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. 

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.