I saw her in the crowd before she saw me. When she turned I knew our eyes would meet with recognition at first, then shared understanding—sorrow meeting sorrow—an  undesired fellowship. 

Her hand halted its expression in midair. Her animated chat suspended, the words hung for a second. She finished her conversation, laid a hand on her colleagues’ arm, and made her way to me. 

She embraced me, like a mother would a child. The giant esteem that I had for her had caused me to forget how frail and tiny she was. My taut emotions weakened to thin ice, and I pulled back, unable to look up for some time. 

“Sylvia,” she whispered. “How are you?”

I searched beneath the gentle blue eyes to find that place where we united. 

“Teach me,” my words stumbled out. “Teach me how to lose my daughter.” 

Surely this godly woman who’d lived through the horrific murder of her own son could tell me how to keep from drowning in the waters of grief that suffocated me. 

Her eyes widened, startled, and she drew a sharp intake of breath.  

“I can’t do that,” she shook her head. She took a step backward. I thought she would walk away, but instead she reached toward me and gripped both my arms. 

“No one can. God will teach you, one day at a time.” She spoke with earnest and passionate sadness. 

Blue eyes searched blue, then she bowed her head and left. 

So where was 2 Cor. 1:3-4 in that?  “…God comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.” 

I thought our sufferings gave wisdom how to comfort others.  

However, sometimes the people who have suffered intense pain find comforting others painful. I wanted more than my friend gave me, yet what she did say was correct. I didn’t walk alone. Christ journeyed with me. 

The conference we were both attending was a mixture of older cross-cultural workers and younger missionaries in one pool. “Cross-pollination,” I called it. Different parts of the globe, different ministries, and hundreds of stories blended together. 

“A sweet time of fellowship,” the elderly crowd called it.

“A reminder that others have been here before,” young missionaries affirmed.

I wished to be anywhere but there. A fog clouded my brain. Tears like a raging river built a dam inside my chest, and it hurt to breathe. Feeling like I walked down a tightening hall of great heroes of the faith listed in Hebrews 11, I made my way through the groups gathered to talk about the good times of Ecuador, Brazil and Mali. 

“I feel invisible,” I thought. I felt the sympathetic glances as I passed, sensed the turn of heads, the pause of sentences.

Grief is intensely personal, almost as if assigned by name. Each road is unique. 

These are my truths about grief. 

1.  Hurts hurt more.

Experiencing grief is like wearing raw meat. Well-intentioned words and actions may hurt. In fact, I feel a heightened sensitivity to deeper hurt by others. 

2.  Comparisons and envy ramp up.

I look at others and compare my situation to theirs. I don’t want to, but I do. I watch children romp with their mother, and it is like a knife in my heart. 

3.  Petty things are still an issue.

When life tilts, the unfairness and loss can make me spiteful and mean. I am not emotionally balanced. I may take it out on others.  

4.  Survival mode breeds self-centeredness.

I want the pain to go away. I need sleep. I want the life I had. I do not want the future I’m constrained to live. I am like a drowning person gasping for air and grabbing at anything around me to stay alive. 

5.  Grief does not make me holy.

Only Jesus can do that. Even when everything is stripped away, I still want to appear better than I really am. I want people to think I’m strong, have faith, and that I’m victorious. The truth is, I am so broken I do not believe I can ever be repaired. 

6.  Relationships are tested.

The bond I desire from others may be elusive, like grasping wind, perplexing and frustrating.  In fact, the very people that I need the deepest connection with may be the ones that create the sharpest tension.

7.  Faith is tested.

Everything I have believed is on the line. It can either draw me closer to God than I’ve ever been or it can begin to crack my foundation. I realize this can freak out people. I desperately need to be able to have a safe place to voice this, so that I can strengthen my faith.  

8.  God is active in our trial. Satan is too.

Satan is not a gentleman. He chops away at all I have ever believed, been taught, or imparted to others. At life’s physical end, his attacks grow stronger not weaker. He wants above all in the face of eternity to damage and destroy faith. 

9.  Practical things still must be dealt with.

The car needs to be filled with gas. Meals need to be made. Bills need to be paid. I feel like the world must stop. I resent such trivialities. My life is forever altered, but I don’t have the luxury of stepping off the carousel. 

10.  Grief controls.

I am trying to get over this debilitating sorrow. I am trying to respond well. I am trying to be who you expect me to be. I am trying to not embarrass you with my tears. But, darkness has gripped my heart and my mind and although I try to loosen its grip, I cannot. 

The truth about grief is that it stinks, but the beauty of it is that God shines brightest in darkness. My soul will carry things inexpressible, teachings of the Spirit that mere words could never communicate. My awe of God has exploded. 

I am most grateful, not for the event that brought my sorrow, but for the God who knew me and loved me through such sorrow. Three truths wrap themselves within my fabric as a daily reminder of the beauty birthed from the pain.

• Surrender to the will of the Father unlocks a glimpse of His vastness.
• The eternal trumps the temporal, the spiritual trumps the physical, and the unseen trumps the seen.
• There is never a circumstance in which I cannot worship. 

No amount of preparation could have readied me for the suffocating quagmire of suffering. Nor could a plethora of wise words have shown me its glorious richness.

If someday grief’s eye catches mine in a crowded room, I might remember the ten things experience taught me, or the three truths for which I am grateful, but I’m not sure a heart fresh with sadness could hear or benefit from my backward look. 

However, I could say, “He will teach you. You are not alone.”

The absolute surety that God is the Master Teacher who walks in the deepest of valleys is the greatest gift I could ever offer. 

One day at a time.