When Grief Feels Like Loneliness

After college, I moved to Chicago for a change of pace. I wanted—and needed —to spread my wings, abandon my safety zone of family for a time, and learn what it meant to fully depend on the Lord. Being 22, I thought the idea of learning loneliness sounded so romantic in a tragic sort of way. I pictured myself strolling the streets of the windy city, coffee mug in hand, with a cute sweater and scarf and with the soundtrack of Natalie Merchant crooning in the background. What I learned is that loneliness is not romantic. Coffee and cute scarves are too expensive when you’re learning to pay all your bills on your own, and being surrounded by literally millions of people who don’t know you is a deep, ironic ache. I longed for my friends. I was sure that if I just had them to fill up my days, I would be okay. It took almost a year, but the Lord did teach me that He is enough, and that there is a certain beauty in having nothing. I thought I had learned the secret of loneliness. But nothing (that I have yet experienced) is like the loneliness of grief. After my Gwendolyn fell asleep in the Lord on October 20, 2010, I felt so different from everyone around me. Words like “marked“, “bad omen“, and “awkward” were how I thought of myself. I felt so unfamiliar in my own skin—skin that had an ugly six inch scar stretching across my womb, reminding me in every way possible that I was alone. I didn’t know how to relate to my friends. I didn’t always know how to relate to my husband. We processed our grief so differently. I didn’t know how to let anyone shoulder any of the burden—it was too great, too much, too heavy. And besides, it was mine, the only thing that fueled the “she was real, she is real” mantra that drummed in my mourning-fogged brain. Verses like Proverbs 14:10, “Each heart knows it’s own bitterness, and no one else can fully share it’s joy.” and Job 16:2, “What miserable comforters you are!” gave me confirmation that yes, I was alone. So I wrapped my grief around me like a good coat, shielding myself from the efforts of friends who attempted to journey with me on this long walk through the valley full of shadows. I felt justified in doing so. I felt that they could never understand. And yet, with all this pushing away, I deeply longed for someone to know every thread, every synapse of my soul as I missed Gwenny. The Lord is so gentle to those who grieve! He tenderly brought two things to my mind: “Do you still want your friends? Because if you do, you need to allow them to love you, even brokenly. And yes, the only person who fully knows your sorrows is the One who died for them.” Jesus is the only Friend who can fully shoulder the weight of grief, because He alone knows every possible detail of it. “A man of sorrows,” was Isaiah’s description of the Messiah. God alone sees every twinge, every memory, every hurt that causes our breath to catch and our chest to swell and our eyes to leak. He provided a Comforter and a Friend to walk with us through the journey. We are not alone. The hymn writer, Joseph Scriven, must’ve discovered this when he penned:

What a friend we have in Jesus All our sins and griefs to bear! What a privilege to carry everything to God in prayer. Oh what peace we often forfeit, Oh what needless pain we bear! All because we do not carry everything to God in prayer.

I hope today that you will turn to Jesus and allow Him to shoulder your grief. Allow Him to use His body, the Church, to serve and love and cry and remember with you. Don’t miss the peace that He offers to your weary soul.

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Erin Cushman is the founder of Hope Mommies. She is married to Blair and has four children: Gwendolyn, who has been with Jesus since October 20, 2010, Malacai, who is three, Gemma, born in June 2015, and Baby Cush. She loves photography, gardening, cooking, reading, playing with her children, and especially loves when all those things combine. Are you a writer who would like to join the blog team? Learn more and apply here.

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