31 days || twelve: celebrating through tragedy.

 {free printable by Joy's Hope}

Remember this post from last week?

Things are tougher now, and even though I still stand by those words, still believe they are true... Today they are harder to swallow. Today, it is hard to celebrate. 

I've mentioned before, but I attended a very small private university in the South. My school was so small, in fact, that everyone literally knew everyone's name. Not a stranger passed through that campus. Everyone was greeted with smiles and hospitality, with waves and hellos.

That's why, when tragedy strikes, it hits us all. No matter how much time has passed since graduation, no matter how far geographically we have moved, when hurt hits a member of our family, there is sadness. 

This week, a young man I went to school with is mourning the loss of his mother and brother. 

And I cannot begin to fathom it. 

I do not know loss like this. 

When my grandfather passed away, I was 13, and I was devastated. My mom informs me — and I suppose, deep down, I know it is true — that I didn't cry much, not publicly. Instead, I would curl up in bed with my journal. I'd write, and I'd cry in my closet or softly into my pillow. I didn't want to be found out.

Today, I guess I kind of cope with tragedy in the same way, but now? Now I am not so afraid to cry publicly. 

It is, I think, important to mourn. To grieve. To experience the loss that is shaking and breaking you.

There's a verse in the Beatitudes that talks about the blessing those who mourn receive. For much of my life, I've been taught that Jesus is talking there about people who mourn over and repent of their sin. Those who are broken and shamed by the evil they have done.

I hope this isn't offensive, and honestly, I'm not sure whether it is theologically sound, but I believe that verse means exactly what it says. 

Those who mourn in this life will be comforted. 

By the people left behind. By those who love them. By memories. By family videos and old photographs. By hope. By the promise of something more.

It is not easy for me to see God in tragedy. I believe He is there, but He is, admittedly, hard for me to reach out and touch. He feels like more of a stranger to me.

As I grow older, I feel like I need my parents just as much I did when I was a little girl. I love to call and hear their voices. I seek their guidance, ask their opinions. I trust their love and loyalty to me. I appreciate the years they spent raising me, molding me and my brother into who we are today. 

And my heart breaks for a man who won't get to call his mother anymore. A young man who won't hear his mother's voice or see his brother's face. 

My breath is taken away by the unfairness of it all, and the only thing I know to do is pray. 

Sometimes that feels like so very little, and in the world's eyes, I imagine it is. But I have to trust that the family will feel these prayers of the hundreds, these prayers that are lifting them up and calling them by name, prayers that ask for peace and comfort and understanding and forgiveness. 

His grace is sufficient. It doesn't always feel that way, and I think that's what makes faith really hard. Hard to practice and hard to understand. 

I'm not really celebrating today. Instead, I'm mourning. I am praying, and I am asking that comfort be provided to the Ferguson family, just as it has been promised. 

Will you join me? 

for more information, visit my brother's post, here.