A TIME TO LAMENT
*This post originally appeared on the HTC Blog
I woke up at 1:30 a.m. just outside of Dublin, Ireland, on March 12th to my phone buzzing like an angry beehive. At least a dozen texts and WhatsApp messages greeted me, all frantically telling me I needed to get on the first flight back to the United States. The president had just made a confusing announcement that in 48 hours a travel ban would go into place for those coming back from Europe. Suddenly I knew my trip—the one I’d planned for months, the one that was supposed to end the following week in Barcelona—was about to be over.
On top of that, I was sick. I had been sick for a week. Even though I had consulted the National COVID-19 hotline in Ireland, and they had assured me I didn't meet the criteria for testing, I was concerned. I had a terrible cough; I had been really run-down and had likely had a fever. After purchasing a very expensive flight, saying hurried goodbyes to a few of our travel mates who decided to stay, and rushing to the airport, we were on our way home, and the chaos was about to begin in earnest.
The World Health Organization declared COVID-19 a global pandemic. Most of my other travel mates started showing symptoms of the coronavirus, and I made every effort known to man to get tested. The following week was turbulent. One day I couldn't get tested. The next day I could. One day I was told my test results would not be read. The next day they were. In between, we found out that two of the people I had traveled with tested positive. So I was beyond shocked when my results came back negative. And I was confused. Even the ER doctor had said, “Given your symptoms and exposure to positive cases, if your test comes back negative, I would think it to be a false negative.” What was there to do? I continued quarantining. I took medicine to control my symptoms. I communicated with everyone I knew, and I got to work from my sickbed.
I was confused about the virus, tired from all of the ups and downs, disappointed that my trip was cut short, and suddenly busy with Zoom calls and work rhythms to figure out in this new social order. The previous few weeks had taken their toll. But what I didn’t realize was that beyond the chaos of the trip, and the illness, and the testing, there were far deeper things going on in my heart. One night, about two weeks into my quarantine, I started thinking about all the little things I missed. I missed hugs from my family and friends. I missed walking to the “L” and commuting downtown every day. I missed our office, even the stark white room that I hate meeting in! I missed laughing with my coworkers and sitting together around our conference table. I missed the projects I had been in the middle of working on. And I started to cry. Uncontrollably. For a long time.
That was the night I identified an actual emotion—beyond just tired and confused. I was—no I am—sad. I am deeply, deeply sad. Grief has started coming in waves that I can’t reason my way out of. At some point, I realized that I had just been waiting to get back to my “normal life.” I wanted to believe that this was a momentary interruption from what I was doing, or what I’m supposed to be doing. But maybe I am waiting for something that will never happen. Maybe I will never go back to my “normal life.” And maybe this isn’t an interruption, maybe this is life now. The thoughts roll over and over in my mind and I don’t know how to make sense of them. I want to go back to how life was.
The other day I happened to catch an article in The Harvard Business Review called, "That Discomfort You're Feeling is Grief." And I actually laughed because I resonated, and I wondered how many others needed to be reminded of what that feeling is called. So many of us are in survival mode right now and have no space to identify how we’re really doing. It is a helpful article if you want to read it, but I think what we actually need, what I know I need, is to cry out to the Lord with my grief. Much like busyness and confusion only masked my deeper feelings of sadness and grief, the self-soothing and dreaming of better days, which the world tells us to do, only offer shallow solutions and momentary respite. The Lord wants us to cry out to Him—from the deep, dark places in our heart (Ps. 18:6). The places we’re afraid to go.
I'm reminded of the biblical call to lament. An entire book of laments, songs of grief, has a place in the Word of God. I don't do this well, mostly because I don't want to be sad. I want to move on and get to happier times or find ways to fix that which is painful. But, I think this is a time to lament—a time to rend our proverbial garments, put on our sackcloth, and sit in our grief for more than a minute. It’s a necessary time to bring to the surface all of the things I'm afraid of, all of the things I'm sad about, all of the things I feel I've lost. While I know it’s not objectively true, some days everything feels as if it’s been lost. And there is much to grieve. I weep every time I see a news story about someone dying alone. Friends and family unable to be by their side. Funerals performed over dozens of people at once with no one at their graveside. Mothers and fathers separated from their families, so they don’t risk spreading the disease they may have been exposed to from working as a doctor, a grocery clerk, an Uber driver, the list goes on. I can’t even begin to think about the unemployment numbers and economic fears. And then there are the personal losses—the friends I desperately want to see face-to-face and hug, the plans to see my family at Easter that won’t happen, the fears about my finances, my parents’ finances, my parents’ health, and the deep, dark fear that things will never be okay again.
It is a time to lament. It is a time to bring all of these things before the Lord and be reminded that He hears our prayers, He holds our tears, He is grieved over this brokenness too. Scripture can give words to our pain, even when we struggle to do so ourselves. In his book, Dark Clouds, Deeper Mercy, Mark Vroegop calls lament “a minor-key language” for our suffering. About one-third of the book of Psalms are psalms of lament. Many give helpful words to our confusion, fears, and questions and remind us that it is okay to ask the Lord along with David, “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” (Ps. 13:1a)
Other writers are also acknowledging that this is not a time for quick or trite answers, but a call to wait and lament. Mark Vroegop has been a helpful guide as I try to learn to do this. He points out the pattern in the lament psalms: turn to God, bring our complaint, ask boldly for help, and choose to trust. He reminds us that:
The practice of lament is one of the most theologically informed actions a person can take. While crying is fundamental to humanity, Christians lament because they know God is sovereign and good. Christians know his promises in the Scriptures. We believe in God’s power to deliver. We know the tomb is empty, and Jesus is alive.
I’m trying not to rush the process of grieving right now. It is good and right to name the brokenness and pain all around us. We should be angry and deeply grieved about death and dying. We should long for all things to be healed and made whole. It is, in fact, the hope of the season we are in. There are no easy answers, no quick pathways through grief, but there is a risen Savior who is with us. As we sit in the darkness of Lent, may we embrace this time to lament while simultaneously anticipating the resurrection hope of Easter.