God, Grief & a Box of Chocolates

I think I owe God an apology.

Not one of those deep, beautifully worded, “Father, forgive me for my transgressions” prayers either.

More like:

“Okay… so perhaps I was being a little dramatic.”

Because apparently, I have developed this fascinating ability to survive things I genuinely thought would kill me, watch God carry me through them, testify about His faithfulness, underline the scriptures, buy another Bible I absolutely did not need…

…and then encounter one new hard thing and immediately wonder if God has abandoned the premises.

Where is He?

Why isn’t He doing anything?

Does He see this?

Does He care?

Hello???

Meanwhile, God could probably just slide my entire life story across the table like Exhibit A.

Ma’am.

We have been here before.

Maybe not here exactly.

Different address. Different people. Different grief. Different circumstances.

Same God.

Yet when something hurts long enough, I have a tendency to forget.

And forgetting is dangerous when you are trying to keep a fire burning.

Because here is the mildly disrespectful thing about fire:

Its natural tendency is to go out.

Eventually.

I don’t care how big it was yesterday.

I don’t care how hot it burned.

I don’t care how many people stood around it talking about, “Whew, look at that fire!”

Stop feeding it.

Watch what happens.

That thing is going OUT.

And unfortunately, I think I have treated my relationship with God like one really good encounter should keep me burning indefinitely.

Like because He met me there, I should automatically feel Him here.

Because I had revelation last month, I shouldn’t need fresh Word today.

Because I once knew He was faithful, I shouldn’t have to intentionally remind myself that He still is.

Except fire doesn’t care what it ate yesterday.

It needs fuel today.

Which has made me ask myself an uncomfortable question:

What exactly have I been feeding lately?

Because anxiety has been eating WELL.

Five stars.

Compliments to the chef.

I have fed that thing possibilities, hypotheticals, imaginary conversations, worst-case scenarios and situations that have not even happened.

Fear has had appetizers.

Entrées.

Dessert.

To-go box.

Meanwhile faith is in the corner with half a saltine asking if dinner is coming.

Then I have the nerve to wonder why one is louder than the other.

Fire consumes what I give it.

And maybe this season isn’t exposing that I don’t have faith.

Maybe it is exposing what I have been feeding.

That is why Revelation 3:15–16 feels different to me now:

“I know your deeds, that you are neither cold nor hot. I wish you were either one or the other!”

I used to hear that and think passion.

Excitement.

Enthusiasm.

Be on fire for Jesus!

Except fire is not enthusiasm.

Enthusiasm is cute.

Enthusiasm gets me through a worship song.

Enthusiasm will have me buying highlighters and starting a new devotional plan on Monday morning like I have never abandoned a devotional plan by Thursday.

Fire requires maintenance.

Fire requires fuel.

And I am beginning to believe one of the greatest pieces of fuel God has already given me is my memory.

Because I cannot live in John 12 while forgetting John 11.

That right there got me.

John 12:3 says:

“Then Mary took about a pint of pure nard, an expensive perfume; she poured it on Jesus’ feet and wiped his feet with her hair.”

Mary is worshipping.

Really worshipping.

Expensive perfume.

Hair.

Dignity.

All of it at His feet.

And I have read that story so many times focusing on what Mary poured out that I almost missed what she remembered.

Because John 12 Mary has a John 11.

That woman has receipts.

One chapter ago she was not pouring perfume.

She was crying.

One chapter ago Lazarus was not reclining at the table.

He was dead.

One chapter ago Mary wasn’t watching her brother eat dinner.

She was trying to understand why Jesus had not shown up when she asked Him to.

And THAT is where the story started feeling a little too familiar.

Because I love the Jesus who gets there in time.

I LOVE Him.

Preventative Jesus?

My favorite.

The Jesus who sees trouble coming and says, “Absolutely not. Not my girl.”

Yes.

That One.

That’s my Guy.

I want the Jesus who prevents the heartbreak.

Prevents the loss.

Prevents the disappointment.

Closes the wrong door before I ever touch the knob.

Makes the red flag fluorescent.

And preferably handles everything before I have to develop any additional character because I personally feel like my character has been developed enough.

We can stop developing.

She’s developed.

Release her.

Yet John 11:6 says:

“When he heard that Lazarus was sick, he stayed where he was two more days.”

Stayed.

Excuse me, Jesus?

You heard.

You knew.

You loved them.

And You stayed?

That does not fit neatly into the version of God’s love I sometimes create in my head.

Because if I am being completely transparent, sometimes I measure whether God cares about me by how quickly He changes what is hurting me.

There it is.

That’s the ugly part.

If You love me, fix it.

If You see me, change it.

If You’re here, get me out.

And if You don’t…

my mind can start interpreting Your character through my circumstances.

That is dangerous.

Because God does not interpret my situations the way I do.

John 11:4:

“This sickness will not end in death.”

Except Lazarus died.

Which would have had me standing there like…

Sir.

I have follow-up questions.

Because I hear “will not end in death” and interpret that as “Lazarus will not die.”

Jesus knew death was going to happen.

He also knew death was not the conclusion.

I interpret the middle like it is the ending.

God doesn’t.

That one hurt.

Because how many times have I called something over when God called it unfinished?

How many times have I called something abandonment because God called it process?

How many times have I decided God wasn’t doing anything simply because He wasn’t doing the thing I wanted Him to do?

I am discovering that I can be very committed to my interpretation.

Meanwhile God is like:

“You have three pages of information and I wrote the book.”

Okay.

Fair.

Then Jesus does something that almost makes the whole chapter worse in the best possible way.

“Jesus wept.” — John 11:35

Why?

You KNOW what you’re about to do!

Lazarus is about to walk out.

Jesus knows resurrection is coming.

Jesus knows the funeral is about to be interrupted.

Jesus knows these people are minutes away from experiencing something they could not have imagined.

And He still cries.

I needed that.

Because there are moments when I know all the Christian answers and still hurt.

I know God is good.

Still hurts.

I know He is faithful.

Still hurts.

I know Romans 8:28.

Still. Hurts.

I know this season will not last forever.

Still hurts.

And sometimes I have treated my grief like it was evidence that my faith wasn’t strong enough.

Jesus wept knowing the resurrection was coming.

Maybe tears don’t mean I don’t trust God.

Maybe they mean this mattered to me.

Maybe grief and faith are allowed to sit at the same table.

Maybe “I know God is going to work this for my good” and “I absolutely hate being here” can exist in the same body.

Mine.

They currently do.

Then Jesus asks:

“Where have you laid him?” — John 11:34

Now Jesus.

You know where that man is.

So why ask?

And I couldn’t shake the thought:

Maybe Jesus wasn’t trying to locate Lazarus.

Maybe He was making them locate their grief.

Show Me.

Where did you put it?

And suddenly I felt that question turn toward me.

Where did you lay yours?

Oh.

Because I can tell God what happened.

I can explain the timeline.

I can identify everybody involved.

I can tell Him what I think should have happened.

I can probably create a spreadsheet.

Conditional formatting included.

But can I tell Him where it hurt me?

That’s different.

“Show Me where you laid him.”

Show Me the rejection.

Show Me the disappointment.

Show Me the fear.

Show Me what you lost.

Show Me the thing you keep joking about because apparently comedy is one of your preferred trauma responses.

Show Me the expectation you buried.

Show Me the part of you that is angry with Me because you thought I would stop this.

Whew.

Because perhaps God isn’t asking because He doesn’t know where my pain is.

He wants to know whether I am in touch with it.

And if I’m not careful, I can become so focused on getting out of a hard season that I never ask what God is showing me while I’m in it.

That is where I have been.

“God, get me OUT.”

Meanwhile maybe God is asking:

“What are you learning about Me in here?”

“What are you learning about you?”

“What have you been feeding?”

“What do you actually believe?”

“Who am I to you when I don’t immediately fix it?”

I don’t particularly enjoy these questions.

For the record.

Because I have history with grief.

Real grief.

There have been days when getting out of bed felt like all I had to give.

There have been losses that changed the architecture of me.

There have been moments where I genuinely could not imagine life feeling normal again.

And yet…

Here I am.

God stepped in.

Sometimes dramatically.

Sometimes quietly.

Sometimes through people.

Sometimes through provision.

Sometimes through strength that I did not know I had because, quite frankly, I didn’t have it.

It was His.

He carried me.

That is my John 11.

And this is where Forrest Gump walked into my Bible study uninvited.

Because Forrest remembers.

That man will tell you about Bubba.

Jenny.

Mama.

Lieutenant Dan.

Shrimp.

Running.

A box of chocolates.

The man remembers everything that mattered to him.

Meanwhile I have watched God carry me through some of the most devastating moments of my life and can still wake up during a difficult season like:

“Well, I guess I’m alone now.”

Girl.

Forrest remembers Bubba’s entire shrimp business plan and you cannot remember what God did three chapters ago?

Be serious.

Maybe gratitude is spiritual remembrance.

Maybe sometimes worship sounds like:

“I remember.”

I remember when I thought I wouldn’t make it.

I remember when grief had me pinned to the mattress.

I remember when I couldn’t see a way forward.

I remember when I had no idea how God was going to fix it.

I remember when He didn’t fix it the way I wanted.

And I remember that somehow He still carried me.

That memory feeds something.

It feeds the fire.

And suddenly Mary’s worship in John 12 makes so much more sense to me.

Her worship had history.

She wasn’t pouring perfume at the feet of Someone she had only read about.

She was pouring it at the feet of the One who met her at the tomb.

John 12 worship was fueled by John 11 remembrance.

Maybe mine has to be too.

Because worship is not just singing.

It is posture.

Jesus says in John 4:24:

“God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in the Spirit and in truth.”

Truth means I don’t get to worship the God I created.

Because the God I create always agrees with me.

Naturally.

She has excellent judgment.

My imaginary God immediately removes discomfort.

My imaginary God explains everything.

My imaginary God works according to my timeline and provides regular status updates.

“Your breakthrough is currently six stops away.”

Wonderful.

The God revealed in Scripture sometimes stays two extra days.

And He is still good.

That is the truth I have to receive.

Worship means I stop asking my circumstances to tell me who God is and let His Word tell me who He is.

Even when those two things feel like they are telling different stories.

Especially then.

Because worship is a response to what I value.

And Mary took what was valuable and laid it at Jesus’ feet.

Which makes me wonder what my worship requires me to lay down.

Maybe my perfume is my need to understand.

Maybe my glory is my need to be right about what this season means.

Maybe what belongs at His feet is the timeline I keep clutching.

Maybe worship right now looks like saying:

“I don’t understand what You’re doing, and I’m not going to lie and say I enjoy it.

I am hurt.

I am tired.

I have questions.

Here is where I laid it.

And I still remember who You are.”

That feels more honest.

Because I don’t want borrowed fire.

I don’t want emotional fire.

I don’t want a fire that only burns when life is behaving.

I want something that survives hard chapters.

And that means I have to feed it.

With truth.

With the Word.

With worship.

With remembrance.

Especially remembrance.

Because perhaps my biggest problem isn’t that God has stopped being faithful.

Maybe sometimes I have simply stopped remembering.

I keep asking Him for proof while standing inside evidence.

My life is evidence.

The woman I am today is standing in places younger versions of me genuinely did not know she would live long enough emotionally to reach.

God has carried me through too much for me to rewrite His character because this chapter hurts.

So maybe the prayer changes.

Not only:

“God, get me out.”

But:

“God, show me what You’re showing me in the hard.”

And when it hurts?

I can weep.

Jesus did.

When I don’t understand?

I can tell Him.

When I feel abandoned?

I can remember.

When I don’t know what to do with the pain?

“Show Me where you laid him.”

Right here, God.

This.

This is where it hurts.

No sermon.

No church answer.

No pretending.

Right here.

And maybe that’s worship too.

Because John 11 taught Mary something about Jesus that John 12 gave her the opportunity to respond to.

Maybe this chapter is doing the same thing to me.

Maybe one day I will worship differently because of what I learned about God here.

Maybe one day this hard thing will become another receipt.

Another log for the fire.

Another moment I can reach backward for when life gets hard again.

Because it will.

And apparently I will probably be dramatic again.

Growth is a journey.

But hopefully next time, before I accuse God of abandoning the building, I’ll remember:

Girl.

You have a Chapter 11.

Feed the fire.