The House Of Mourning
I wondered if there was any way I could back out of going. For days leading up to it, I'd wanted nothing more than to excuse myself and not show up. The dead wouldn't know it. Perhaps those in attendance wouldn't miss me. It would be my seventh memorial service in 2019 - my eighth goodbye since the start of the year. Yes, it was for a former church member. Yes, I knew I probably should pay my respects. But the heart can only ache so much. Can only feel for so much sorrow before it goes numb. I was nearly there.
I tossed and turned in the bed the night before, my body refusing to let me rest in anticipation of what was coming the next day. I knew I had to attend. It was the right thing to do. But I didn't want to. I wanted to be comforted, not to go and comfort somebody else. I wanted to grieve, not to go and enter others' grief. But, in my spirit, I knew that was somehow selfish of me. And I had to ask God for grace to do the hard thing.
These days take so much courage.
As I pulled into the parking lot and saw the hearse outside the front door of the church, I knew death was going to hit me even harder. None of the previous services had been full-on funerals, complete with casket and all. But this one would be. And part of me wanted to run. Wanted to get away from that place. To be done with all this death. To deny the suffering. To escape what has seemingly been thrown in my face time and again this year.
But I walked in.
I took my seat and determined to get through the next hour or so. By grace, I could do this.
Strength in weakness, friend. Just keep telling your one hurting heart those words. For His power is perfected in ones such as you.
A strange thing occurred in that small church building, however. Through the sorrow of all those who were present, eternity was in view. The hope of the life to come was preached. The praise of final victory was celebrated. And it was as if, for a moment, I stopped running. And I took it all in. And then these words from Ecclesiastes came to mind...
I tossed and turned in the bed the night before, my body refusing to let me rest in anticipation of what was coming the next day. I knew I had to attend. It was the right thing to do. But I didn't want to. I wanted to be comforted, not to go and comfort somebody else. I wanted to grieve, not to go and enter others' grief. But, in my spirit, I knew that was somehow selfish of me. And I had to ask God for grace to do the hard thing.
These days take so much courage.
As I pulled into the parking lot and saw the hearse outside the front door of the church, I knew death was going to hit me even harder. None of the previous services had been full-on funerals, complete with casket and all. But this one would be. And part of me wanted to run. Wanted to get away from that place. To be done with all this death. To deny the suffering. To escape what has seemingly been thrown in my face time and again this year.
But I walked in.
I took my seat and determined to get through the next hour or so. By grace, I could do this.
Strength in weakness, friend. Just keep telling your one hurting heart those words. For His power is perfected in ones such as you.
A strange thing occurred in that small church building, however. Through the sorrow of all those who were present, eternity was in view. The hope of the life to come was preached. The praise of final victory was celebrated. And it was as if, for a moment, I stopped running. And I took it all in. And then these words from Ecclesiastes came to mind...
It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house
of feasting, for this is the end of all mankind, and the living will
lay it heart. Sorrow is better than laughter, for by sadness of face
the heart is made glad. The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning...
...Better is the end of a thing than its beginning..." (Ecc. 7:2-4, 8)
We make too much about the pursuit of happiness as an end to itself and perhaps we would rather spend all our time in the house of feasting - as if "the good life" were all that there is. I believe this makes it hard for us to accept seasons of grief. We feel as if we must move through them quickly or must avoid them altogether. But this passage tells us that seasons of sorrow have their place, too. That it is good for us to experience the endings because we see the story in its completion...and we learn. Those yet living are still having their stories written, but those whose loss we mourn can still teach us how to live our stories better. Even in our sadness, we are actually wise to stay awhile in this place, however uncomfortable it may be.
So perhaps happiness is the wrong thing to wish for because it is only a by-product of deeper things learned in the endings. Perhaps laying to heart the lessons learned in sorrow is actually where we discover true joy.
Author and pastor John Piper recently advised, "Eat the fruit of sorrow, even if it's bitter, because this fruit has nutrients in it that you can't get any other way... We draw nutrients from seasons of sorrow that result in health to the bones of our faith..." And who doesn't want to get stronger in their belief anyway?! So if this is the only way, then so be it.
After all of the time spent at the house of mourning in recent months, there's many other places I'd rather be, but just maybe this time is a hidden gift to me? I sit here in the darkness, Lord, and wait for Thee.
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