Written by Holly Paulette

I stopped myself from reading the news a few weeks into the COVID pandemic. Up in the night nursing my newborn, I initially tried to keep myself from dozing off by scrolling through the headlines, but I was sleeping terribly the rest of the night. The horror stories of loved ones dying alone in hospital beds was too much for me to handle, so I ignored the news, kept up-to-date on the top stories from my husband, prayed for our world, and focused on what was going on in our home.

Ignorance was bliss until it wasn’t. Until what was going on in the world collided with what was going on in our home. Until the loved one in the hospital bed was my Grandma.

In a matter of hours, she went from no symptoms to double viral pneumonia. We all took turns FaceTiming her while she was still conscious and calling her as she slept. Gracious doctors and nurses kept us as updated as they could, but we were left to sit and wait, helplessly envisioning the matriarch of our family alone in a hospital bed, checked in on through windows and masked front-liners. And within a few days, my beautiful, God-fearing grandmother was gone, leaving behind six kids, 16 grandkids, 11 great-grandkids, and a wake of grief too heavy to comprehend.

As the coronavirus death toll rises daily, there’s an untraceable demographic rising, too. Mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and sons and daughters and husbands and wives and grandkids and friends, all navigating uncharted territories of grieving deaths during a pandemic.

Our culture has set up a preferred standard for the dignified way to die. The best case scenario in the midst of the worst case scenarios, the dying are never alone. They take their final breaths while surrounded, soothed and encouraged into eternal glory. When they pass, family gathers to reminisce and mourn together. Then a funeral takes place, where the family bears witness to all those who also loved their loved one. Finally, the dead are buried, and as dirt falls over graves, we attempt to find closure.

But now? Our large, close-knit family can’t travel to be together. The state of New York, where she’ll eventually be buried alongside my grandfather, forbids physical touch, even at cemetery services. We’re all sitting alone in our grief, together only through group text threads. It’s painfully lonely.

When these “dignified death standards” we rely on aren’t possible, we’re invited into a renewed reliance on God, faced with no other choice than to trust him to be present as our comfort, our peace, and our hope. Praise God--we mourn with hope, knowing our grandmother is at the feet of her Savior. But I’m not ignorant enough to think that our hope-filled grief is what’s being experienced by the literal millions of others in this dreaded loved-ones-club. This pandemic is bringing the world face-to-face with the reality of our need for hope. This isn’t how it should be--but it’s how it will be, whether it’s lonely deaths from COVID or the next tragedy, until Christ returns to make all things right. The promises he proclaims over us become our floatation device as we’re tempted to drown in unprecedented grief, and I pray grief brings the lost and the hurting grasping for rescue.

As we feel helpless: “For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, ‘Fear not, I am the one who helps you.’” (Isaiah 41:13) He helps the helpless.

As we feel lonely: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” (Psalm 23:4) He’s present in darkness.

As we weep: “You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” (Psalm 56:8) He sees our sorrow.

As anxiety overwhelms: “Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.” (1 Peter 5:7) He loves us.

As we long for heaven: “For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.” (Romans 8:18) He’s preparing a place for us.

A few days before my Grandma passed away, I had the privilege of reading this scripture over her as she slept. As she now kneels before the One seated on the throne, witnessing this promise fulfilled, we wait and rest in this:

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. And he who was seated on the throne said, ‘Behold, I am making all things new.’” (Rev 21:4-5)

Come, Lord Jesus. Come.