Four Years Later

I am not okay.

Grief is such a strange thing. After so many years of broken humanity existing, one might think we would have some kind of grip on grief by now…that it would be predictable and routine, easily plugged into a formula which takes away the sting and restores normalcy—whatever normalcy may be. And yet, here I sit, four years after my brother’s death, still avoiding thoughts that relentlessly beg for me to give into their processing. Four years ago, one of my greatest hopes was looking ahead and believing that beauty was to come. While I do see traces of newly born hope, this journey has not looked how I wanted it to. Grief refuses to conform to our rules and expectations. While I knew I wouldn’t be healed, I clung to the belief that four years from then, I would be standing in the wonder of all that God had done, bellowing His providence and abundant life from the rooftops.

 Is it even ok to say that I don’t feel that I am there....? Or really even close….

You see, I still feel broken in a million pieces. I still feel that I’m limping--barely even that at times.

Grief has changed me.

I want to be strong, saturated in a faith that carries me. But I’m wrestling so much doubt.

I want to be soft, unjaded, and open. But I carry the weight of a hardened heart.

I want to stand tall, pushed onward by the  growth only heartbreak can bring. But I feel like I’m still reeling, incapacitated, and struggling to rise.

I never wanted to be angry at the God who carries me.

I never wanted to resent those who left me in my brokenness.

I never wanted my marriage to struggle because of my heartache.

I never wanted to be slow to trust, fearful of losing another dear one.

This isn’t where I want to be and certainly not where I saw myself being four years later.

I am broken. I am sinful. I often times feel alone and unseen.

But one thing hasn’t changed: I believe that my God is good.

He isn’t finished yet. Even when I scream at Him, distrust Him, and run from His comfort, He sees me and He sees beyond me. In spite of my own broken self and my anger toward a story I never wanted written, His faithfulness endures and His mercies are new every morning. There is much beauty that I am blind to right now as I still struggle to catch my breath and learn to allow myself to feel such hurt. I lost my brother. I lost one of my very best friends. I lost one of the few people who knew my heart. And it hurts.

I am not okay.

Perhaps what it all comes down to is that it was never about me. The point of this story was never to glorify Micah or to make sure Micah is a superhero who knows how to grieve. Maybe, Jesus’ love for me is so great that He is willing to usher me into a story that opens my heart to my own inability to be anything apart from Him. And that, His wholeness in place of my brokenness, is beautiful.

-Micah