Finding Hope in Grieving What Never Was

My youngest son is convinced he will play in the NFL one day – even though, at age 18, he’s 5’3” and weighs 130 pounds when dripping wet.  I’ve tried to gently encourage a backup plan, knowing a very small percentage of high school athletes go on to play professionally. Apparently, my counsel has not been positively received because he recently said, “Mom, one day, when I am giving my first press conference, I’m going to tell everyone that my own mom did not believe I could get here.”  It’s a lose-lose situation for me.  If he makes it, I’ll be shamed on national television. If he doesn’t, I’ll watch him navigate the process of grieving what never was.

I spent the first 40 minutes of a recent counseling appointment describing the chaos of being mom to my four children: infertility, IVF, bed rest, a child with a trach and feeding tube, adopting our two youngest from a third-world country, language barriers, developmental attachment trauma, a learning disability for one child, and intense behavioral struggles for another.  In-home pediatric nursing care that – while so helpful – felt like our family was doing life with an audience, three relocations in seven years, and homeschooling kids with learning and emotional needs.  Hearing “I’m not sure I can help this child” from multiple therapists, balancing my eternal optimism that we could be a normal family with a little more Jesus, caffeine, and the latest batch of therapeutic strategies.

My therapist graciously listened as I matter-of-factly detailed my parenting roller coaster ride. Then she asked a question I had never considered: “I am hearing all that you have gone through as a mom the last 17 years, and I am wondering, when have you grieved the loss of what you expected motherhood to be?” 

Tears appeared out of nowhere before the final word left her mouth, clashing with the clinical narrative I had just offered. And I immediately knew the answer: I never had.  There wasn’t time.  

The whirlwind began the moment the medical team rushed me into an emergency C-section like a scene from the show ER. Since each subsequent crisis hit an intersection with the most recent, there was no time to reflect on what did not happen the way I’d planned, hoped, or dreamed.  The speed with which we were tumbling through life prevented me from processing the grief I had no margin to experience.

It’s easier for me to grieve things that happened than things that did not.  It feels natural to grieve losing my father eighteen years ago, but seems ungrateful to grieve the death of a plan, dream, or hope.  Yet it’s important to acknowledge these things before my Heavenly Father, who tells me to cast my cares on him.  And I’m in good company – and obedient – when I do.  Jonah wanted God to take his life.  Job admitted a bitter soul and loathed his existence.  Jeremiah cursed the day he was born.  Paul admitted to experiencing great despair.  It’s okay not to be okay but still be rooted in faith.

The five steps of grief, described by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross in 1969, include denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  These stages are how we acclimate to a new normal and protect our hearts in the process.   Progression looks differently for each person, and trauma can add obstacles that mire us in each stage.  We see a glimpse of the process in Gethsemane’s Garden as Jesus’ soul is grieved to the point of death, in anguish, his sweat falls like drops of blood, he asks God to remove the cup of sacrifice before him, and then he accepts God’s will for the redemption of man.  (Matthew 26 and Luke 22) 

Grieving what never was forces people like me to linger in the difficult emotions longer than I care to.  I want to push through to the positive, the silver lining, the fixing the outward rather than focusing on the inward.  But I miss out on important restorative moments when I rush toward where I want to be, avoiding the current mess in which God has me and wants to grow me. I love how God ministered to the strung-out, exhausted, despairing Elijah.  When this prophet was alone, fatigued, and ready to quit, God met him in his gloom with grace.  He nourished, touched, and instructed him, replacing lies of despair with words of hope and truth.  And God has done this for me when I’ve unburdened my disappointments and tears.

Now, grieving is not synonymous with self-pity.   None of the believers I’ve mentioned stayed stuck in their grief.  We don’t want to become so comfortable in sadness that we redecorate the place and call it home.  God intends it to be a launching pad for our faith so we can believe in what we cannot see and be certain of what we hope for. (Hebrews 11:1) I do not grieve as the world grieves because I have hope! (1 Thessalonians 4) So eventually, the One who is faithful and sovereign leads me back to Him.

I am casting my burden on a God who understands grief.  Who did not spare His own son in order to be my dad.  Who stores my tears in a bottle and records my misery in His book.  Who adores, defends, and delivers me.  His ears are a safe place to direct my cries of pain and collection of dashed dreams.  This world will always disappoint, but Christ never will.  Like Martin Luther, “I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all; but whatever I have placed in God’s hands, that I still possess.”

I challenge you to take the time and effort for grieving what never was. How have you seen God move in your grief?  What can you release into His all-powerful and loving hands today?

Listen to this podcast episode for more on finding hope in grieving what never was: