In many ways before losing my son to cancer, I misunderstood grief. I believed that having a right theology of suffering, having a solid understanding of Scripture, and having hope in Jesus would somehow lessen the pain of loss. I believed that the greater the faith meant the greater the hope and because of hope, the less painful grief would be. I realize now that I was sorely mistaken.

There is a common misconception within many Christian circles that because we ought not to "grieve as others do who have no hope," that the pain of grief and loss will be different for those who believe in Christ (1 Thess. 4:13). What I am learning is that the pain here on earth is not different. If I were to reword this verse into the positive, it would say, "Grieve, but when you grieve, do it as one with hope." What is different for the believer is not the absence of grief, but rather, it's that in the midst of grief, hope remains.

We are edging up very close to what will be the three-year mark of having lost Ezra. In many ways, the grief is easier to hold. The shock has worn off. I have grown accustomed to the weight of the sorrow. I am used to missing my son. I think of him often, but I no longer pick up my phone to text him or try to call him. Despite settling into this unwanted reality, losing him is still something that’s hard for me to talk about without being moved to tears. It is still a part of my story from which I am recovering. I am realizing this will likely be the case for the rest of my life.

When we first lost Ezra and into the following year, I was actually shocked by the depth of grief and the lack of comfort I felt from knowing what was true. At times I questioned the sincerity of the depth of my faith because the comfort I expected seemed absent. I now realize I had wrongly believed that knowing Ezra was not suffering anymore, knowing that he is with Jesus, would somehow ease the ache of loss and would cause the sorrow to be less.

I am beyond grateful that Ezra is with Jesus and I know the good and faithful hand of God held him to the very end. The truth is, however, I still grieve and wish he was here, as selfish as that may sound. I still wish his story had gone differently. I still ache with a depth of sorrow I did not know was possible. I still walk with the weight of grief every day and press on, enduring, but am also easily undone. I still must wrestle and choose to believe God's goodness when I think about how much Ezra suffered. I still battle for right belief and humble submission to God's plan that continues to feel painful and hard. I still struggle to learn how to use the changed brain that grief brought about. My family of six (rather than seven) still feels strange and foreign. I still feel fragile in many ways. The reality is the truth doesn’t always ease the sorrow and struggle or feel as comforting as I thought it might. The truth does not always ease the treacherous path or bring comfort in the moment.

Hope in the truth of our future with Christ does not always lessen the pain we experience today. Rather, hope becomes a companion that walks with us to a greater degree in light of loss. My left hand holds the grief of loss as my right hand holds the hope of Christ. They walk side-by-side with me step-by-step. The heavier the weight of loss, the greater the weight of hope. They compliment one another; co-exist.

I wrongly understood the verse that says we do not grieve like those who have no hope. My wrong assumption was that, somehow, my grief or my pain would be less because I had the hope of Jesus. Instead there have been times that this path of grief has threatened to undo me. My only hope in all of it was knowing that God would hold me when it felt like the weight of sorrow would crush me.

Paul's instruction is not that we ought not to grieve or feel the weight of grief. Rather, what we see throughout the entire council of Scripture are examples of those who have hope and yet grieve, mourn, and weep. When Jesus was at the tomb of Lazarus, he wept. Despite the fact that he knew he was about to bring his beloved friend back to life. Despite the hope he had in eternity. Despite knowing far more about the love of God and the hope of heaven than any other could understand, he still wept. He was undone by grief and loss and experienced once again the painful cruelty of the effects of sin. In our Savior's weeping, we learn what it is to grieve here on this sin-wrecked earth, even though we know there is a future hope.

Even as we mourn and weep in grief, we are also reminded there is hope. Grieving as those with hope does not lessen the pain or loss, it does not lessen the sting or ease the sorrow. What hope does is reassure us that mourning is temporary, the pain will not always remain, and death and sorrow are not the end. It turns our eyes from our present suffering towards a future that we cannot yet see but hold to in great faith.

For the one who grieves with hope in Christ, death does not have the final word. Those who die in Christ live on; it is simply a life we cannot see at the moment. There is so much hope in this truth! The reality of this hope, however, is that it does not take away the loss. Hope is not a bandaid that fixes sorrow. Hope does not erase the pain. Hope does not remove the longing of being with my son. Hope does not take away the trauma of watching him die. Hope does not delete the memories of watching him suffer or remove the disappointment of loss. Rather, it is an assurance that this wound of loss will one day heal fully in the hands of Christ. It's a promise that all these terrible, sad, horrible things will one day be redeemed. It's a promise of redemption while we wait in the pain.

Even when we know there is redemption coming, we still weep. Even when we believe that death is not the end, we still ache. Even when we hold to the truth, we still mourn. The sorrow we endure is still heavy. The grief is still a burden to bear. The weeping lasts for, what feels like, far more than the night, and the joy of the morning seems, at times, impossibly far away. But grieving as one who has hope is different because even if we are slayed in the moment by the painful hand of the Sovereign, we know that one day, it will all be well. So, "we do not lose heart . . . this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison" (2 Cor. 4:16–17).

As we grieve, we also hope. We both lament and anticipate. We cry and we wait. We weep yet with expectation. We sorrow yet we hold on, knowing with hope that one day, our great Savior will redeem every tear, every sadness, and every sorrow.