Grief and Hope: A Message of Comfort and Redemption
It’s almost been a year since the horrific October 7th attack on Israel. One hundred and sixteen hostages still remain in Gaza, their fate unknown. The news revolving around the war, politics, and the unstable state of the world continue to develop and change from day to day, while one reality stays the same: Israelis and Jewish people worldwide are still in a state of grief over the worst nightmare they’ve witnessed since the Holocaust, and the continuously growing levels of antisemitism and indifference only add salt to the wound.
Grief is something we all must deal with in this lifetime at some point. It’s not a question of whether we will go through it, but more importantly, how we go through it.
If you’ve dealt with grief, you know how quickly its waves can come on without any warning. Just like large waves of the ocean can quickly create a powerful undertow, the waves of grief can overwhelm us and pull us under before we even have a chance to catch our breath.
My own experiences with grief have been life-altering.
Both my parents passed suddenly and unexpectedly before we were able to be fully reunited after years of separation due to my belief in Yeshua. I had spent years praying they would eventually understand my faith, which never quite happened the way I hoped. While I was able to share with them several times in the beginning, they became less understanding as time went on. When they both passed separately without any warning, I was devastated. Later, my brother and I were wonderfully reunited after a twenty-year-long divide between us. Then, just over a year later, he also passed suddenly.
One day, a few weeks after my brother’s passing, while I waited in the carpool line to pick up my boys from school, waves of grief enveloped me, dragging me under their relentless force.
“Come on,” I said to myself, “This is not a good time for a meltdown…get it together before the boys get into the car.”
I quickly wiped a tear away and pushed my sunglasses up on my face, as I simultaneously pushed back the flood of childhood memories running through my mind…memories of my brother and I swimming in the ocean with my dad on Long Island, where my grandparents lived. My dad, who grew up spending his summers at Brighton Beach near Coney Island, was an avid ocean swimmer who taught us how to dodge the waves by diving directly into their giant, cresting arms. The other side of the wave was what my dad called the “Sweet Spot”, where everything is calm. I loved the adventure of swimming in the ocean with my dad, while my laid-back brother usually preferred to build sandcastles on the shore near my mom.
My memories were interrupted when my three boys piled into the van, chattering loudly. I struggled to keep my voice from breaking while I asked them about their day, trying to pull myself out of the thick sea of sadness quickly engulfing me. After a few more minutes of talking, they put on their headphones and watched the end of a video for the rest of the ride home.
By the time we pulled into the garage, and the boys ran inside to grab a snack before heading upstairs to their rooms, I couldn’t contain my emotions anymore. The tears welled up in my eyes again as I dragged myself inside to the entryway, where I dropped my purse and keys on the table in exhaustion, letting the waves of emotions flow for the first time since the day my brother suddenly passed.
I stayed there sobbing for several minutes. I couldn’t move if I wanted to. The sorrow was paralyzing. Why was this happening again? I thought. First, the sudden death of my father when I was pregnant… then, the sudden death of my mom… and now, my brother. Why??
I looked up, slowly wiping my tear-stained cheeks…when my eyes focused on the framed picture above me- a picture I had seen a thousand times before-but now standing here in the flood of my emotions, suddenly took on new meaning.
The scene in the picture is Jerusalem at The Western Wall. Two orthodox Jewish men are there, one younger man standing at the wall and one elderly man sitting and praying next to him. The elderly man looks tired while he looks down at the little siddur (prayer book) in his hand. Above him, an image of Yeshua appears in the wall, with one hand on the man’s back and the other holding the man’s rolled-up scroll with his prayers on it. Tears are in and underneath Yeshua’s sad eyes.
This picture has hung on the wall of every home I’ve lived in since I bought it fifteen years ago. The compassion and love on Yeshua’s face for his people-my people-was what drew me to it in the first place.
The only thing my eyes could focus on were Yeshua’s tears. It was as if they were real and freshly falling for me. Great big tears like drops of rain pooled in his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.
I gasped for air in between my sobs and stared in disbelief as I realized what I was looking at…The wailing wall.
The place where the Jewish people wept after the temple was destroyed by the Romans in the first century. The most holy and sacred site in Judaism. The place where my people have cried millions of tears and tucked thousands of prayers in the crevices of the wall’s ancient stones. A place where Christian pilgrims come from all over the world to pray, and a place not far from where Yeshua himself wept over Jerusalem, longing to gather his people under his wings. (Matthew 23:37)
Suddenly, it occurred to me if anyone could relate to my grief, it was Yeshua. Rejected by his own family, his friends, and his community, he knew what it meant to have sorrow. Hated by the religious leaders for his honesty and mocked by the Gentiles for his humility and meekness, he knew what it felt like to be misunderstood and lonely. Scripture says he was “a man of sorrows, well-acquainted with grief.” (Isaiah 53:3)
For the first time in weeks, as I gazed into his teary eyes, I felt the sting of my own sorrow dull a little. For the first time, I felt that someone understood. My chin lifted a little. If anyone knows what this pain feels like, it’s Yeshua, I thought.
“…He was wounded for our transgressions; he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and by his stripes we are healed.” (Isaiah 53:4-11)
The days of grieving for my brother went on and I still couldn’t make sense of what had happened. The waves of grief continued to swell inside me, tossing me back and forth so hard I struggled to just breathe.
It wasn’t until over a year later, after the traditional Jewish mourning period, when I was praying and reading in the gospels one day, that I found some measure of peace after my brother’s death. I came upon the story of Lazarus, Yeshua’s friend who died while he was away. Instead of heading to Bethany, where Lazarus’s grieving family was, Yeshua stayed in Jerusalem two more days, which made Martha and Mary (Lazarus’s sisters) grief even more intense.
When he eventually arrived in Bethany four days after Lazarus died and saw Martha, she was full of sorrow. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!” she cried out in her grief. “But I know that even now, God will give you what you ask.”
“Lord, this is how I feel,” I whispered under my breath. “If you had done something, my brother wouldn’t have died. Why did you let this happen now after we were finally reunited?
Then, I read the next line.
“Yeshua said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’”
The words seemed to lift off the page in stereo sound above and beyond my own thoughts. I knew these words Yeshua spoke thousands of years ago weren’t just for Martha–these words were also for me.
In my grief, I hadn’t been able to hear God’s voice. Now, it was crystal clear. The dark clouds of sorrow began to part, and a ray of hope broke through as I realized with certainty that I would be reunited with my brother once again, and this time it would be for eternity.
When everyone else’s words of comfort wouldn’t suffice for the past year, five powerful words spoken by an ancient Jewish rabbi (who also just happened to have the power to raise people from the dead) brought peace and hope.
Yeshua went on to tell Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life, whoever believes in me will live again, even though he dies.” (John 11:25)
For the first time, I was able to see how God had brought my brother and I together again just before he died so he could witness the peace and joy in my life. I knew God had used my story of faith to draw my brother to him, and in that hospital room where everything seemed so final, my brother opened his heart to the Messiah and walked into eternity with him.
On difficult days, the waves of grief still threaten to take me under when I think of my brother’s laugh or remember his hugs, but I don’t stay there long because I know on the other side of the waves, there’s a sweet spot where I’m safe and secure. And I know I will see my brother again someday… on a glistening distant shore.
“Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love. For, he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone.” (Lamentations 3:32-33)
The book of Lamentations was written by Jeremiah, the prophet who witnessed the horrible destruction of his people and the temple, yet he was still able to trust in God’s great, unfailing love. Israel is still in mourning now, but she will experience God’s comfort again.
