April 16, Resurrection of the Lord
At grief’s mercy, Mary stays at the site of her loss.
It was a sound like I had never heard. A deep, guttural cry, a groan of deep pain. It sounded both nearby and far off, and I wondered where it was coming from. Then I realized it was coming from me.
It was a Sunday, and I was in church. I had helped lead worship that day, so I was sitting on the dais. Then the pastor invited all who desired healing to come join him for prayer at the altar—and before I knew it, I was out of my seat and halfway there. Normally I would have hesitated, telling myself that, as a minister, I should go only to pray with others who came forward. Or I’d have reminded myself that I was relatively new at this church, and I wouldn’t want strangers to wonder what was wrong with me. But when the call for prayer came, my feet moved faster than my tendency to self-protect.
I was struggling that day; I’d been struggling for months. My husband and I had experienced two miscarriages in six months. I couldn’t pray on my own anymore—I was too angry, too hurt. I’d been doing what I thought was a good job holding it together on the outside—going to work, going to church, showing up. Inside, I was exhausted. I’d never experienced loss like this before, and I didn’t know how to grieve. I wanted healing, less for my body than for my broken heart and busted-up faith, because I was tired of feeling like a shell of myself.
