I Wore White on Mother's Day: Reflections 8 Weeks Later

BLACK ON EASTER

On Easter Sunday, I was away in San Antonio. John Ezekiel had been buried the Monday before. John was out of town, and through a course of events, I found myself sitting alone in a church I had never attended before. I had hoped to remain anonymous. I had also not planned well, and therefore found myself with only skinny jeans and a black tank top as options for what to wear to this formal church where there was potential I would see some of John's colleagues who were on staff there. That morning, I raided my tiny mom's closet and found a dress that said it was my size, but inevitably hugged in all the wrong places. Did I mention she's tiny? In a desperate attempt to cover myself, I pulled on one of her (also tiny) black sweaters and pushed up the sleeves so people wouldn't notice it was not actually intended to be 3/4 length. I had seen this going like Sandra Bullock in Hope Floats where she just pops into her mother's closet and finds something stunning to wear for the funeral, but that didn't happen. Needless to say, it was a hot mess. Looking at myself in the mirror, I realized I was also wearing all black. I shrugged. At least it reflected my mood. Hoping to remain anonymous, I drove to the church with the clock reading 10:01. I sat at the back. By myself. Praying to be left alone. Maybe if I'd worn more dark eyeliner and not a patterned sheath from Dress Barn, I would have conveyed my message better.

Inevitably, the entire church looked like a basket of pastel Easter egg congregants. I tugged on my too short skirt, tried to get the sweater to close across my chest, and prayed they would forget to do the meet-and-greet at the beginning of the service. No such luck. Not long after, a family with 100 children in little, perfectly starched, white, monogrammed dresses came skipping in and sat next to me. Why hadn't I worn more eyeliner? I scooted further down the row. 

Fast forward: Easter, resurrection, clapping, song, song, prayer. And now time for communion... where every member of the church will get up out of their seats, parade down the middle row of the church, and receive the elements at the very front. This was terrible for my anonymity and my outfit. As I made my way up front, I felt like I should apologize to every person along the aisle for wearing this too-tight dress to church and desecrating Easter with my black. 

WHITE ON MOTHER’S DAY

Fast forward 6 weeks. I'm at my home church. And today I feel like wearing white. It may have taken longer for the resurrection to come to this broken heart, but like the timeless, worshipful sacrament of communion, it remains and waits and eventually woos us out of our seats, in spite of our despair and poor wardrobe choices, and ministers to us in spite of ourselves. 

And it is in these eight weeks since we said good-bye to our little boy that I’ve wondered at the “weightiness” of suffering. What does it mean for us to know Christ in his suffering and why would we want that for ourselves?

This suffering, this despair, this call to give our baby back, this brokenness and questioning-- it is deep and significant. It cannot only be for the purpose of helping others. I cannot believe that it is arbitrary. I must believe that is preparing for us an "eternal weight of glory" that surpasses the joy of an entire lifetime with John Ezekiel (2 Cor. 4:17).  And this is not said lightly. 

WEIGHED DOWN WITH GLORY

As I wonder at this eternal weight of glory that comes with suffering, I think about when Jesus appeared in his glorified body to his fearful disciples hidden in a locked room (Luke 24). I used to think that he had passed through the wall like a ghost (like they did-- see verse 37), but I'm beginning to wonder if it was not him who was "less tangible," but rather the wall itself that had to succumb to his more whole body. Jesus himself says, "Look at my hands and my feet. It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have" (Luke 24:39). Could it be that his sufferings produced a glorified body that bore the "weight of glory" that made him more real than anyone or anything on earth? And if this is possible, could it be that when we taste of this suffering, we are becoming more real too? And what if, in suffering, we become “pressed” to such a way that we become more solid-- that our resurrected bodies are already taking shape in part in this life as we become more real through pain?

ETERNAL WEIGHT OF ENTERING OTHERS’ SUFFERING

Even Abraham recognized this life was a "tent" and he was preparing for a "city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God" (Heb. 11:10) and it was credited to him as righteousness. Could we, too, approach suffering as God's way of making us more real? And if suffering is already beginning to prepare us for this more whole, more real body, could it be that when we enter the sufferings of others, it is also having this same effect? And when everyone else is running from suffering, couldn't it make sense that it is the believer who can face it for themselves or on behalf of others with assurance? Could this be our motivation for not shying away from the sufferings of others, but rather moving toward them with love and sobriety? Don't we simply join with Paul in wanting to "know Christ, and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of his sufferings, being conformed to his death; that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead"? This is not to say that we should seek out suffering for ourselves, but rather, that we can face it with more certainty of its purposefulness in our lives. 

Joining with others in their suffering, then, is a way of joining with Christ in his. And this, in turn, produces an eternal weight of glory. But sometimes it’s so hard to know what to do. What can be done to share in someone's suffering who has lost a baby, a loved one, or the hopes that were lost to a dream unfulfilled. How can we enter someone's suffering to better know Christ in his?

HOW CAN I ENTER OTHERS’ SUFFERING?

Not everyone is the same, but these things have profoundly touched me when people do them, and in experimenting with them, I'm watching how meaningful they seem to be to others:

•    Speak their name. I love when people use John Ezekiel’s name. Most likely, that name is never far from a grieving person's heart, so drawing it to the surface, even if it makes them cry, still says that the person who died matters to you too. 

•    Ask what they were like. I spoke to a woman today who had lost her mother in February. Normally, I wouldn't know what to say, but to this, I just asked, "Was she like you?" And it was amazing to watch her light up as she showed me her mother’s picture and talked about her beautiful red hair and meaningful impact in this life. When John Ezekiel died, the hospital took pictures of him for us. Because it was just me and John in the room, no one else from our family got to meet him when he was alive. However, after we got home, my dad asked if he could someday, when we were ready, see the pictures. It was profoundly meaningful to me that he would ask to see the grandson he never got to meet, even though the pictures may be hard for him to look at. He was willing to be saddened or look at death on our behalf. Profound. How I long to talk about John Ezekiel to those who didn’t get to meet him, but so many are afraid to ask for the sake of not saddening us, and it makes me wonder at others who might also be eager to honor their deceased in this way. Or what if we asked if we could bring flowers to their family member’s gravesite? Things that recognize the deceased sometimes have more impact than those that recognize the living.  

•    Don't be afraid to make someone cry. I think a grieving person can be sad or cry and still be okay. Before church today, three of my dear friends and I found ourselves tucked in a quiet room laughing and chatting about coveting casserole dishes, but it ended with tears over what this day meant in light of the women represented there: two with miscarriages within the past six months and two with budding baby bumps. Each understood the weight of life and loss. One finally said, "I wanted to wish you a Happy Mother's Day, but I didn't want to make you cry," and yet with tears in all our eyes, it was profoundly meaningful. These dear friends risked something in bringing up pain, but it brought more healing to us all. Jesus isn't afraid of our pain, and when we risk and enter into the pain of others, there's the opportunity for us to enter into the joy of the resurrected life too. 

What a weighty mystery.