Job lost everything in a single day and tore his robe and fell to the ground, and worshiped. The cry of the bereaved is not a betrayal of faith. It is one of its oldest and most honest expressions. This sonnet gives voice to that cry, and to the strange worship that can rise even from the ashes of loss.
The Sonnet
I tore my garment when the news arrived, And fell down to the ground in ash and dust, For everything I loved and how I thrived Was taken in an hour I could not trust. I do not know why such a loss should fall On one who tried to walk the honest way, Nor why the darkness came to cover all The light that had illumined every day. And yet upon the ground, undone, laid low, I found my voice still turning to Your name, A worship strange, that grief alone could know, A cry that was itself a kind of flame. So let the bereaved cry, and let them turn, For even ashes can, in time, still burn.
Reflection
The story of Job begins with catastrophic loss, sudden and total. His response is remarkable, not because he does not grieve, he tears his robe and shaves his head in the ancient signs of deep mourning, but because his grief and his worship are not separated. He falls to the ground and he worships, in the same breath, in the same gesture.
This is important for those of us who feel that grief and faith cannot coexist, that to cry out in loss is somehow a failure of belief. The oldest wisdom in Scripture says otherwise. The cry of the bereaved can itself be a form of worship, an honest turning toward God even in the moment when everything has been taken. We do not have to choose between grieving and trusting. Job did both, and so can we.
If you are bereaved today, let your cry be honest. It does not disqualify your faith. Sometimes the rawest cry is the truest prayer we have.
