She was skipping along, smiling, and searching for the moon. Before I could remind her to watch her step, her feet lost their place and the sidewalk reached up and ripped the skin from her knees. She howled. Using the sleeve of my hoodie, I wiped the blood from the legs of my tender-hearted three-year-old and held her tight.
“I’m so sorry. I know it hurts. It’s okay to cry. I’m here.”
I carried her 30-pound frame in my arms for a bit, before inviting her to resume walking hand-in-hand. She agreed to trust the sidewalk again, repeating this mantra until our house came into view, “I fell. My knee hots. I be okay.” Later, after a thorough cleaning, a dab of ointment, and two Monsters, Inc. Band-aids, she announced with a grin, “I all better!”
For the past few weeks, our lives have changed dramatically in a very short period of time. Gone are the days of swinging at the park, engaging with peers at school, singing in worship with our church family, connecting with friends over coffee, and chatting with coworkers at the office where we don actual pants. Here to stay indefinitely are the stretch of days marked by ‘essential work,’ quarantines, and lockdowns.
One day we were skipping along, smiling, marveling at the moon, and the next, our collective knees were (and are) screaming in pain from the unexpected bite of an angry sidewalk. We shake our heads in disbelief, wrestle with the unknowns, and grieve the losses we now face: jobs, childcare, financial stability, a sense of normalcy and routine, and the gravest of all-human lives.
Compounded with those losses is the devastation of having to bid abrupt farewells to graduation and wedding ceremonies, long-awaited trips, and many other meaningful and highly anticipated events. Most of us are painfully aware of our privilege, especially as we consider the unhoused, the immunocompromised, children in abusive homes with no reprieve, single parents trying to navigate working from home while educating tweens, and others whose needs are far greater than our own. It all hurts, doesn’t it?
In the midst of this unexpected, unusually difficult, and overwhelming time, I am strangely comforted by the language found in the Psalms of lament. These particular psalms follow a basic structure that begins with complaint (to God), includes petition (for divine rescue), and ends with praise (to God.) I am currently reading through and meditating on Psalm 77, written by Asaph, a well-known musician and prophet who lived during the time of David.
For the first ten verses, Asaph rails against God, lamenting the good ol’ days when God seemed so close and full of compassion. Asaph ends his complaint in Psalm 77:10b, “...the Most High has turned his hand against me.” ( New Living Translation) The writer’s vulnerability in this chapter reflects his trust in a God who is more than able to handle honest words and breaking hearts.
In verse 11, Asaph begins his petition as he reflects on the divine intervention of the past, as if reminding God that he can offer deliverance again. The poet-musician ends his psalm with praise for God’s faithfulness and redemption.
Before Asaph could petition God for help and praise God for his enduring love in times of past distress, he had to acknowledge the difficulties of his present reality. He needed to face his current pain before he could seek the One who would offer his presence and redemption through it. There was no skipping ahead, no shortcut, no Cliffs Notes version to bypass the darker parts of the story. First the complaint, then the petition, then the praise.
First the skinned knees, then the cries for help, then the eventual relief in God’s presence. There can be no movement toward healing without first admitting there is a wound from which we need to heal.
In the heartache that comes with overwhelming loss, especially in this season, may we release our need to plug tear ducts with spiritual platitudes and plastic smiles. May we refuse to stifle our grief. May we allow ourselves to feel the sting without rushing to slap a Band-aid on a wound that begs to be seen.
Like Asaph, may we take the time to lament, to examine our individual and collective losses. May we hold each other (virtually, of course) in the midst of it and remind each other as often as needed, “I’m so sorry. I know it hurts. It’s okay to cry. You’re not alone.”
This may have many of us feeling like we're living in the "Saturday" between Jesus’s death and resurrection. Personally, between online schooling, trying to figure out all my son's therapies that he's missing, and assessing our financial future, I have been walking through these Psalms of lament, but haven’t quite brought myself to look yet to the resurrection that gives us such great hope. Thank God for that hope - and that he can lead me there even through my lament.
ABOUT OUR BLOGGER
In the midst of writing and maintaining the trifecta of marriage, home and community, Katie is grateful for strong coffee, belly laughs, good books, and loyal friends. She and her husband of 17 years -- her co-warrior and confidant -- have four children. Two came to them through adoption and one has the gift of Down syndrome.
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