Grief, Hope, and Good Friday

Grief is disturbing. It interrupts your train of thought and messes with well-established routines. Upsetting, soul-ripping grief changes your perspective. What you see in the mirror. What you expect to find in others. It sneaks up on you and whispers confusion in your ear. Grief perches itself on the headboard of the bed and drains your energy while you’re sleeping, leaving you more exhausted than the day before. 

Grief is the unwanted companion you need to hang out with in order to heal. 

It constantly changes its appearance. Once you’ve figured it out, it morphs into something else. Like a tidal wave. Or an annoying sound. A tight band around your chest. Minuscule earthquakes that make your knees quiver. A forceful blow to the side of the head before the fog sets in. It’s the hard work-out that goes on for weeks and months. Or even the treacherous tears that follows the flash of a good memory. 

Grief is the price you pay for loving. 

On a mission

I am blessed to receive messages from all over the world. There are hidden heroes in the Finnish forests as well as in American cul-de-sacs. Wonder women work undercover in Singapore and South-Africa, and Supermen reside in Australia and Canada. There are people all over the world working diligently on their mission: praying for a miracle. 

Their letters are soaked with grief and worry. Will their son ever live to graduate? Will their little girl remember her daddy once he’s gone? How about the single mother of three children? Who will love them if she no longer can fight her disease? There are grandmothers praying through the night for the bedridden grandchild and the exhausted parents. Young women who wonder if they’ll live to get married. 

There’s the warzone grief. The grief for the life that’s just too hard to live, but you would not possibly want to be without. 

Then there’s the void. The empty arms. The well-worn sweater that you can’t bring yourself to throw away. How you glance at your watch to see if it’s time to take her to school. Still. After all this time. The smell of his favorite burger. The scent of her conditioner. That song on the radio. The insecure smiles from the kids in youth group as you drive by church on a Friday night. 

It’s the void in your heart that you will have to live with. Always.

For a while, life was good. Uncomplicated. You surrounded yourself with family and celebrated with friends. You were grateful. Your prayers were thanks and praises, honor and commitment. Pass the wine, please.

Then came Good Friday. And anguished, you saw how everything had changed. 

Your hope died. And as the veil tore and the stones split, so did your dreams. Weren’t we just sharing bread and wine? What ever happened to a future and a hope?

A personal message

Dear friend, I’m writing this to remind you that your victory was won on Good Friday. 

That no matter your struggle, your battle has been won. Don’t let the enemy tell you otherwise.

Your loss may be painful, but it’s temporary nonetheless. Grieve. Cry. Mourn. But know that joy comes in the morning.

Even when grief threatens to kill you, remember that you gained life on Good Friday. Your name is written in the Book of Life. Christ in you is still the hope of glory.

Hope lives in you and the enemy is terrified of it. 

It’s the best of Fridays.

Author Marian Nygard

I live in Norway with my husband, Thomas. Together we have four children. We are passionate about words, music, thankfulness and fun, not necessarily in that order. In addition to being an author, I love to tell stories and I am constantly looking for God’s fingerprint in everyday life.

More posts by Marian Nygard

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