Unprecedented Grief

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. 

Dear Next Year's Me

Written by Holly Paulette

Dear Next Year’s Me,

Is it true? We made it to 2021? That, in and of itself, feels miraculous. What a doozy this year has been, and it’s barely May. 

Lest you forgot--a pandemic ravaged our world this year. I filled up my ol’ minivan for less than $20, especially thanks to our growing Kroger Rewards because our family eats approximately one million more meals than before. Schools have been out since Spring Break. Restaurants are only offering carry-out, if that (please tell me Nagoya opened back up). I had to crowd-source two pounds of chicken from my group texts to be able to make dinner one night. I homeschooled our wild child, with a toddler and newborn in tow. Birthdays were celebrated by drive-by parades, weddings took place on Zoom, and--most heartbreaking of all--funerals were postponed. And that’s just in my little world. The world around us saw tragic numbers of illness, death, and pain. 

But--it wasn’t all terrible, and because we’re a people prone to forgetting, here’s a list of a few things I want to remember coming out of this season of quarantine:

Appreciate church. In the hustle and bustle of Sunday mornings, in fastening hair bows and in incessant reminders to put shoes on, in the race to get a seat in the sanctuary (VBC--if you know, you know)--remind your soul what it felt like to worship alongside just those you’ve spent every other waking (and sleeping) hour with. You know the “greet-your-neighbor” minute that all the introverts dread? Embrace it! Greet your dang neighbor with genuine hospitality. I can only imagine the cheesy grin I’ll have on my face when we are able to safely gather again. It may be hidden by a mask, but it’ll be there. What a gift it is to love our local church and church body so much that we grieved the absence of it for months. I pray I’ll never forget how much I missed it.

Embrace slowness. Before all this went down, I thought that “being busy” equated to “being productive.” I reveled in a full calendar and felt restless with free time, convincing myself that slow mornings and relaxing nights were time-wasters. Now, we’re forced to be bored, and it’s a glorious thing. Boredom has forced creativity. I’ve made new recipes, relished in nonsense conversations with our toddler, destroyed our seven-year-old in UNO without an ounce of shame, snuggled our new baby without glancing at a device, and read books upon books upon books. I may not have produced as much stuff, but the slower pace has produced precious, unhurried memories. 

Lean into community. Zoom book club meetings, Marco Polo group chats, and six-feet-away conversations suffice, but absolutely nothing compares to being with friends and family in person. The feel of a tight hug cannot be replaced by stilted virtual hangouts. I know you’re tired and your introversion can be an easy excuse to stay in, but it is a privilege to know and be known by people. Don’t take for granted the generosity of God in the form of people to do life alongside. Linger longer on front porches, say “yes” to impromptu Margarita nights, and invite people in. 

Go roam Target. Trust me. And while you’re there, buy an extra pack of toilet paper. Just in case. 

Love,
The Still-Quarantined 2020 You

Trading Fear for Freedom

Written by Holly Paulette
[This piece was originally posted on RelevantMagazine.com.]

We chalked up my childhood anxiety to an irrational, somewhat-fleeting, crazy-child phase. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, convinced that my nightmare wasn’t actually a dream, or my stomach ache was because of a huge tumor growing within me, or that an intruder was on the other side of the door about to kill me. Staring for minutes that seemed like hours at glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, I'd think, “This is it. This is the rest of my life. I’ll never sleep again.” 

I’d stumble, sobbing and incoherent, to my parents' bedside, and they’d be up with me for hours in a futile attempt to soothe me out of yet another panic attack.

Fortunately for my parents’ sanity, the phase passed, and I went about 10 years without an attack.

Then I met Jesus. Life got really good, in that fall-in-love, find-great-friends, everything-is-perfect kind of way. And that childhood anxiety? Back and more overwhelming than before. 

I had this irrational fear that God kept inventory of all the blessings He gave me, and once it reached the quota, He’d strike me down. Whenever I received a blessing, I refused to believe that it would last, and, the longer it lasted, the more anxious I’d be that it was nearing it’s inevitable end. 

When life is going well, we don't want to relinquish control, but, as circumstances spiral, we're reminded that we actually never had control in the first place. That's when fears kick in, and we're given the decision to either pretend they're not there or trust God with our chaos.

Matt Chandler said, “The worst thing you can do with fear and anxiety is to pretend you’re too strong to have them. The best thing you can do is just to let Him be in charge of them. Because He’s in charge anyway. And in Him, you’re in His peace.”

We run from believing that God will comfort and run to whatever we think will dissolve the anxiety for the time being. Inevitably, though, what we think will heal us--distractions, addictions, idolatry--will simply harm us more. And in that moment, God begs us to trust His goodness and hand our fears over. 

In the dictionary, the word "freedom" is listed as an antonym for "control," so believing the promise that He is in charge leads us to trust in the One who lavishly provides freedom from our fears.

When we stop running from Him and choose to trust Him, three things happen.

1. We become brave enough to hear God's answer to our scariest prayers.

Praying that prayer—telling God, “I’m so fearful that something bad is going to happen,”—is threatening to the anxious soul because God has every right to respond, “So what if it does?”

Ignoring the question doesn't change God's mind. It's not a heavenly game of hide-and-go-seek. When we run from anxiety and pretend it isn't there, God sees straight through us, but His will doesn't shift. 

But when we stop hiding from His answer, we recognize that He responds that way because of His sovereignty. Even better, when He proclaims His sovereignty, we learn that our fear is smaller than His grace. In His goodness, "So what if something bad happens?" means, "If it does, I'm still King, and you're still Mine."

 2. Anxiety becomes less terrifying.

A panic attack always becomes worse when the sufferer starts to panic about the panic attack. 

Jesus tells us that we will struggle and fear and fail. He also says to take heart, because He's overcome the world. When Jesus proclaims that He has the victory, He didn't mean that He has control over everything except our anxiety. 

He didn't say, "Run from me, and we can pretend your fears don't exist." He said, "Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." In His grace, God strips the fear out of our worst nightmares because He knows what happens at the end of our story. His rest is our peace.

3. Joy becomes natural.

When we stare fear in the face, our natural instinct is often to flee. But, if we shift our focus away from the fear and onto the Lord, we choose to fight. And our strongest weapon and sharpest sword is joy. 

As we resist ignoring our anxieties and begin to hand them over to God, our instincts change. We choose to fight back with hope-infused joy. The hope that the Creator of it all has it all--even our fears--in His mighty hands leads us straight to the foot of the cross, where anxious thoughts lose their power and where inexplicable joy and peace is found. 

[Note from Holly: Anxiety is not always primarily or completely a spiritual issue. While this article references my personal experience with fear, please know that there is anxiety and panic that necessitate professional and/or medical help.]

Choosing Hope on Saturday

Written by Holly Paulette

I received an orchid as a gift soon after delivering our daughter back in December. I have killed exactly 100-percent of the plants entrusted to my care, so, understandably, my husband had little faith in my ability to keep this beautiful orchid alive. After a few weeks of staring at what looked to be a drooping, dead stem poking up from dry dirt, he gave up on me and threw the orchid in the trash can. Appalled, I dug it out and put it right back where it belonged on my windowsill. I shoved an ice cube in its little pot once a week and hoped for the best--mostly to prove my husband wrong, but also because I needed something tactile to hang onto. 

Outside my windowsill, we had just shifted from distant empathy to too-close-for-comfort in the Coronavirus pandemic. The green buds slowly emerging on that stand-alone stem were a hope in the midst of crisis, and I was waiting expectantly for the flowers.

Weeks passed, and one morning, against all odds, I noticed a little white flower had bloomed. Though it felt impossible in the midst of its circumstances (namely having me as its plant mom), life sprung from what was once assumed dead. Of course I was very humble about it all and definitely didn’t immediately wave its success in my husband’s face.

It’s been a weird Holy Week in my little world and, if I had to guess, in the world as a whole. My Kroger ClickList order failed me, so we’ll probably fill Easter eggs with semi-sweet chocolate chips and raisins found in my pantry rather than candy (sorry, kids). Families won’t travel to celebrate, local egg hunts will be cancelled, bunny costumes may stay in storage til next year. Most of all, our church family won’t gather. There will be no corporate “He is risen, indeed.” I hate to admit it, but Holy Week hasn’t felt quite so holy. 

There’s a heaviness in our present day that has overpowered the holy sorrow leading up to our Savior’s death. I’m so much more consumed with mourning this pandemic than mourning my King with a crown of thorns. And it’s understandable--death tolls keep rising. In our quirky little town, the southern charm of friendly smiles is hidden beneath masks. And in our homes, we’re getting weary. Our kids no longer consider this an “extended spring break.” Everyone is getting on everyone’s nerves. 

I feel that same anxious pang in my soul--a much more magnified version of what I felt looking at my poor orchid. My faith in the Creator of the universe has not wavered, but it has changed from its typical Holy Week reverence to a desperate cry for mercy.

He already has saved us from all this earthly pain--but we still have to wait for the fulfillment of that rescue. I’ve been thinking a lot about that Saturday--the day following the crucifixion, the day preceding the empty tomb. Those who loved Him, who walked with Him mere hours before, were faced with a choice: would they lose hope or choose hope? 

Many have pointed out how every day feels like a Monday right now (and that’s true enough), but it might be more true that every day is like the Saturday of waiting. We know Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forevermore, but bless it--today is hard. The Saturday waiting threatens to steal our hope.

Jesus took on our suffering. He’s not only aware of what we’re experiencing today--it’s exactly the thing He willingly walked into and willingly died to redeem. This is not God’s good garden. This is not His promised Revelation 21 new heaven and new earth. This is the messy middle, the result of the fall, the essence of all we’re preparing to celebrate on Easter morning. This is the Saturday, and I’m choosing hope. This Holy Week has been a far cry from normal, but maybe, if we lean into it, it could be more meaningful than we imagined.

Bob Goff once wrote, “Darkness fell, His friends scattered, hope seemed lost. But heaven just started counting to three.”

May we be a people who count to three, hopeful and anticipating the rescue that we know we’re bound for. And may we see signs of hope, like my resilient orchid, and remember John 16:20, when Jesus is speaking to his disciples during the Last Supper--“You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy.” 

May we remember that Sunday is coming. 

The Beautiful in the Dirt

Written by Holly Paulette

[Note from the author: This piece was written in September 2018, shortly after Hurricane Florence hit the East Coast. We thought the sentiments were relevant for this time in history, too.]

My sister and brother-in-law live near the beach. It’s idyllic—walks on the beach before work, dinners on the water, early morning surfing, and weekends on the ocean. My sister has always dreamed of this life, and her husband was created for the water. Life at the beach is a calm life, and I yearn for a rhythmic peace that looks like their days. 

But then a hurricane hits. 

That picturesque scene is unimaginable in the wake of this storm. As I’m writing this from the comfort of our mountains, my sister just texted me, “Part of Oak Island pier is gone.” Water once tame is flexing its power as it swirls and rushes and floods and, quite simply, demolishes. It was already there, though. That power. That strength. Dormant beneath the façade of calm and beauty, the ocean is strength personified. If God wants it to roar, it roars. A hurricane wakes up that power. 

The thing about a hurricane is that it follows no pattern. The damage isn’t done to a specific group or targeted area. 

Natural disasters strip us of the assumed predictability of newsworthy, widespread tragedy. We’re becoming used to distant reports of wartime destruction and bombs that wipe out neighborhoods and beyond. But the annihilation that a natural tragedy such as a hurricane has the power to commit isn’t targeted. It just simply destroys everything in its path.

In the unpredictability of a natural disaster, God is sovereign and in control. I think that we struggle so deeply with understanding the “why” of this weather because we want to maintain control. We want to be able to forecast our futures and predict our demise. We want to sit in our westernized ease and expect no harm. A natural disaster is a wake up call to God’s power, His strength, and His glory.

I’m not sure there’s a better picture of our smallness than the effect of a hurricane. 

So what do we do? I don’t know about you, but I am a doer. I can’t not. I want to fix. I want to be part of change. But for us fixers, we’re tiny compared to this mess. 

So we pray. Cynicism doubts its power, but oh I know it works. I’ve been the recipient of what feels like thousands of prayers recently, and I’m convinced He hears and He acts. It’s who He is.

In Shannan Martin’s book, Falling Free, she points us to the cross:

“What I’m beginning to see, though, is that God doesn’t fix my weakness by making me strong. He becomes my strength in my perpetual weakness. He takes over. Constantly. He swoops in, ruffles my hair, and says not to worry, then charges to the top of the mountain I’m facing—the king of every hill I’ve ever stood upon with shaking knees. I am weak, and he is strong. He’s all the strength I need, and my weakness doesn’t have to flee in order for His presence to reign.

“God is enchanted by my frailty. It’s why I need him. It’s why he showed up and never stops.”

One of my very favorite children’s books, Last Stop on Market Street by Matt de la Peña, has my charge following this storm. The main character, CJ, gets off the bus with his grandmother in a rougher part of town.

“How come it’s always so dirty over here?”

She smiled and pointed to the sky.

“Sometimes when you’re surrounded by dirt, CJ, you’re a better witness for what’s beautiful.”

Let us follow his grandmother’s instruction and see the beautiful in the dirt. Watch for the helpers, as Mr. Rogers once said. 

And pray. Pray expecting God to show up, because He never stops. Because His glory is the beautiful in the dirt. We’ll see it soon—I’m sure of it.