Find comfort for grief and loss in this inspirational book.
Eugenia Price, one of our most beloved inspirational writers, offers this simply written yet profoundly valuable book for anyone struggling through the loss of a loved one. She writes that the healing process comes first from the knowledge that accepting the loss does not mean we stop missing our loved one.
Written simply and sensitively, Price demonstrates a sympathetic and hopeful view of the grieving process through insights into human nature and in her own experiences with death.
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Eugenia Price (1916–1996) was a New York Times bestselling author of 39 books, with over 40 million copies sold. She is best known for her historical romantic antebellum novels.
Eugenia Price, one of our most beloved inspirational writers, offers this simply written yet profoundly valuable book for anyone struggling through the loss of a loved one. She writes that the healing process comes first from the knowledge that accepting the loss does not mean we stop missing our loved one. It does mean that through God's strength we can one day learn to live again in the morning light....
Most of us greet a bright, cloudless day with a cheer.
Most of us, at one time or another, fear the dark. Oh, nights can be beautiful if our world spins along upright, if those we love are nearby, if we are in a familiar, safe place. As long as there are friends and family and lovers with us, we stand in the special silence a night brings and wonder at the stars; the moon rides high, silver as a coin, or rises copper and heavy out of dark water—or the branches of a pine tree. We can actually look at the moon, the stars—our eyes can bear that. Not so the sun. Still, the sun gives light and when there is light to see, we are less afraid.
But if the person who made the moon lovelier, the sun more golden, in your world has gone, whether by death or divorce or any other drastic change, do you wonder, cry aloud: “Will this night ever end? Will I ever get through it?”
If you are in a long night, these pages are for you. Perhaps you can read them only one or two at a time, but they are for you. If you have not yet entered that long night, the book is for you, too. The way through any shadowy place is always less confusing if we have even one small idea of what to expect—one tiny glimmer of light.
Nights can be wondered over, marveled about—but they are dark. And unless we are complete, happy, untroubled, they can be dread- and fear-filled, simply because of the darkness.
At night we don’t see things as they are. The shapes of trees and flower gardens and houses, even on moonlit nights, distort before our eyes because we cannot take in their true dimensions. We are able to see by night-light only the portions of familiar objects not erased by shadow and blackness. In the dark the shape of a familiar bush or shrub moving ever so slightly in a night breeze can appear a threat—can trip a mysterious lever in our minds so that the very bush we may have planted with our own hands appears shadowy, unknown, sinister.
Not only do shapes loom in the dark; sounds intensify. A giant oak or elm limb, settling for the night in cooler air, may sound like a strange footstep. A branch may brush our window all day without our hearing it, but the same branch, scraping against a window in the darkness, can stop our hearts. At age six or sixty, we cry out for the light, for the safety it offers; because with it, we can see around us.
Nights have always come as regularly as days. In a sense, they should not be unfamiliar to us, but when the familiar, harmonious patterns of our life have just been shredded, nights can be the very worst times of all. When a beloved one is suddenly gone—nights seem to make the loss unbearable. “If I can just manage to get through the first night alone,” we cry, without husband, without wife, without child, friend or parent.… Night has always come as regularly as day, but it so changes the familiar that we fear getting lost in it.
The aching heart can somehow survive peopled, light-filled days. Darkness has long been the symbol of loneliness, of being lost; the symbol of danger, of dread, of weeping.
“Weeping may endure for a night.…”
If you have lost someone, if a part of your very life has been chopped off by that loss, you do not need an exposition on the horrors of a long night of weeping, of waiting—in the dark—for morning to come. You already know.
We have the word of God that He knows, too: “Weeping may endure for a night.…”
Does it help that God knows about our nights of weeping?
Yes, but not enough. Desperately we need to know that the hard, grinding work of grieving will somehow, sometime, end. Will I ever smile again because I feel like smiling and not just to make my poor, patient friends feel better about me? Will I ever learn to live without him? Without her? Will I ever be a whole person again? Will this long night ever end?
God says that it will.
The missing will go on, but the hard work of grieving, the darkness, the agony, will end. You can be whole again. It won’t seem possible now, perhaps, but because God is a Redeemer God, there will someday—for you—be “beauty for [these] ashes.” There will be “joy for the oil of mourning.”
Joy? Yes.
“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.”
Did God really mean that the grieving heart can know joy again?
He did. He does. But the joy about which God speaks is far deeper than what we think of as happiness. There is as much difference between God’s joy and human happiness as between night and day. For some of us, once our night has ended, this joy can be an entirely new, never-before-realized experience.
In my novel Maria there is this line: “Joy is God in the marrow of your bones.”
Whether you know God or not, in the present darkness of your grief His promise that “… joy cometh in the morning” may sound ludicrous, even cruel. It is neither. It is fact. And if you don’t know Him, or if you feel shut off from Him, read anyway, because He knows you completely—as you are this minute. He is “acquainted with all your ways.”
For you to begin to know Him, to sense His presence again, requires only a swift turning of your inner being toward His.
“Come unto me,” Jesus said, “and I will give you rest.” Who needs rest more than you right now, if your heart is worn out by grief?
“I am the light of the world.” Who needs light more than you while the night of weeping endures? Who has more need of morning?
One thing is clear: There is no promise anywhere of a magic wand to end grief. But we do have God’s word for it that anyone willing to try—even a little—to understand that there is a way into morning will make it through that night. If we know anything at all about the nature of God, of His intentions toward us, we can, for now, lay hold of the fact of morning. The night of weeping has no set number of hours. Its length depends in many ways upon our trying to grasp the fact that even our night can end.
This small book is meant to help you take at least one step toward your morning. You will find no doctrinaire, crisp, pat answers here. There are so many kinds of grief—so many variations within those kinds—that no single book could cover them. These pages have a single purpose: to give anyone who, for whatever reasons, is in grief, an assurance that there is help available—God’s help—and that even the smallest participation in His promised healing can bring the morning more swiftly. Death is not the only reason for grief. There are as many kinds of losses as there are people and no two are alike. Here we will attempt to show that God is dependable in grief always—no matter what causes it—and that once we accept the loss, there is a chance for participation in healing for the stricken person left behind.
Are you rebelling already at that word accept? To accept the irrevocable fact that a loved one is gone, whether by natural death, desertion, divorce, suicide, or accident is the first necessity. But in the early hours of our journey through any darkness, true acceptance is often impossible. You will say, “You don’t need to remind me that my loved one is gone. It hurts to breathe.” But true acceptance does not stop with mere acknowledgment of the fact. True acceptance, when one is counting on God’s redemption of grief, includes our agreement to join God in bringing an end to our night of weeping. And you who grieve, only you, will know when the moment comes that you feel you can begin to participate with Him.
If you are reading this while your loss is fresh and bitter, quite probably all you can take in now is that the time will come when you will know. One friend wrote: “For days I just walked around in the yard where we’d worked together for so long and said aloud to myself, with no sense of speaking to God: ‘What will I do? What will happen to me?’ ”
This is not being self-centered. This is being human. Those days of stark desperation must be worked through. Grieving is work. Hard work. And so, often, our first almost unconscious act of participation must be to accept ourselves in that beginning traumatic stage and feel no guilt for seeming to be so helpless, so faithless, so self-concerned. The pain is still too sharp. Our bodies as well as our minds may be in shock. We are not to blame for this. We are human. To expect anyone who has loved to walk away from an open grave in good, strong spirits—no matter how deeply rooted faith is—is as ridiculous as to expect a patient to get up off an operating table after major surgery and walk away.
The single purpose of this book is to attempt to get your attention, if you are in grief, long enough to plant somewhere in your mind the fact that God does promise that your night of weeping can end. He does not promise that you will be unscarred as though you had never loved; He does not promise that you will ever stop missing, or even hurting. He promises that, in His strength, you can one day learn to live again in morning light.
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