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But Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on the cushion. So they woke Him and said, “Teacher, don’t You care that we are perishing?” Then Jesus got up and rebuked the wind and the sea. “Silence!” He commanded. “Be still!” And the wind died down, and it was perfectly calm.
Mark 4:38-39 (ESV)

I remember the night I lost Tom.

Nothing short of a tranquilizer would get me to sleep. I paced the house, folding towels, keeping myself occupied and noticing a remarkable calm of numbness that formed a wall, protecting my heart from reality.

Then—a small crack.

Momentary images of Tom trickled in—his embrace as he whispered his first confession of faith—his beaming smile as he danced with all four little boys around the house.

More memories came gushing in – Tom holding his little girl during her times of sadness, Tom blowing raspberries on our friends’ toddler’s belly, Tom pulling our boys on wagon rides.

Then the crashing wave.

My body shook against the rush of images, but I couldn’t stop the storm that surged from deep deep in my gut. I looked up to notice the flowers he had placed in the vase on the coffee table before the couch that very day.

The couch! Just hours ago Tom stretched his arms broadly over the back of it, grinning his trademark ear-to-ear grin. I couldn’t breathe. I’ll never see that grin again!

The towels fell from my hands. I collapsed into that couch and sobbed. He’s gone—really gone! Jesus, help! Where are you? I cried.

His disciples cried out to Jesus too!

When Jesus asked them to cross the sea, they didn’t expect him to sleep while they struggled with a sudden storm. There He was sleeping in the stern while waves broke over the boat!

“Teacher, don’t You care that we are perishing?” they asked? (Mark 4:38 (ESV)) Of course He did, and He cares about our anguish during grief too. Jesus stood up, rebuked the wind, and the sea calmed on His command.

Waves of grief can be stilled in an instant, just like that stormy sea.

When you’re in the wave, you really feel its full force. You can’t shake it. The pain is searing and you can’t move. Life doesn’t exist beyond tears.

Then something happens in your circuitry. Your brain recharges. New walls go up. The dike is repaired. The waves stilled. How can it be?

The urge to sob left me. I sat up as my breathing slowed, wondering how that unbearable pain could have receded in an instant. A forcefield of calm was left behind. I picked up the towels and began folding them again.

I had just experienced my first wave of grief. Many would follow.

I could be going about my business, doing just fine, when another wave would hit. I soon learned the signs a wave was approaching. I rode those waves with trust that Christ knew exactly how much grief and emotion I could withstand with each one.

Wave by wave, I inched closer to healing in my grief. Eventually the sadness and tears come mixed with laughter and warmth—tears of gratitude for the husband I had, rather than tears of pining for the man I lost.

It’s Christ who stills your stormy waves of grief.

Remember He designed you, right down to the circuitry in your brain that puts up that protective wall when it’s needed during your loss. Slowly, the way Christ designed your brain to work, your mind lets reality creep in, one crashing wave after another. In His marvelous design, He put Himself in there, ready to still the crashing waves of grief.

Imagine Him standing in your boat and commanding those emotions: “Silence!” “Be still!”

A wave is a gift from God, allowing you to inch just a little bit forward.

Ride it out.

Lord,

You calmed the sea when the disciples were frightened by waves. Please calm our hearts and help us rest in the certainty that You calm the waves and help us ride them out.