Have you ever heard someone use a phrase that immediately made you think of a song? It happened to me the other day in church.

The pastor was reading from the book of Ecclesiastes. The instant he began with the words, for everything there is a season, I began singing along with the Byrds in my head:
    
To everything, turn, turn, turn.
There is a season, turn, turn, turn.
And a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to be born, a time to die.
A time to plant, a time to reap.
A time to kill, a time to heal.
A time to laugh, a time to weep.

Apparently the original lyrics were not written by Pete Seeger, but Solomon. And wise, old Solomon shares in Ecclesiastes 3 that there are not just times for everything, there are seasons. That suggests that whether we plant or reap or laugh or weep, it is not just for a brief moment of time, but for a season. When it comes to weeping in particular, that is important for us to remember.

Even in the Christian culture, there is a lot of misunderstanding about grieving. Perhaps one of the more common misconceptions--and one that causes undue and untold pressure on those who experience loss--is that we are to grieve for as little time as possible, then move on with our lives. Solomon debunks that bunk. He reminds us that grieving is a season of life.

In our part of the world the year is divided up into four seasons, each lasting three months. But in Solomon's neck of the woods, there were two seasons--summer and winter. So when Solomon writes about a season to weep, it was with the understanding that grief can be a very long process; it can and should take a significant amount of time.

A second misunderstanding about grief has to do with the very definition of the word. Grief is not merely "intense, mental anguish." It is the "expression of intense, mental anguish." That is an important distinction because if we are not expressing our anguish we are not grieving. For us to truly grieve, those intense and, I must add, very normal feelings need to come out.

So what do we need to do when faced with the heartache of loss in our lives? I offer two suggestions.

First, remember that grieving is a season. When we put time limits on when we should be done with grieving and  "return to normal" we are short-circuiting the process.  The truth of the matter is we will never return to "normal." Nor should we. We have lost something that was profoundly meaningful to us.

A woman once shared with me how she was crying one morning, grieving the loss of her mother, when the phone rang. The person calling could tell by her voice that something was wrong and asked her what was going on. In a moment of vulnerability, she shared that she was just missing her mom. Her "friend" responded, "Come on. That happened two weeks ago!"

Whether is was two weeks, two months, or two years, such statements are not only minimizing, they are hurtful. They are also the reason why many people grieve alone. We must grant grief the time it needs.

A second and crucial step in the grieving process is to find a safe place where you can express what you honestly feel. And be warned: gut-wrenchingly honest grief may include weeping, wailing, questioning, and cussing. If someone truly wants to be of help, they will allow us to let our anguish out no matter what form it takes.

Anger is a more common part of the grieving process than most good Christians would ever admit. It, too, must be expressed if it is a part of our anguish. It is not only okay, it is normal to hate cancer, to be furious over suicide, even to be ticked off at God for allowing death to happen.

Name your feeling. Own it. Express it. We cannot work through our feelings if deny their existence.   

We must remember that unexpressed anguish doesn't simply dissipate over time. It will come out one way or another. It may take the form of resentment or depression or isolation or cynicism. But it will come out. It is important that it come out in healthy ways that honor God. We must seek friends or a good counselor who will help us to feel what we really feel, without judgement.

Expressing intense, mental anguish is not a bad thing. In fact, it is the key to our healing. We grieve deeply when we love deeply. We become stronger through seasons of weeping when we recognize that A., they are seasons and B., they require weeping.

Excerpt from When Father is a Bad Word​

I am no medical expert. It has come in very handy that I married a registered nurse. In our home Jan has had to deal with a variety of maladies, illnesses, and injuries, not to mention the subsequent crying, screaming, and demands to “kiss it and make it better” to which she usually responds, “Quit whining. You’re worse than the kids.”

But watching how she operates (no pun intended) in a situation where there is blood involved I have learned much. For instance, I have learned that there are three things that make open wounds dangerous. If cuts and gashes are not closed in time the results can be

1. infection,
2. contamination, and/or
3. the wounds becoming larger.

Open father wounds are dangerous for the same reasons. When we don’t experience “closure” to issues we have or had with our dads we can easily become “infected” with a host of harmful invaders—anger, depression, a sense of worthlessness, and addictive behaviors, just to name a few.

An interesting side note: Anyone with bad handwriting and an “M.D.” behind their name will tell you that more often than not it is infection that causes more long-term damage than the wound itself. Even the six-CD “How to Become a Professional Therapist” set sold on TV teaches that what we think is "the problem” is hardly ever "the problem.”

Unresolved issues with our dads can also lead to the contamination of our relationships with others. As a result of unhealthy interactions with our fathers, we may find it difficult, perhaps even impossible, to become truly intimate with anyone. We may be afraid of rejection. We may fear being abandoned. We may tend to expect the worst in most situations. We may keep people at arm’s length because of our inability to trust. We may carry inside us anger that erupts at the slightest provocation.

Take the issue of road rage for example. A driver takes offense at another driver resulting in screaming and hollering and cursing, punctuated by corresponding hand gestures. This behavior often results in altercations, assaults, and accidents.

So does this avalanche of anger really have to do with a poor schmuck in a Honda Civic who failed to turn on his blinker? Is it possible there is a more deserving target? Road rage could very well have more to do with care-less fathers than with careless drivers.  

In addition to infecting us and contaminating others when we don’t seek to close our father wounds quickly there is a great risk of the wounds becoming larger, causing an even greater threat to our health and well being. Left unchecked, resentment and unforgiveness will continue to eat away at our insides, causing our condition to worsen.

The good news is healing can happen. No matter how deep our father wounds we can have complete hope of a full recovery. Healing is found in relationship with our Heavenly Father. It is our understanding of Him that will soothe our wounds. It is knowing His nature that will provide balm for our hurts. It is entering into an intimate relationship with Him that will allow us to experience the love and healing and grace He longs to give us.

No matter how deep our father wounds, in the care of our Heavenly Father our prognosis is excellent. 

How I longed for closeness. I wanted nothing more than to simply be held in his arms and feel any tenderness he had for me. I needed to know that I was important to him; that he cared for me. But at a very early age I discovered the stark and indisputable truth that alcoholism and intimacy are incompatible.

My dad always drank. But when I was very young his drinking became unmanageable. I can still recall in disturbingly vivid detail my dad's drunken rages. The threats. The put-downs. The shaming. The blaming.

I am astounded at the power that flashbacks hold. All these years later, a simple dislodged memory can make me want to run and hide. 

But, just as remembering Dad's angry outbursts continues to trigger fear in me, recalling my hiding places still brings a strange sense of peace to my soul. Under my bed. In my bed, under the covers. My bedroom closet. The trunk of our blue Plymouth. When I was real little I would crawl into the doghouse and huddle in the straw with our Fox Terrier, Max.
  
As I shared these twenty-plus-year-old memories in my counselor's office, he tenderly brought me back to what it was that I needed as a frightened little boy. I stated again my deepest desire: I wanted a close, intimate relationship with my father.

With that goal in mind, my counselor suggested a seemingly easy remedy. Yet I found his prescription hard to swallow. Knowing I might never experience what I needed from my earthly father he said, “Sounds to me like you need to crawl up in your Heavenly Father’s lap and let Him love you.”

Just picturing that scene caused tears to stream down my cheeks. How I hungered for a father's love. How I craved the calm assurance that I was loved. How I need to find solace and safety in my dad's arms.

I knew it was a place I needed to go if I was ever to find healing for my soul. So I planned regular times when I would go off alone with God in hopes of finding what I was looking for.

I discovered that building intimacy is a process. At first, my alone time with my Heavenly Father was best depicted as me standing near Him (at a comfortably safe distance), hands in my pockets, making small talk. I had learned to be apprehensive around fathers. But as my spiritual journey continued I began to explore God's Word to found out more about Him. And the more I understood His true nature, the more I trusted Him. The more I trusted Him, the closer I drew to His side. Then one day, I found myself in His lap, basking in His tender embrace. I can't remember ever feeling that safe before.

I have come to know my Heavenly Father as He is described in Scripture. As my Hiding Place. My Refuge. My Protector. A Father who never misses an opportunity to show His kids just how much He loves them. In His lap I have found the intimacy I was searching for; intimacy that God meant for children to have with their fathers. What a gift.

God also gave my dad and our family a gift. The gift of sobriety. The last several years of my dad's life were alcohol-free. I'm eternally grateful that God brought about a degree of reconciliation between me and my dad. Although it didn't erase the painful memories, we made amends. 

In 1997, my dad passed away. As my siblings and I went through the difficult process of divvying up my parents' belongings I came across an unexpected treasure tucked away in a dresser drawer. It was a picture I had never seen before. Yet another image that triggered tears. It was a photo of me, on my first birthday, pre-addiction, sitting in my father's lap.

That picture is framed and displayed on a shelf in my office. It is my constant reminder that, even though alcoholism gave a very different message, my father loved me. And even if I had never experienced the love of an earthly father--a dilemma that far too many people in our world face--we can find safety in relationship with a Father who wants nothing more than to be close to His kids. In His lap is the safest place we could ever be. 

Hurting people are all around us. They ride the train with us. They check us out at the grocery store. They sit in the row with us at church. We often have no clue what is going on in the lives of people we encounter in the course of any given day.

Some folks are fine with that. They don't want anyone to know. Perhaps they choose to suffer in silence because they have come to believe no one wants to hear about their problems. Maybe they've convinced themselves that, compared to what others may be going through, their difficulties aren't really that big a deal. Others have determined that no one would understand anyway or, worse yet, care.

Then there are those who choose to keep their pain private for fear that people's responses will only make it worse.

One would think that, when it comes to responding to the heartaches of others, Christians, of all people, would get it right; that we would be quick to offer Jesus-like compassion and encouragement, prompting comforting words and helpful actions. That is not often the case.
 
Perhaps the most common response to those dealing with adversity is,  Let me know if you need anything. Christians quite often will also work into the conversation an I’ll pray for you. While these offers may appease the conscience of the giver, they do little to alleviate the sorrow of the receiver.
 
Some Bible-believing well-wishers quote Scripture verses to those who are hurting which, though they are truthful, are not always helpful. The recipient may be quite familiar with God's promise, "I will never leave you or forsake you." But their heart may not be in a condition to receive it. They feel abandoned and forsaken.
 
Many potential helpers, out of fear of saying the wrong thing, say nothing. They are uncomfortable talking about troubles like death, disease, divorce, or depression so they not only avoid such issues, they avoid those who may be experiencing them. And those who are hurting are driven even deeper into their pain.
 
So how might we respond in a more helpful way to those going through painful times? Here are a few suggestions:

• ​Instead of telling a hurting soul to let us know if he or she needs something, tell them what day we’ll bring dinner over or what afternoon we’ll watch their kids so they can have some time to care for themselves.
• Instead of telling them we’ll pray for them, pray for them right then and there—whether you’re at the funeral home, at church, or at the grocery store. As Bob Goff would say, “When it’s a matter of the heart, the place doesn’t matter.”
• Instead of feeling obligated to say something to them, just be there for them. Sometimes simply holding people in our arms and crying with them communicates God’s love in a more meaningful way than reciting the most enlightening psalm.

The secret to truly helping those who are hurting is really quite simple: We must show them what God's love looks like.

Sometimes we put too much emphasis on words. We try so hard to say just the right thing to help others to feel better, if only for a moment. But in actuality, more often than not, people forget what it said to them in trying times. But they remember who stood by them.

Instead of speaking from our heads and giving them information about God’s love, we must speak from our hearts and show them God’s love. His is a love that is selfless. Tender. Kind. Patient. 

​God's love is not always expressed in words. But it always shows up.