…Like I said, I’m pushing one seed into the dirt each day. Counting down to Christmas. Counting up my blessings. Counting on His hope.
Day 11: I dig into the dirt with my fingernails and drop the seed into the darkness.
But the truth is, for as noble as all this advent planting may seem, I want to crawl into the hole alongside that tiny seed and pull the dirt up over the both of us.
Hole hiding is one of grief’s greatest temptations. The darkness beckons. Pity and woe are masterful enticers. They promise to stay, to bind and hold me there alongside them. They are in it for the long haul. Tenacity at its finest.
But, I can’t go there. I cannot crawl into that hole and I cannot hide because I know that today, somebody else’s sister will hear suicide screaming into the other end of the line.
And someone else will have a coroner and a casket come right there in the midst of their Christmas.
I cannot hide because just last week I stood among a group of “survivors”.
I cannot hide because they are not hiding and tragedy tied us all together, right there in the middle of the courtyard.
“This is our daughter,” a woman sobbed, pointing to a picture on the wall behind her. “She killed herself three months ago.”
My heart plummeted onto the cement and splattered out all over. I know her pain. I know how hard the grief bites in month three. And I know that for as much as she is hurting, she hasn’t even felt the worst of it…yet.
“My son went for a ride on his motorcycle. He was run over by a drunk driver.”
Her words are met by another mother’s knowing nod. Before the night is over, she too will stand and tell us that her child was run down while riding a bicycle and that the driver fled the scene.
“My son was shot and killed on the interstate.”
I reach for another tissue when what I really need is a towel.
The stories continue.
“My brother was murdered by his wife.”
“The pieces of my daughter’s body haven’t been found yet. It’s been three years.”
“This is my son,” another woman says, clutching a photograph. He completed suicide. He was our only child.”
That’s it! I can’t take it! I want to bolt out into the parking lot, climb into the car, and wail my guts out. So does everyone else.
But we all stay right there, strangely riveted by the sacredness of the moment.
Our snot and sobs crescendo into the night sky, joining in the chorus of a million others and I wonder how we can even stand.
But here we are.
Standing.
We are all still standing.
So, I must push the dirt into the hold and cover up the seed, knowing that for as much as I want to stay buried…
I can’t.
I cannot stay buried…
Because He didn’t.
I cannot hide…
Because people are bleeding out all over…
And they must know that all this pain and heartache is covered by the blood of the One who bled out for us all.
“Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him” (1 Thessalonians 5:13-14).
for those who weep 