As promised, here is part 2 of the letter I sent at the end of August - The Practice of Lament and Embracing the Mystery of God. As I read through Psalm 77 a few weeks ago, I found within it a framework that has been helpful for me to move through sorrow and grief and the confusing times we live in. This passage has given me permission to let it all out. It occurred to me that I was getting stuck because I have been afraid of what it would look like, to be honest. That's what lament is. It's the practice of grieving, laying our sorrows down in the safety of the presence of the Lord, with no holding back. This week, we will practice this with the help of the Psalmist.
As a whole, it has been harder for me to see this year. It is harder to quiet my mind and settle into my skin, let go of anxieties, and dip out of fight or flight. Adding a child who came to us on the heels of a life-threatening hospital stay, attempting to do something that you typically have nine months to prepare for, and doing it in about one, it turns out, turns up the volume on everything in your life. One day, I'll talk about 2022, a year I can reflect on now and see that the Lord was giving me clues about what was coming.
Don't get me wrong, in a great many ways, this year has been beautiful. There is something about those gritty seasons where both wins and losses are felt on a much deeper level. It's years like this that build our endurance. Just like our physical muscles, there is only one way to build an entirely new life: showing up and getting your hands dirty. Building muscles hurts, and it turns out, so do the times when you are expanding your life.
I look back on this year and still vividly remember the car ride bringing our son home. This day came after a whirlwind of quick decisions, paperwork, legalities, house preparation, and a million other little things you do to make room for more. I still remember the day we drove from his foster parent's house across town to ours. He had been with them for six months. At that point, to him, it was home. I remember the look on his face in the car. I won't pretend to know his thoughts, but even for a not-yet two-year-old, there seemed to be a sense of understanding the world isn't supposed to be this way in his eyes. Those eyes have since come alive as he has settled into our home. His whole face lights up when he smiles; those same eyes sparkle, and I'm convinced the dimples that adorn each cheek will get him out of trouble for a good deal of his life.
His smile can change my day. It is genuine in that it seems to come from his soul, yet sometimes it makes me sad. Maybe more than anything in my life, adoption has left me toeing the line of sorrow and joy more than anything else. In many ways, it is a healthy perspective. Every adoption brings a reality that the world isn't as it should be, a keen reminder that we are not yet living in the new earth. Adoption starts at displacement, and displacement leaves us disoriented. This is the reality I have found myself living in this year, and recently, I have started getting more honest about why that is.
I've struggled to write this year, take in information, and put my thoughts together to make anything make sense. I have had increasing clarity for why that is, and it brings me a level of sadness that just sort of sits on my chest. This little boy who has brought us so much joy is not where he should be—not exactly, anyway. It's ok to say that. The same goes for our little girl, who is old enough now to be asking questions.
It doesn't bring me much comfort to zoom out, either. The very foundation of the world is proving itself to be shaky at best. It may be best to tear it all down and start from scratch. This is depressing, you might be saying to yourself, and yes, you would be correct, but it is me being honest with where I'm at, attempting to dig down to the very root of has me stuck with the hopes of finding my way back out.
Our culture would rather skip lament. What good is it to stare in the face of what brings us down? Why give a name to something like despair? Or the depths of which grief touches us? Isn't it better to entirely skip that part? To that, I say no. To deny the reality that things aren't as they should be is to miss out on the fullness of God. To look away from our sorrows is to rob ourselves of the deepest levels of joy.
I remember vividly back to January of 2017, when I received a phone call in Trader Joe's that, after having our daughter in our home for three months, our daughter's adoption was in jeopardy of not going through. It was a moment when the world around me quite literally went silent. I left my cart, full of groceries, in the middle of the aisle and walked out to my car in a state of panic and tears—a stranger offered to drive me home. I declined the offer, got in my car, drove home, and collapsed on the hard floor of my dining room. That was the beginning of several months of uncertainty, a time that looking back now, forced me deep into the practice of lament. The reality of the present situation was so heavy. The only way out was a trek through a very dark valley, and turning any amount of light on required laying everything before God - my doubts and fears, my anger, my feeling as though He had abandoned us completely.
During this period of time, there were a few solid months when we heard no good news. Quite the opposite, in fact. We were given news each day that looked like it was inevitable that we would lose our daughter. I won't go into too much detail, mostly for her protection, but there was little hope for a longer stretch than we would have liked.
Those eight months moved us through a time that forced us to face the reality of adoption—the parts that most people don't talk about. We came face-to-face with a situation that involved more than just the three of us in our family. Adoption can ultimately be beautiful, redemptive, and full of hope. Still, it is impossible to have the redemptive side without first having a loss that involves other image-bearers—moms and dads and siblings and grandparents. Adoption starts first with displacement, and to be displaced is living in a reality that isn't entirely the way God intended it to be. Providing a child with a safe, loving, stable home won't ever fully compensate for the loss and the longing for a biological family. To say yes to adoption is to say yes to the responsibility of also carrying grief and questions that may never be answered. It is a call to stay engaged with that tension for us as parents and for the sake of our children. Some days, that responsibility feels like an elephant on my back. On those days, all I can do is cry out to God in lament.
The Practice of Lament
Most of the year, I have lived in constant tension between lament and hope, and there are a lot of times I feel very alone attempting to name what feels like an overly weary world and an overly demanding time in our lives. But here is where I have arrived—to deny lament is to deny reality and, therefore, depreciate the value of hope. Plunging not the depths of our sorrow, allowing for longer than we may like seasons of grief, laying our deepest doubts at the feet of Jesus—these acts don't prove a lack of faith. They make us people, followers of Christ, who stay engaged in what it means to be fully human.
So, how do we practice lament? Let's turn back to Psalm 77:7-9:
Will the Lord reject forever?
Will he never show his favor again?
Has his unfailing love vanished forever?
Has his promise failed me for all time?
Has God forgotten to be merciful?
Has he in anger withheld his compassion?
Psalm 13:1-2 is another place we find a framework for lament.
How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts, and day after day have sorrow in my heart?
How long will my enemy triumph over me?
If you have lived long enough, chances are you have asked questions like this in the quiet corners of your life. They may not be so direct, but all of us have come to his place. This is lament—the outpouring of our grief, pain, and feeling deep down that we are displaced until we reach the new heaven and earth.
David, Job, and Isaiah—three heroes of the Bible all were unafraid of lament, and if that isn't enough, there is a whole book dedicated to it. My guess is that not many of us pour over the pages of Lamentations, but I'm sure glad it exists. It's further permission that this is part of the Christian life. It takes three full poems of lament, grief, pain, and judgment before the author can get to a verse we often quote. "His mercies are new each morning. Great is Your faithfulness." The book doesn't exactly end with a nice red bow, either. That is a picture of our lives on this side of heaven. We will likely always walk with, holding in tension, sorrow, and joy. This is why lament is necessary to finding God in all things.
I will take a page from the book of Lamentations and not wrap this up with a pretty bow. We will explore the movement to hope in my next letter.
If you're feeling heavy or the need to rush, I would invite you to sit with the tension for a little while. Get quiet before the Lord, and allow yourself to be honest. Ask the hard questions. Explore your areas of loss, confusion, and doubt that are begging for a little room to breathe. If your questions feel like too much, ask them anyway. After all, for a weary world to rejoice, it must first admit its grief.
Julie, thank you for writing so candidly about the subject of lament. You have not been afraid to lay it out there and for that I am grateful. I have a nine year old grandson who was born with a genetic condition that has left him non verbal, seizures, aggression, autism. He has the full package. And it was not until I read your Part 1 on lament have I been able to honestly lament this sweet boys life situation and our families dealing with this - especially my daughter and former son in law. Thank you and God bless.
Your entry is beautifully written and sears the soul because it is so true and raw and still glimmers with hope. Thank you.