There are lots of analogies to describe what grief is like. One that especially resonates with me is that grief is like a hole in the floor of our house. When the loss is fresh, it seems that we can’t escape the room that has the gaping hole in it. It looms large before us and we fear falling in and never being able to crawl back out. 

Eventually, we find that we are able to navigate carefully around the hole and maybe even venture to other rooms in our house. But sometimes, when we aren’t paying attention, we will suddenly find the hole right at our feet, threatening to pull us over the edge. This happens when unexpected things trigger our grief—a certain smell, a date on the calendar, coming across a memento, or just because it’s time—whether we like it or not—to feel the hard feelings again.

As more time passes, we wind up spending less and less time in the room with the hole in the floor. The hole is still there, of course. It doesn’t get smaller. But, if we let it, the house gets bigger. And herein lies the key to growing with grief. We can only extend this metaphorical house of ours if we allow the Lord to be the Architect. If we hand our lives over to the Him, including all of our joy and all of our sorrow, He will expand our dwelling into a veritable palace. He will enrich our lives by adding countless rooms full of experiences, memories, opportunities, and love. So much love. The new love in our lives doesn’t erase our loss, but it can soften the edges of it. 

“Unless the Lord builds the house,
They labor in vain who build it;
Unless the Lord guards the city,
The watchman stays awake in vain.”
Psalm 127:1

With the Lord holding our hand, we reach a point where we sometimes choose to visit the room with the hole in the floor. We take a deep breath, open the door, and walk right up to the edge of the hole. We might smile. We might cry. We might just be still and remember what we’ve lost. But hopefully, we will also feel a deeper appreciation of all that has grown since this hole first appeared in our home. Maybe we will also take the time to notice that there are a lot of special things in the room with the hole in the floor—things that we were too sad to notice or appreciate before. 

As we approach Easter, we might draw a comparison between the perceived holes in our floor and the Lord’s tomb. I can only imagine the disciples’ grief when Jesus was crucified and His body was laid in a cave. How tragically final that must have felt. How desolate that tomb must have seemed. But of course, the miracle of Easter is that the tomb was empty. 

“He is not here. He is risen as He said.” Matthew 28:6

The Easter story reminds us that what we have a tendency to look for things in the wrong places. After all, it’s easy to focus on what’s missing. The disciples were shocked to find the stone rolled away and distressed to find Jesus’ body gone. But they were looking in the wrong place. He wasn’t there. He was and IS alive and well. He was there in body and spirit, but He was also in the dawn. In the flowers of the garden. In the rolling away of the stone. In the hope that, from that day on, heaven was stronger than ever and every person had the chance to be a part of it.

Returning to the house analogy—our lost loved ones aren’t in the hole they left behind. But, God willing, they are in literally every other good addition to our home. Everything good comes from the Lord and heaven is imbued in every good thing. So, while the hole in the floor is surely something to grieve, there is comfort in shifting our focus to the goodness and love beaming down on us from every stone, every nail, every doorway, every floorboard. Our loved ones are not in the hole. They are in the whole. They have risen, just as the Lord promised. They are a part of the house we’re building with the Lord. And we will see them again as they welcome us into our heavenly home.

“Blessed are those who mourn,
    for they will be comforted.” Matthew 5:4