Empty Arms and How to Keep Going with Grief

By Bethany Peck

Empty Arms and How to Keep Going with Grief (Part 2 of a Series)

Read Part 1 here: Learning to Live Loved After Divorce — THE WAY BACK TO OURSELVES (thewayback2ourselves.com)

The sun dipped past the horizon and the evening glow filtered through my windows. I sat in stillness on the side of my bed watching the evening light fade and listening to birds chirp and chatter away. Their cheery conversations distracted from the lingering sadness weighing heavy in my soul that night. Through years of suffering, birds had become a reminder to me of God’s presence in my life — that his eye is on those sparrows, and I know he sees me, too.

But did he, really?

Some days I also questioned his presence, and that Sunday night was one of those moments when I felt overcome by heartache over my childlessness. With my body feeling the weight of this grief, the heaviness pulled me into myself, and I laid down on my bed and curled to my side, sadness pooling around the unmet expectations of my life.

I always wanted to be a mother, always expected that would be a significant part of my life. My body was designed that way, after all.

But then, at 36, after an unexpected divorce in my early 30s, the weight of my closing window for biological motherhood felt crushing, and the loss over all the years I’d expected to be filled with the joy of young children, family, and motherhood overwhelmed me.

As those longed-for memories and dashed hopes crashed in my heart, along with a question cried out toward God — do you really see me in my pain? — one of my sweet dogs Scout had curled himself up in the crook of my legs with his soft head draped over my knees. He was always close by my side and loved to cuddle. Feeling safe with his presence, the dam of my emotions broke; I allowed my sadness and disappointment to pour out of me in tears.

As I cried, Scout turned his head toward me, and then he got up, gingerly stepping over my body to come near. Leaning closer to me, so that his tags gave a happy jingle and his floppy velveteen ears brushed my face, he gave me the sweetest dog kiss right on the lips with two little licks, and then curled himself up in a little ball in my arms. Now I was crying from the utter gentleness and sweetness of this precious creature seeing my pain and loving me. Expunged of the night’s tears, I held on to my sweet dog and thanked God for the gift of Scout — a loving companion who recognized my grief and sought to comfort me. This physical manifestation of love helped me survive that night.

Loss and Unfulfilled Dreams

Childlessness is a loss that I feel deeply. My tears that night were not only for the present pain of my sadness over childlessness, but also mourning for my younger self, her innocence still within me, who always imagined that as a woman in my later 30s, my husband and children would be central in my life. I had already suffered through the pain of betrayal trauma and divorce and had to grapple with those identity questions and unmet expectations for life.

But as I healed from those traumas, growing stronger and more confident as a woman and in my faith, a parallel development unfolded with each passing year as the hope and expectation of motherhood dimmed — grief grew.

The loss over the dreams I always imagined and hoped for would overcome me at times, like the day I needed Scout’s comfort. Other days it was less overwhelming, but I would move through days and weeks feeling as if something incredibly important was missing from my life. That a significant piece of myself and my identity was absent. The sadness and loneliness could feel crushing.

And what felt worse was how that grief could become grumbling as I harbored feelings of disappointment before God. Why me? This is not what I wanted for “my” life — why does it have to be this way?

Some days I just need to survive. To come up for air after being plunged down into the depths of grief. And other days and seasons, the grief would sting less as good things were growing in my life, but those questions of God’s will and suffering, and just feeling a bit disappointed in the plans he had for me, would nag me.

And maybe that’s you, too. Maybe it’s not childlessness, but you’re watching a child suffer and struggle and you feel helpless to change the situation. I think of my friends who have lost children. Struggled with infertility. Gone through divorces. Lost a loved one to suicide. Dealt with dissatisfaction in employment. Suffered through chronic pain or illness. The list could go on.

Oh friend, I know you have your grief too, and though it ebbs and flows, it never goes away, and I see you.

There are some situations that just don’t change. And that’s where I’m at with childlessness, now a few years away from 40. There’s a great deal of grief for the losses of life in my 20s and 30s. After my divorce, I let my imagination convince me that the way God would heal me would be with a new husband and babies — those are the narratives we like, the ones that get turned into movie scripts, right? But there’s no victory story here that I’m about to dazzle you with. In the here and now that is — no bow to wrap up the suffering.

It’s more a question of “How do I survive, and keep going, and even allow my grief to become growth?” How do I keep looking to the future and trust that God sees me?

Is that where you are, too? If it is, this is how I keep going, even when I trip and fall, and I hope it might help you too:

Honor Your Body

Grief can feel like a fog that never lifts. I’ve been there; I feel it still too. The fogginess clouds my brain so that my thoughts are swirling through a bog that keeps pulling me down. And that’s when I have to remember — I don’t just have a body; I am a body.

God didn’t just create humans as only spiritual beings but as physical creatures, too. Our body and mind and spirit are all intertwined, and when we care for our physical self, we are caring for our souls, too.

Honoring my body has become a ritual that brings relief. And what’s wonderful is that there are so many simple ways to do this. For me, going for a walk has been one of the best options — breathing fresh air, getting my heart pumping, letting sunshine fill my eyes. Also, petting my dogs. Holding a cup of hot tea (I love peach tea, so that the aroma fills me too). Eating a favorite meal. There’s, of course, the threat that something like food can turn to more of a coping mechanism or even full-blown addiction, but if we can practice these rituals in moderation, even enjoying a favorite treat (chocolate girl, here) can be a way to treat our bodies with kindness and take a break from grief by getting out of our heads and connecting with our physical self.

Let Others In

Some circumstances will never change, and grief can fade, but it never goes away. Likewise, those questions for God that we have that we’re afraid to ask usually don’t go away on their own. But what if we let others in, to help carry our burdens and listen to our lament? I confess, I have failed miserably at this at certain stages in my journey. I let fear and shame fester as I tried to put on a brave face and just always “be okay.” That all broke down. Just as our spiritual self and physical self are interconnected, as humans we are also designed to be relationally connected.

I learned the beauty of vulnerability through my first-ever support group. Before that, I could never even imagine sharing my grief and deepest shame with other human beings. But as I kept showing up, however much I felt the physical resistance, as my sadness and struggles were received with love and empathy, the feeling of being known brought comfort to my heart. It didn’t change the situation, but I felt less alone. I even felt loved in being known in my grief and in the complexity of my confusion.

By safely and appropriately letting others in, the dam of grief that builds up inside of us can lift a little. With connection and relieved pressure, we can feel more safe and secure, even if it’s just to survive through one more difficult day. But then, when night finally lifts, we find we have strength enough to start again the next morning. 

Rest on the Rock 

If you’re noticing a theme, even in caring for our body and sharing our grief with others, our situation likely won’t change. However, in those practices, we can get through the hardest of days, change internally, and even find meaning in our pain. But those questions for God can still linger.

And this is where I renounce any Christianity you may have experienced that always has easy answers or only promises the victory stories. A biblical theological understanding of God and his Holy Word leaves room for questions with an acceptance that there is a mystery to faith, and much of life is living in the tension of the unknown.

In his honest and heartfelt book, Disappointment with God: Three Questions No One Asks Aloud, Phillip Yancey writes of the times when God is seemingly silent in the Bible: “We tend to speed ahead to the exhilarating stories of liberation from slavery. But think of it! For an ellipsis of time twice as long as the USA has been in existence, Heaven was silent. Surely the Hebrew slaves in Egypt felt profound disappointment with God.” And yet, we know there was a plan for exodus and redemption being worked out. What if I can trust that for my own life and grief, even if I can’t understand?

The answer this: because there is also so much we do know — and when we look to God’s word we can rest on the rock of his promises. God does not promise an easy life, in fact he reminds believers in His word that trials will come. This is a broken world where death and disease and divorce (to name a few things) exist, and grief will flow from them.

But God is writing a grand story of redemption, and my childlessness is part of it. I don’t understand, but the rock of His Word and the testimony of His saints show me that all my grief will have a purpose. In his grace, I may see little glimmers of that glory in this life, but the full beauty will be in the world to come.

The Apostle Paul encourages us that our grievances today are “achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So, we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:17-18). My grief may never go away, but hope is transforming my heart to trust and believe that my tears are watering the soil for something growing beyond me that is too beautiful to even imagine.

When There’s No Reprieve

A few weeks after Scout’s sweet consolation during my plunge into the grief of childlessness, I found myself in the parking lot of a local park. I needed to stretch my body, breathe, and find some peace in beauty that morning, but I lingered in the car as my mind swirled with anxiety. Just two days earlier, I had taken my precious Scout to the Animal ER after he had been experiencing breathing issues, and at 3am the veterinarian delivered the news that he had a serious heart condition and that my seemingly healthy 6-year-old dog may only have 6 - 12 months left to live. I was heartbroken.

Still tingling from the shock, I gripped the steering wheel that morning and cried. With the safety of my car, I audibly cried out to God, “Why!” Through divorce and childlessness, Scout was my faithful companion, a creature for me to fulfill some of my nurturing desires. I couldn’t lose him. In a whisper I prayed, “My depression is difficult enough as it is, God, how will I survive without my Scout?”

As I sat there with my grief, my heart distraught and my countenance frowning, a little bird flew close by and landed on the edge of the roof of my car. I couldn’t control a little chuckle of joy. I watched him through my sideview mirror just sitting there. He stayed long enough that I rolled down my window and even took a bleary-eyed stern-faced selfie — I wanted to remember that moment. Did God send that sparrow, or did I just place my own meaning on it?

Hearkening again to the mystery of faith, I don’t know. But I do know that in that moment, the little birdie gave me joy. He lifted me from my grief and reminded me of the simple joys of life, and of God providing when we need Him. I dug into the Rock that I knew and felt my heart strengthening — I don’t know what is going to happen, but I am going to trust that God will take care of me. And Jesus explains that a sparrow cannot fall outside the care of the Father, so certainly He sees where they land, too? I was encouraged recounting the loving-kindness of God and was able to step out for a hope-filled and calming walk in the woods.

Two days later Scout died. I received the call in the middle of the night — he was on life support, and I needed to rush in to see him one last time. Reeling from the news, the doctor explained to me that while he was being weaned off medication to hopefully come home the next day, he had had a heart attack and stroke and wouldn’t survive. When I arrived, he was catatonic but distinctly began wagging his tail when I approached and touched him, rubbing his soft ears. We spent some tearful and heart-rending moments together, so I could remember his touch and tell him how much I loved him. Then he left me. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

The trauma of losing a seemingly healthy, beloved dog over the course of five days, and then the heartache of having to go on with the grief of his loss felt like it would be too much. I was distraught. Afterall, he had been my comforter and stress reliever from my other layers of grief!

Beginning Again

So, what do you do when the plunge of grief pulls you down deeper?

You begin again.

After Scout’s death, I went on long walks and baked and practiced painting. I enjoyed an ice cream cone here and there (his favorite).

I told my coworkers how sad I was so they could mourn with me over Zoom. I let my church friends hug me that first Sunday after his death.

And as I cried, I kept clinging to God. Not as a mark of my great faith, but of his great grip on me. As I’m held by Him, I can more and more sink into the comfort of His love.

Resting on the rock of his sovereignty, I’ve been able to continually release the mirage that this is “my” life to control anyhow, and accepting that my life is His, to be part of the grand story of God’s Kingdom. I can tell him my disappointment, trust he’s holding all of my hurt, and hear his gentle whispers “just wait for what’s to come.” God has worked miracles through barrenness; he’ll bring glory to grief, too.

And that little harbinger that landed on my car that day? I kept finding tangible ways for him to be true. Along with the rituals that kept me going, God did continue to provide ways of care as time unfolded. Just a few months later, there was the unexpected new job where I found purpose and belonging and the opportunity to support a kid’s camp. And the next year, ministry involvement that had me nurturing young teens through church. And since then, even two beautiful new nieces! As well as other delights that I couldn’t plan on my own.

I have survived.

Of course, the grief is still there too — childlessness still weighs heavy, and I still miss my Scout — but I keep going.

As the holidays approach, my heart is tender toward those of you reading this who may be struggling with grief, too. Let’s be tender toward our hearts.

I wish we could go on a brisk walk together, then have a piece of pumpkin pie over coffee. I’d welcome you to share what’s weighing heavy right now. We could sit with each other and our questions, the silence, the mystery, and point our hope to the suffering Savior, the Son who became flesh and wept and asked God questions, too: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39).

And maybe in the silence, we’d hear the birdsong, too.

BETHANY PECK

Bethany is a writer and photographer living near the beautiful Chesapeake Bay in northeastern Maryland. She loves nature and writes about experiencing God's love through creation at bethanypeck.org and on Instagram at @beautiful_purpose_writing. In her day job, she gets to write stories for local ministries in the Baltimore area. She and her dog Hunter stay active by hiking, kayaking, and enjoying long evening walks.