Dear Friend,
You are Mary. You and your sister Martha have hosted Jesus in your home many times. You love that Jesus felt comfortable there. Martha was always busy making sure everyone’s drinks were topped off or preparing the next meal. But you…
You couldn’t help it. Whenever Jesus came over, all you could do was sit at his feet. His words dripped like honey, each precious word more sweet than the last.
His words filled you, freed you. You needed nothing else but to be in Jesus’ presence.
There was no doubt in your mind that Jesus loved your little family because he often stopped by. With every word, every gesture, every joke, and every true word—he showed that he loved each of you: Martha, you, and of course, your brother Lazarus, too.
But then…
Lazarus got sick. You rushed word to Jesus: “The one you love is sick.”
You saw your brother diminish before your eyes. First the fever. Then the sallow, gaunt look. Why did his face look more like a skull than the bright-eyed young visage you always knew?
And before you knew it, your brother was gone. Gone. Dead.
You floated through the burial, the mourning rituals. As if in a bad dream.
It couldn’t be. Your little brother. Gone. Lifeless. Now hidden behind a stone. Locked away.
No more hugs. No more messing with your hair and running away in laughter. No more sneaking a taste of Martha’s sweet cakes before they’re ready. No more wrestling Jesus to the floor in a fit of brotherly joy.
Jesus…
Surely he could have done something. If only he’d arrived on time, you sigh.
And now. What now?
You sit with the mourners in your house. You appreciate that they’re here, but you sit with them in stunned silence.
Barely aware of those around you, you look around and don’t see Martha. That’s unusual. When there are guests, Martha is usually attending to them. Where is she?
You wonder if you have any more tears. You’ve cried for days and now you feel dry.
Stealthily, Martha pulls back the curtain and enters the room. She motions to speak privately with you. “The teacher is here,” she whispers. “He’s asking for you.”
Jesus!
At once you take off running. Jesus. Our true friend. He loved us. He loved Lazarus.
When you finally reach Jesus, you fall at his feet, feeling his linen robes in your fingers.
And all the tears come rushing back.
You can barely form the words through your sobs: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”
He looks at you, then looks at those who followed you here, his brow furrowing.
Something is building in him. A deep stirring. A gut-wrenching pain. You see his stomach heave inward, his shoulders crushed with weight. He clenches his jaw and tries to contain himself.
Jesus’ chest is heaving, his eyes attentive.
“Where have you put him?” his voice quivers.
“Come and see, Lord,” they replied.
His rough, callused hand reaches down to you. You try to stand but slip in the gravel. Jesus grasps your full arm and steadies you.
The quiet procession makes its way to the hollowed-out stone where the body of your beloved brother lays.
You weep silently.
You glance at Jesus who still has your arm.
Jesus is weeping.
With you.
He is greatly troubled.
He hurts like you hurt.
He loves Lazarus like you love him.
He knows this throbbing, aching emptiness.
He gives passage to his feelings to tumble out.
He feels the gut-punch of loss.
He sees the sting of death.
He mourns.
With you.
His face is stained with tears.
Like yours.
Dear friend, I see what you experienced here. I see the searing pain of loss. I have felt it, too.
Sometimes this world feels like one giant pit of loss.
Do I even have to name them? Cancer, addiction, mental illness, aging, broken relationships, natural and human caused disasters, violence, trauma, strife, financial and every other type of woe. Woe. Woe. Woe.
The only response to these losses is lament. Grief. Tear your clothes, sit-in-ashes kind of grief.
What are we grieving?
The loss of the good.
The created, ordered VERY GOOD that God had in mind.
Yes, a new day is coming.
Yes, a resurrection is coming.
Yes, a new heaven and a new earth are coming.
Yes, new imperishable bodies are coming.
But today, we hurt.
Today, we groan with the rest of creation.
We do wait eagerly for our adoption and for every other promise to be fulfilled.
But praise God that we have a Savior who doesn’t skip over this moment.
No, actually Jesus enters our moment to grieve with us.
He doesn’t tell us to “Buck up. Stop grieving. Get yourself together.”
No, he enters in. He walks the road with us to the tomb. He stands there with us, weeping over the loss. He is “greatly moved in spirit and troubled.”
He—more than anyone—knows the victory that is coming. Yet his willingness to walk the hard road with us is the very healing that we need.
So, dear friend, I don’t know the hard, gravel road that you’re walking today.
But I do know that Jesus is walking
and weeping
with you.
Love,
Your friend Melana