As we grieve, we also hope. We both lament and anticipate. We cry and we wait. We weep yet with expectation. We sorrow yet we hold on, knowing with hope that one day, our great Savior will redeem every tear, every sadness, and every sorrow.

In many ways before losing my son to cancer, I misunderstood grief. I believed that having a right theology of suffering, having a solid understanding of Scripture, and having hope in Jesus would somehow lessen the pain of loss. I believed that the greater the faith meant the greater the hope and because of hope, the less painful grief would be. I realize now that I was sorely mistaken.

There is a common misconception within many Christian circles that because we ought not to “grieve as others do who have no hope,” that the pain of grief and loss will be different for those who believe in Christ (1 Thess. 4:13). What I am learning is that the pain here on earth is not different. If I were to reword this verse into the positive, it would say, “Grieve, but when you grieve, do it as one with hope.” What is different for the believer is not the absence of grief, but rather, it’s that in the midst of grief, hope remains.

We are edging up very close to what will be the three-year mark of having lost Ezra. In many ways, the grief is easier to hold. The shock has worn off. I have grown accustomed to the weight of the sorrow. I am used to missing my son. I think of him often, but I no longer pick up my phone to text him or try to call him. Despite settling into this unwanted reality, losing him is still something that’s hard for me to talk about without being moved to tears. It is still a part of my story from which I am recovering. I am realizing this will likely be the case for the rest of my life.

When we first lost Ezra and into the following year, I was actually shocked by the depth of grief and the lack of comfort I felt from knowing what was true. At times I questioned the sincerity of the depth of my faith because the comfort I expected seemed absent. I now realize I had wrongly believed that knowing Ezra was not suffering anymore, knowing that he is with Jesus, would somehow ease the ache of loss and would cause the sorrow to be less.

I am beyond grateful that Ezra is with Jesus and I know the good and faithful hand of God held him to the very end. The truth is, however, I still grieve and wish he was here, as selfish as that may sound. I still wish his story had gone differently. I still ache with a depth of sorrow I did not know was possible. I still walk with the weight of grief every day and press on, enduring, but am also easily undone. I still must wrestle and choose to believe God’s goodness when I think about how much Ezra suffered. I still battle for right belief and humble submission to God’s plan that continues to feel painful and hard. I still struggle to learn how to use the changed brain that grief brought about. My family of six (rather than seven) still feels strange and foreign. I still feel fragile in many ways. The reality is the truth doesn’t always ease the sorrow and struggle or feel as comforting as I thought it might. The truth does not always ease the treacherous path or bring comfort in the moment.

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