We Are Never Alone

I was lonely too. That realization struck me when my friend mentioned feeling alone in the midst of the busyness of life. Why would she feel alone? I knew she had a flexible job, a supportive husband, and great kids, plus I was her friend. And why did I understand how she felt, not in a casual I-know-how-you-are-feeling kind of way, but in a socked-in-the-gut understanding that came as soon as she said the word?

“Lonely” isn't a word I have spent a lot of time with. I asked Jesus into my life at a very young age, so for as long as I can remember, I have known that I was never alone. I boldly traveled the world knowing He would never leave me. I knew if friends betrayed me or ditched me, He was always faithful.

I dug deep to remember another season when I had felt deeply lonely. I went back to my sophomore year of college. My fifteen-year-old sister had died only months before. When the fall semester started, I was in a place that I loved, surrounded by people who were great friends, but I was desperately lonely. I knew my friends cared for me, but none of them knew what I was going through. My world had changed. Though I was confident that my sister knew Jesus and I would see her again one day, my heart was ripped open by the hole her death had left.

I realized my friend and I were lonely, not because we didn't have great friends and family, but because over the past year, we both had lost a part of ourselves. We both were mourning the death of someone very dear to us who grounded us, encouraged us, and listened without judging. Someone who had been a rock in our lives, who was a part of our routine, and who had made us who we are. When we lost them, we lost a part of ourselves.

Grief has filtered my daily moments, so I have been more aware of friends who have lost their loved ones. I texted a friend through the night as her mom agonizingly took her last breath. Three friends have lost parents or grandparents to dementia or Alzheimer's. I sat at the hospice bedside of my vibrant friend from book club who was struck with an aneurysm. In just the past six months, I have hugged two friends who lost their sons in vehicle accidents. The grief and loss are overwhelming.

You wonder how you can go on, and yet in the midst of grief, you do. You get up, get dressed, go to work, feed the kids, and even see friends. Lysa Terkeurst posted on Instagram that "sorrow and celebration can coexist together in a heart quite authentically." I get that. But surrounded by celebration, sometimes the loneliness is like a knife. The loss feels the strongest because they are not there.

It is logical to assuage our loneliness by reaching out and trying to fill the gap in our hearts. If we look to people, food, work, or busyness to heal our hearts we will be disappointed. None satisfy. We will still be lonely. I have friends who got divorced after a parent died. Feeling like their spouse didn't understand their loss created a wedge in their relationship. Parents who lose children are statistically more likely to get divorced. The pain and grief are numbing. To expect our spouse, kids, or friends to understand is unrealistic, so our unmet expectations magnify the pain in our hearts. No other person can know what we have lost because in losing our loved one, we have lost a part of ourselves.

Although no person can really understand our pain, Jesus can. When the burden is overwhelming, He will carry me and my heartbreak. "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light" (Matthew 11: 28-30 NIV).

I feel lonely right now, but I am relying on the truth that I learned as a little girl—I am not alone. Jesus is with me. He promised never to leave me nor forsake me. Since He knows my heart, He knows the part that is missing. He holds me close and understands. He is acquainted with grief. He wept when He heard that His friend Lazarus had died. He knows the pain of loss. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, He is with me.