To grieve is to enter a different part of life’s rhythm, one we do not seek nor often understand. This can be especially true with the loss of a child. As I read this verse from today’s Gospel, I am torn by the reality that I must allow grieving to run its course and accompany those grieving through a spiritually deep connection of caring and compassionate prayer, and physically with my many shed tears.
I know that to love our Father with all my heart does not mean that this heart will never break. Sometimes loving you with all our heart means bringing you the broken heart exactly as it is. And today, Father, I lay my broken heart at the foot of the cross with your broken heart for what humanity did to your Son.
I take solace in knowing that you entered our human suffering in your Son’s crucifixion and the anguish it created in seeing his wounded body. While I cling to the hope of your compassion through its display in your Son’s resurrection, I am reassured; but Father, I am not fine with this, yet I am still turning to you.
To love you, Father, with all one’s mind does not mean discovering a satisfactory explanation for this loss. It means refusing to conclude that suffering has disproved your love for us.
To love you with all one’s soul does not mean possessing spiritual strength. It means allowing the deepest part of myself, even the wounded and questioning part, to remain open to your love.
To love you, Father, with all my heart does not mean loving you without tears, lots and lots of tears. It means allowing the very essence of love, sorrow, anger, longing, and hope to become part of one honest prayer. And I give you my tears, hopes, and anguish in this honest prayer today for the healing of our broken hearts.
