A Grief Observed
It’s hard to put into words the collective grief of a nation. It’s a strange, almost surreal feeling when someone full of life, hope, and love is taken suddenly in an unjust act. Something deep inside us tugs and reminds us: this isn’t right. Death happens in these ways everyday around the world—but there are moments when it happens to someone in particular, someone we all see, and we share a collective grief that’s hard to explain.
This morning I’m leaning on C.S. Lewis to process some of this grief, and I hope his words help you work through what we’re all feeling. In A Grief Observed, Lewis wrote:
“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing. At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting.”
This is where many of us may be today. Grief feels like fear, disillusionment, or a loss of interest in the things that captivated us just yesterday. My encouragement is simple: don’t be afraid for long. Work through it. Read on...
Lewis also describes another stage of grief, one I believe many of us will move toward as we process the mission and memory of Charlie Kirk. For this reflection, I’ll use his name where Lewis mentioned “H”:
“But the bath of self-pity, the wallow, the loathsome sticky-sweet pleasure of indulging it – that disgusts me. And even while I’m doing it I know it leads me to misrepresent Charlie. Thank God the memory of him is still too strong to let me get away with it.”
That feels true. While the weight of loss is heavy, when someone who lived with such conviction, passion, and drive is gone, their memory does not allow us to wallow for long. Their fire and their faith push us forward. The enemy we face has already lost the war. The forces of darkness cannot extinguish the light. In fact, every attempt to snuff it out only makes it burn brighter. Charlie’s light will not dim—it will blaze on, and he now enjoys the fruits of his labor in the presence of his Creator.
As Paul wrote in Philippians 1:21: “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” That is the truth for all of us who pursue the mission Jesus has called us to.
Still, many of us are asking the hard, unanswerable questions today. Lewis wrestled with them too:
“Where is God?”
He wrote about the silence, the aching sense that God was absent—or worse, indifferent. He even questioned whether such a God was worth believing in at all. But later, Lewis came to this reflection:
“When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of “No answer.” It is not a locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze. As though He shook His head not in refusal but waiving the question. Like “Peace, child; you don’t understand.” Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable. How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round? Probably half the questions we ask – half our great theological and metaphysical problems are like that.”
Today I rest in that. My mind is too small to wrap itself around eternity, or to understand why God allows such moments in time. It’s like asking why yellow is square or round—a question that makes no sense to begin with.
But here is what I know: life is temporary. Death reminds us of that with a sharp sting. Yet grief is not the end. Out of grief comes renewal. Out of loss can come strength. And out of tragedy, if we let Him, God can lead us into the very life Jesus promised when He said in John 10:10:
“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”
-Mark
