No Need for Comparison
Looks at Lament
I remember everything about the day our oldest son was born. It was a cold January morning when we drove to the hospital to be induced. While only 38 weeks pregnant, my belly was abnormally huge; the doctor assumed that the baby was too big and should come that day. It was a traumatic birth, as his stomach and intestines were not connected, a condition called Duodenal Atresia. That was why my belly was so monstrous - he couldn’t ingest the amniotic fluid in my womb to create meconium, yet my body kept producing the fluid, creating a Olympic-sized baby pool in which our son swam laps the last month of pregnancy.
He wasn’t breathing when he was born, and specialists immediately rushed in to his aid. After several minutes, or maybe it was just seconds, he was finally breathing. Upon realizing that he wasn’t digesting breastmilk, a CT scan revealed the severity of his condition and he was transported by ambulance to the neonatal intensive care unit at Children’s Hospital of Atlanta. My husband and I followed along behind the ambulance, crying and in shock. How did this happen?
Our son would undergo the critical surgery needed to repair and connect his digestive track and remain in the NICU for several weeks to recover. His unit was for babies who had never left the hospital, which meant there were tiny babies, so small they could fit in the palm of your hand in cribs on either side and across from him. Our baby looked like a giant compared to the others, preemies fighting for their lives and waiting to grow strong enough to survive the necessary surgeries to live independently.
Many would not live, would not be dressed in a sweet outfit to come home in, would not be welcomed by siblings and grandparents. I looked at my perfectly formed, beautiful boy, with tubes coming out of every part of his body and held back tears threatening to spill over. This was not the way it was supposed to be! And yet, I was instantly filled with guilt. How could I complain when I compared my loss and disappointment to the parents surrounding their babies’ cribs? I convinced myself that I had nothing to complain about, that I needed to be thankful, to slap a smile on my face and push the loss down.
Where did I learn that method of dealing with grief and loss? Comparing my situation to others, their’s always trumping my own and not allowing myself to feel all of the emotions? Was this the way of Jesus? Not a chance!
Read John 11:1-44
Jesus was about to perform the seventh sign of His deity - to raise His dear friend, Lazarus, from the dead - but first, He would grieve with the sisters. He knew they were disappointed with Him. They had sent word, begging Him to come quick because Lazarus was at death’s door. They had complete faith that Jesus could and would heal their brother. But Jesus didn’t come and Lazarus didn't survive.
When Jesus finally arrived, it was too late and Martha said as much, but with a glimmer of hope, “LORD, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died. Yet even now I know that whatever you ask from God, God will give you.” (John 11:21-22 CSB) Jesus then moves on to Mary, who is overwrought with grief. He doesn’t say to either sister, “At least Lazarus didn’t suffer much. Remember John the Baptizer…falsely accused and imprisoned and then beheaded…” or “Have you heard about So-and-So in the village we just came from? Horrible suffering, truly unspeakable.” or “Sisters, not too long from now, I’m going to die an agonizing death. When you witness that, you’re going to feel embarrassed at how you’re carrying on about your brother. It could be so much worse.”
Jesus doesn’t say or think any of these things. John writes that when Jesus saw the sisters’ grief and their community who was surrounding them sharing in their loss, “He was deeply moved in His spirit and troubled.” (John 11:33, emphasis mine) The King James Version describes Jesus groaning in His spirit. The phrase in the original Greek also indicates anger, though not an anger or impatience with the sisters’ overwhelming sadness; rather that sin always leads to death and sorrow. Jesus didn’t compare the loss of Lazarus to anyone else’s, even His own impending death. No, Jesus entered in and wept publicly with the sisters, feeling everything right alongside them.
Jesus enters into our grief and loss. He does not compare our loss to anyone else’s, shaming us into slapping a smile on our face and pushing our groanings down. No, Jesus draws near to the brokenhearted, wraps us in His tender arms of compassionate love. There is no need for comparison. Look for Jesus in your loss. Expect Him to draw you close and weep right along with you.
Blessings,
Gay B Brown