understand. The fact that you’re able to stand after losing your son is hope!”
Out of our experience we will have opportunities to make our mess our message. Treasures in darkness. That's what God does. He blesses us even in the dark. And uses our pain for His purposes… against all hope!
That was it! That’s what I’d been missing. God’s message of hope came out of the death of His own son, Jesus. It became clear to me that I, too, represented the hope of life after death.
Like it or not, every one of us will at some point in our lives be part of a group we never imagined. God takes our ashes and our hurts and our journeys to intersect with others along life’s road—helping and walking alongside people we may never have met otherwise. And out of our experience we will have opportunities to make our mess our message. Treasures in darkness. That's what God does. He blesses us even in the dark. And uses our pain for His purposes… against all hope!
