“It’s Okay to Not Be Okay” by Amy George
It’s Okay to Not Be Okay
-by Amy George
I recently heard someone talking about why bad things happen to people. He said, “Instead of asking God why this terrible thing is happening to you, ask Him how He can use it.”
My first thought was, “I bet you’ve never lost a child.”
It may sound harsh. It may sound judgmental. But, it was what immediately came to my mind.
I am no expert on grief. I’m not a counselor or a therapist. I haven’t received any professional training on how to handle tragedy.
But, I have held my child as she slipped from my arms into the arms of her Heavenly Father. I have cried and begged God for answers. I have searched for the words to try to explain to her twin sister why she survived and her sister didn’t. I have questioned what I did wrong, what I could have done differently to try and save her life. I have been faced with the truth that I will never know what it’s like to watch her grow up on this earth. What would she have been like? Would she have looked like her daddy or me? Would she have loved to dance like her youngest sister, or would she have loved to play sports like her twin? What would it feel like to hug her as an 11-year-old, the age she should be now? I’ll never see her graduate from high school or college, I’ll never see her get married, I’ll never watch her have children of her own. My heart will forever have a hole that won’t be healed until I see her again.
Grief is a journey. And over my 11-year journey, something has bothered me as a Christian. It’s all wrapped up in the statement that caused such a reaction in my soul recently: Instead of asking God why this terrible thing is happening to you, ask him how He can use it.
Oh, if it were only that easy.
I understand the sentiment. And I think Christians who say this to those who have received devastating news probably mean well. But, as someone who knows what it’s like to have your world ripped apart, those words can sting to the core. They imply that we should be “okay” with this bad thing that is happening. That instead of grieving, we should just accept it. After all, as Christians, we tend to believe that tragedy is our opportunity to show the world how strong our faith is. Not to ask why this terrible thing happened, but to ask God how he can use it.
I can assure you, that thought didn’t enter my mind when my daughter, Melissa, died.
I can’t put into words how I felt when the realization set in that my daughter was gone. Just going back to that place in my mind, is still so painful eleven years later. I remember waking up from my emergency caesarean section and my nurse’s phone ringing. I remember her saying, “Amy, we need to go to the NICU.” I remember lying in that hospital bed and being pushed through the double doors of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Huntsville Hospital for Women & Children. I remember seeing my husband at the end of the room, holding a beautiful baby girl with a head full of black hair. And as we got closer, I saw the tears streaming down this face, and the look of anguish as he sobbed and said to me with his voice cracking, “Amy, I’m so sorry.” He handed her to me and I held her in my arms for the first – and last – time. And in that moment, I knew. In that split second, my life was changed forever.
During the days and weeks that followed, I went through all of the stages of grief.
It began with denial. The hours, even days, after her death felt like a bad dream. Surely I would wake up and she would still be here? I dreaded closing my eyes at night because as soon as I fell asleep, I would see her face. Then I would wake up to be reminded over and over again, that my daughter was gone and she wasn’t coming back. It was an agonizing and vicious cycle.
The anger stage followed, and it was often directed at God. In the weeks leading up to her death, when my husband, Chris, and I were faced with the realization that Melissa might not make it, we prayed fervently. My faith was so strong, and I truly believed there was no way my daughter was going to die. Yes, the road might be bumpy. Yes, she would be sick and she would probably spend many days in the hospital, but I truly believed there was no way she was going to die. I memorized scriptures, I wrote Bible verses in a journal. I asked for a miracle, and I truly believed we were going to get one.
But, we didn’t. And because of this, my faith was shaken in a way I had never experienced. I cried to God. I begged him for answers. I quoted Romans 8:28 to him and told him I didn’t believe it, because I just couldn’t see how my daughter’s death was “good” for me. Why didn’t you save her? I had faith. I believed. If you had just saved her, I would have told everyone of this miracle. It would have brought glory to you. How in the world can you claim to love me, and then take my daughter from me?
Those questions scared me. The anger scared me. I had never felt this way. After all, I was a Christian. I had never questioned God or his motives. I had always accepted that things happened for a reason, but that platitude fell flat as the reality of a life without my child set in.
Why in the world was this happening to us? That was the question I begged God to answer. It never occurred to me to ask him how he could use this tragedy. I just wanted my daughter back.
And here’s the thing: I believe that’s okay.
The Jesus I serve, the Jesus I stake my life on, knew grief. He came to earth in human form. He felt pain here. He felt loss. He grieved.
“Jesus wept.” – John 11:35. If you don’t know any other verse of the Bible, you probably know this one. Two simple words but, over these 11 years, I’ve realized those two words speak volumes to those of us who have experienced loss.
Jesus’ dear friend, Lazarus, was sick and once Jesus arrived, Lazarus was already dead. The Bible tells us that both of his sisters, Mary and Martha, said to Jesus, ‘If you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died.’
Oh Mary and Martha, I get it. I know the pain of crying out, ‘Jesus, where were you? If you had just shown up, she would still be here! Why in the world did you let this happen? Why didn’t you save her?’ Their words, their emotion, their grief is so real in this chapter. They believed in Jesus, they believed he would heal their brother, but he hadn’t shown up in time. I get it. I’ve felt it.
Verse 33 tells us when Jesus saw Mary weeping, “he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.” And verse 35 tells us that Jesus cried, too. He loved his friend. And even though He knew He was going to raise Lazarus from the dead, and their grief would soon turn to joy, He felt great compassion for Mary and Martha, and what they were going through.
And as I came to understand this side of Jesus, it changed the trajectory of my own grief journey.
I don’t serve a higher power that is just floating through time and space. The Jesus I love came to this earth to experience life as we do. The joys, the pain, the exhilaration, the loss, the excitement, the devastation – he experienced all of these emotions. The good and the bad, he felt them all.
I believe that as my heart was breaking over the loss of my child, Jesus hurt with me. I believe as I fell on my face in my bedroom closet one morning and lashed out at him in anger, he felt nothing but compassion for me. This was never how God intended this world to be. He never meant for us to experience pain, and loss and hurt. These emotions are the consequences of sin entering the world. And during those times when I cried out to Him in anger, in pain, begging Him to explain himself, I don’t believe He was disappointed in me. I don’t believe He was wagging his finger at me, and shaking His head that my faith was so small. I believe He hurt with me and longed to wrap his arms around me.
I don’t believe God expects us to “okay” when bad things happen to us. Okay with the loss of a child or a parent or a spouse, okay with a cancer diagnosis, okay with the destruction of a marriage, okay with broken relationships that rock us to the core. And I think as Christians, we need to stop implying that we should be.
It’s so easy to say those things when life is going great. When everyone is healthy, when your kids are safe, when your marriage is working. But what happens when tragedy hits and your world is turned upside down?
I believe for many, they put on a brave face because they believe that’s what Christians are supposed to do. They pretend to the world that they are okay with this devastating thing that is happening to them, because they think it shows how strong their faith is. And on the inside they are dying, crying out for answers. And instead of wrapping our arms around the hurting and acknowledging that sometimes this life is awful, we spout worn-out clichés – “God will never give you more than you can handle” or “everything happens for a reason” – that just fall flat. What if instead of rattling off empty phrases or Bible verses that they aren’t ready to hear yet, we just agree with them that the situation is awful? We admit that it just doesn’t make sense to us, either. And we love them. Like Jesus loves us. This is how they will see Christ in us.
If you are experiencing loss – the loss of a loved one, a devastating diagnosis or illness, a broken marriage, relationships that have been ripped apart – I believe it’s okay to cry out to God for answers. It’s okay to admit to Him that this makes absolutely no sense to you. It’s okay to tell Him how scared you are that you even dare to feel this way. It’s okay to tell Him that you feel like your faith is being ripped away, and you don’t know what to do.
I said all of those things to Him in the wake of my daughter’s death. In those early days, I never could have asked Him to show me how He could use my daughter’s death for His good. I didn’t want her death to help others; I just wanted her back. I don’t believe that made me a bad Christian. I think it made me human, a sinner saved by grace.
But as the seconds turned into minutes, and the minutes turned into hours, and the hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks, I began to see glimpses of how He was working. I eventually came to a place where I could say, “Jesus, how can you use this?” He began to lay this idea of a non-profit foundation to help other babies and families on my husband’s heart. When Chris first shared it with me, I balked at it. I was terrified of what it would mean to open our hearts in such a public way. I was scared of what it would mean to share our grief and loss with others. “There has to be another way, a way that won’t hurt so bad,” I thought.
There wasn’t. And as God continued to lay it on our hearts, I prayed this prayer. “God, if this is what you want for our lives, then you have to take over and do it, because I cannot.” And He did. In eleven years, the Melissa George Neonatal Memorial Fund at Huntsville Hospital Foundation has raised $2.4 million for the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Huntsville Hospital for Women & Children. I have had the honor of talking to mothers whose babies have used the medical equipment that we’ve been able to purchase. I have also held the hands of mothers and cried with them when that medical equipment just wasn’t enough. Nothing we have accomplished is because of Chris and Amy George. It is because my Jesus can take anger and hurt and pain, and instead of condemning us for it, He makes something beautiful out of it. Oh, what amazing love.
I can see the truth in Romans 8:28 now. I can see the “good” that has come from her death – people in our lives who were drawn closer to Christ, my own faith going from being shattered to strengthened, the thousands of babies and families whose lives have been touched through Melissa’s Fund. I see it now. It doesn’t mean I’m “okay” with her death. I still miss her desperately. But I can see how God has taken something that could have wrecked our lives, and has used it to bring glory to Him.
HOPE is “my word” now. It’s the only reason I can attempt to get through this life without Melissa. I still don’t fully understand why my daughter had to die. I still struggle with the right words when trying to explain it to her sisters. I still grieve. I still cry out to God. I still question why our family had to endure such loss. I will never be “okay” with losing her.
In those moments, I grab hold of Hebrews 10:23. “Let us hold unswervingly to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful.” This verse has become my lifeline. I believe with all of my heart, that my Jesus is faithful and will continue to meet all of our needs. And as He restores my heart on this earth, I believe that He will one day restore our family – all five of us. I will see my daughter again. I will hold her. And my heart will finally heal. I believe that with every fiber of my being. It’s the hope that allows me to live this life and to endure the pain that comes with it. He who promised is faithful. And until that day, I rejoice in the fact that I serve a God who knew pain. Who felt loss. Who “gets it” when I am hurting. Who doesn’t expect me to be perfect, but only asks me to be obedient.
I don’t believe Christians have to be “okay” with tragedy. Or loss. Or pain. You aren’t a terrible Christian for asking why. You aren’t a terrible Christian for telling God how hurt you are, how angry you are, how confused you are that this awful thing is happening. You are human. He created you. He knows you intimately. Be honest with Him, and allow Him to do the work that only He can do.
He who promised is faithful.
(photo credit, Erin Cobb)
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