As a Myers-Briggs INTJ (Google it!) I connect new data with other data—essentially with everything else (I am referencing only those data points stored in active, living brain cells!). My thoughts turned to another story I read about last night, about a nanny in New York who apparently snapped, mentally, and stabbed to death the two children she was caring for, a two year-old little boy and a six year-old little girl. I read about it last night after coming home from an afternoon with my two year-old grandson (the little boy pictured in the story could have been my grandson’s twin). How do you cope with something like that? How does a family begin to recover? Two little beds now empty, stuffed animals that will never receive another hug or a kiss, a copy of the Velveteen Rabbit that will never be opened again and read to one of these children. These thoughts are roaring waters and trembling mountains. Who is able to deal with such horror? My heart broke for this family’s loss. And, if this nanny is not completely insane or sociopathic, what a burden she will carry for the rest of her life—if she survives her self-inflicted wounds.
And so my thoughts return to the beginning of the Psalm. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” No denying that trouble will come. No questioning the potential severity of that trouble. It may involve roaring waters and trembling mountains. In fact, it probably will, at some point or another in one’s life. But God is “very present” to help in the time of trouble. The result? “Therefore we will not fear . . . .” Well, fear is not so much the problem. I am sure that those in the path of the Hurricane Sandy may rightly have some level of fear. However, I am looking at blue skies and bright sunshine. A little cool for my tastes, but it is late October and that is that nature of things. So, I am not afraid. But what about sorrow? What about grief? What about that family that just lost two precious little ones? They may be experiencing some fear—how do we get through the next few days? How will our marriage handle these losses (a high percentage don’t survive the loss of a child, you know). How do we explain this to our remaining three year-old daughter, and how will this affect her life and well-being? But more than fear, don’t you know they are overwhelmed with sorrow at so unexpected and horrific a loss.
The Psalmist says more: “There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God, the holy habitation of the Most High. God is in the midst of her; she shall not be moved; God will help her when morning dawns.” This is what we need when the waves of sorrow overwhelm the soul. There is a river of Living Water that flows from the risen Christ. The one who wept over Jerusalem, at the tomb of Lazarus, and cried out in the Garden of Gethsemane—this one understands our deepest hurts . . . and promises to be near. The God-Man is in the midst of the people of God and will bring their needed help. He will usher in the light of dawn after the darkness of the soul and calm that turbulence so that we can “be still, and know that he is God.”
Make no mistake. There are no easy answers to this family’s sorrow, or perhaps to yours, or mine. Throwing God-words at grieving hearts rarely does much good. Instead, it is the presence of Christ that can make a difference. The presence of Christ through his Spirit who is able to come alongside, not to remove our sorrow, but to share it. No, removal is not quite how this works; there is no promise that we can press the “Reset” button and make all the bad stuff go away. Instead, he is with us to bear our burdens and share our tears. After all, Jesus i a “man of sorrows and acquainted with grief”; he has “borne our griefs and carried our sorrows” (Isa 53:3,4). That is what this grieving family needs now more than anything. And along with the presence of God, the presence of God’s people to come alongside and share their grief with them. I do not know these folks. I do not know their hearts. I do know that I am not the one to come alongside. Even if I were, there are no flights in and out of New York (Hurricane Sandy- remember?) But I can pray for them. And you can pray for them. And ask that God will in his mercy, through Christ, flood these broken lives with the water of life, the only stream that can “make glad the city of God.”
There is only one source of healing. And whether our sorrows are completely healed in this life, or whether they wait for the final healing “when he will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Rev. 21:4), Jesus is the only “stream that makes glad the city of God,” the only stream that is sufficient to heal the brokenness of our lives. In C.S. Lewis’, The Silver Chair, the following conversation takes place between Jill, a young daughter of Eve, and the great Aslan, Son of the Emperor Beyond the Sea (the Christ-figure in the Chronicles of Narnia): “Are you not thirsty?” said the Lion. “I’m dying of thirst,” said Jill. “Then drink,” said the Lion. “May I—could I—would you mind going away while I do?” said Jill. The Lion answered this only by a look and a very low growl. And as Jill gazed at its motionless bulk, she realized that she might as well have asked the whole mountain to move aside for her convenience. The delicious rippling noise of the stream was driving her nearly frantic. “Will you promise not to—do anything to me, if I do come?” said Jill. “I make no promise,” said the Lion. Jill was so thirsty now that, without noticing it, she had come a step nearer. “Do you eat girls?” she said. “I have swallowed up girls and boys, women and men, kings and emperors, cities and realms,” said the Lion. “I daren’t come and drink,” said Jill. “Then you will die of thirst,” said the Lion. “Oh dear!” said Jill, coming another step nearer. “I suppose I must go and look for another stream then.” “There is no other stream,” said the Lion.
Indeed. There is no other stream.
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