“Come on,” I said to myself, as I waited in the carpool line for my boys, “This is not a good time for a meltdown . . . get it together before they get into the car.”
I quickly wiped a tear away and pushed my sunglasses up on my face, as I simultaneously pushed back the flood of childhood memories running through my mind—memories of my brother and me swimming in the ocean with my dad when we were kids.
We spent hours swimming and playing on the beach in Long Island where my grandparents lived. My dad showed us how to dodge the powerful waves by diving directly into their giant, cresting arms. He called it the “sweet spot,” where everything is peaceful and calm.
My memories of my brother were interrupted when the boys piled into the car, chattering loudly. I struggled to keep my voice from breaking while I asked them about their day, trying to pull myself out of the thick sea of sadness quickly engulfing me.
By the time we pulled into the garage, the tears welled up in my eyes again as I dragged myself inside where I dropped my purse and keys on the table in exhaustion as the waves of emotion swept over me.
I stayed there sobbing for several minutes. Why was this happening again? I thought. First, the sudden death of my father when I was pregnant, then the sudden death of my mom, and now, my brother. Why??
I looked up, slowly wiping my tear-stained cheeks, as my eyes focused on the framed picture above me—a picture I had seen a thousand times before, but now, suddenly it took on new meaning.
In the picture, two orthodox Jewish men are praying at The Western Wall in Jerusalem. The older man looks tired as he looks down at the little prayer book in his hand. Above him, an image of Jesus appears in the wall, with one hand on the man’s back and the other holding a rolled-up scroll with the man’s prayers on it. Tears are in and underneath Jesus’s sad eyes.
My gaze stayed fixed on Jesus’ tears. It was as if they were real and freshly falling for me—those great big tears like drops of rain pooling in his eyes and trickling down his cheeks. I gasped for air in between my sobs and stared in disbelief as I realized what I was looking at . . . the wailing wall.
The place where the Jewish people wept after the temple was destroyed by the Romans in the first century. The place where my people have cried millions of tears and tucked thousands of prayers in the crevices of its ancient stones. A place where Christian pilgrims come from all over the world to pray, and a place not far from where Jesus himself wept over Jerusalem, longing to gather his people under his wings.
Suddenly, it occurred to me if anyone could relate to my grief, it was Jesus. Rejected by his own family, friends, and community, he knew what it meant to have sorrow. He was “a man of sorrows, well-acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).
For the first time in weeks, as I gazed into his teary eyes, I felt the sting of my own sorrow dull a little. I felt like someone understood. My chin lifted a little. If anyone knows what this pain feels like, it’s Jesus, I thought.
Several weeks later, I was praying and reading when I came upon the story of Lazarus, Jesus’ friend who died. Instead of heading to Bethany, where Lazarus’s grieving family was, Jesus stayed in Jerusalem two more days. When he eventually arrived in Bethany and saw Martha, she was full of sorrow. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother wouldn’t have died!” she cried out in her grief. “But I know that even now, God will give you what you ask.”
“Lord, this is how I feel,” I whispered under my breath. “If you had done something, my brother wouldn’t have died. Why did you let this happen?
Then, I read the next line, “Jesus said to her, ‘Your brother will rise again.’”
The words seemed to lift off the page in stereo sound above my own thoughts. I knew these words Jesus spoke thousands of years ago weren’t just for Martha . . . these words were also for me.
In my grief, I hadn’t been able to hear God’s voice. Now, it was crystal clear. The dark clouds began to part, and a ray of hope broke through as I realized with certainty I would be reunited with my brother once again, and this time it would be forever.
I knew in that hospital room where everything seemed so final, my brother opened his heart to the Messiah and walked into eternity with him.
When the waves of grief still threaten to take me under, I don’t stay there long because I know on the other side of those waves, there’s a sweet spot. And I know I will see my brother again someday . . . on a glistening distant shore.
by Chelsea Ohlemiller 
by Brianne Edwards 
