How to Bear Sorrow

As believers our comfort must be in God, who refines us through trials rather than punishing us, as Christ bore all punishment on the cross. Sorrow reveals and strengthens virtues like patience, sympathy, and hope. Though friends may not fully understand, Jesus is a constant source of compassion and comfort. Instead of isolating ourselves, we find healing in helping others. This suffering, while painful, sows seeds of future joy, wisdom, and strength that will one day be realized.

You are passing through a time of deep sorrow. The love in which you placed your trust has failed you without warning. It has dried up like a brook in the desert that is now a dwindling stream, then shallow pools, and at last drought. You are always listening for footsteps that do not come. Waiting for a word that is not spoken, pining for a reply that tarries overdue. The savings of your life have vanished without warning. Instead of helping others, someone must help you. You must leave the warm nest that sheltered you from life’s storms. You must venture alone into a hostile world. Or, you receive an unexpected call to take on another's life. You must take no rest until you have guided it through dark, difficult seas to safety.

Your health, sight, and energy are failing. You carry a death sentence. The anguish of awaiting the future is almost unbearable. In other cases, there is a sense of recent loss.

The gap in the forest shows where the woodsman has been felling trees. At such times life seems almost insupportable. Will every day be as long as this? Will the slow-moving hours ever again quicken their pace?

Will life ever array itself in another garb than the torn autumn remnants of past summer glory? “Has God forgotten to be gracious? Has he in anger shut up his compassion?” (Psalm 77:9).

This road has been trodden by myriads. Think of the wars that have devastated every land. Of the Nimrods, the Nebuchadnezzars, the Timurs, and the Napoleons. Of the merciless slave trade. And of all the tyranny, oppression, and wrongs the weak have suffered at the hands of their fellows. Of the unutterable sorrows of women and children. You must see that most of our race shares your grief.

Jesus Christ Himself trod this difficult path, leaving traces of His blood on its flints. Apostles, prophets, confessors, and martyrs have passed by the same way. It is comforting to know that others have crossed the same dark valley. The vast crowd before the Lamb, wearing victory palms, came out of great tribulation. Where they were, we are; and, by God’s grace, where they are, we will be.

Do Not Talk About Punishment. You may talk of chastisement or correction. Our Father deals with us as with sons. You may speak of reaping the results of mistakes and sins, once planted in life's furrows. Or, you may bear the consequences of others' sins and mistakes. But, do not speak of punishment.

Jesus took on all the guilt and penalty of sins, and He removed them forever. His were the stripes and the chastisement of our peace. If God punishes us for our sins, Christ's sufferings were incomplete.

If He began to punish us, life would be too short for the infliction of all that we deserve. Also, how could we explain life's anomalies? The saints endure suffering, while the ungodly live peacefully. Surely, if our sufferings were penal, there would be a reversal of lots of these.

Sorrow is a refiner’s crucible. Another's neglect or cruelty may cause it. It might be due to uncontrollable circumstances or a dark past. But, since God allowed it, we must accept it. It is His test, a furnace to search and purify the soul. Suffering searches us as fire does metal. We think we completely devote ourselves to God until the cleansing fire of pain exposes us. Then we discover, as Job did, how much dross there is in us, and how little real patience, submission, and faith. Nothing detaches us from this world, its pleasures, and earthly loves more than this. Nothing but the life of Jesus in our mortal flesh can likely stop the self-life's power.

But God always keeps the discipline of sorrow in His own hands. Our Lord said, “My Father is the husbandman.” His hand holds the pruning knife. His eye watches the crucible. His gentle touch is on the pulse while the operation is in progress. He will not allow even the devil to have his own way with us. As in the case of Job, so always. The team allocates the moments with care. The test's severity is exact. It lies in unrecognized reserves of grace and strength. They will be sought and used under the pain of great pressure.

He holds the winds in His fist and the waters in the hollow of His hand. He doesn’t dare risk the loss of that which has cost Him the blood of His Son. “ No temptation has overtaken you that is not common to man. God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it . (1 Corinthians 10:13).

In sorrow, the Comforter is near. “Very present in times of trouble.” He sits by the crucible, a Refiner of silver. He regulates the heat, marking every change. He waits for the scum to float away and for the clear, molten metal to mirror his face. No earthly friend may tread the winepress with you. But, the Savior is there, His garments stained with the blood of the grapes of your sorrow. Dare to repeat it often, though you do not feel it, and though Satan insists that God has left you, “You are with me.” Mention His name again and again, “Jesus, Jesus, You are with me.” So you will become conscious that He is there.

When friends come to console you, they speak of time's healing touch. They think forgetting is the best cure for sorrow. In their kindness, they suggest travel or fun. But they fail to see the dark night that hangs over your soul. So you turn from them sick at heart and prepared to say, as Job, “Miserable comforters are you all.” But, Jesus is nearer than they are. He knows their pain. He feels for them. His love is too deep for words. He waits to comfort them, like a mother with a suffering baby.

Study the art of this divine comfort. Then, you can comfort those in any affliction with the comfort you received from God (2 Corinthians 1:4). Some trials may come to us, as they do to our Lord. They exist to help us give "sympathy to others." We should observe each symptom of the pain with attention. We should also note each prescription of the Great Physician. We may have to help those with similar experiences in the future. So, we learn from our suffering. When we are perfect, we can help tormented souls. Our help will be priceless and eternal.

Do Not Shut Yourself Up with Your Sorrow. A friend, in deep grief, wrote that he must give up the Christian ministries he had loved. I replied, urging him not to. There is no solace for heart pain like ministry. Great suffering tempts us to isolate and withdraw. We want to sit alone and be silent. Do not yield to it. Break through the icy chains of the reserve, if they have already gathered. Arise, anoint your head and wash your face; go forth to your duty, with willing though chastened steps. All selfishness, in action or thought, is hurtful. It shuts out God's help and love.

Sorrow is apt to be selfish. The soul, full of grief and refusing comfort, becomes a Dead Sea. It is a place where no birds fly and nothing grows. And thus we miss the very lesson that God would teach us. His constant war is against the self-life, and every pain He inflicts is to lessen its hold upon us. But we may thwart His purpose. We may extract poison from His gifts, as men do with opium and alcohol from innocent plants.

A Hindu woman, a beautiful Eastern legend tells us, lost her only child. Wild with grief, she implored a prophet to give back her little one to her love. He looked at her tenderly for a long while and said: “Go, my daughter, bring me a handful of rice from a house into which Death has never entered, and I will do as you desire.” The woman at once began her search. She went from dwelling to dwelling and easily got rice. But, when they granted it, she asked, "Is everyone at the hearth—father, mother, children—none missing?"

The people invariably shook their heads, with sighs and looks of sadness. As far and wide as she wandered, there was always some vacant seat by the hearth. The legend says, as she passed on, her grief faded. The sorrow everywhere had overwhelmed her. Her heart, once consumed by its own pain, now yearned to share in the world's suffering. Her anguish turned to pity; her passion to compassion. She lost herself in the interest of all. She found redemption in redeeming.

Refrain from criticizing yourself for your intense feelings. Tears are natural. Jesus wept. A rainless thunderstorm is perilous. The pattering raindrops cool the air and relieve the charged atmosphere. The swollen brooks state that the snow is melting on the hills and spring is near. “Daughters of Jerusalem,” said our Lord, “Weep for yourselves and for your children.” (Luke 23:28). To bear sorrow with dry eyes and a stolid heart may befit a Stoic, but not a Christian. We should not scold nature, longing for its mate, its lost joy, the touch of a vanished hand, the sound of a still voice. We ask only that you surrender the will. This is the one consideration for those who suffer, is the will right? If it isn’t, God Himself cannot comfort. If it is, then the path will lead from the valley of the shadow of death to the banqueting table and the overflowing cup.

Many say, “I cannot feel surrendered. It is bad enough to have my grief to bear, but I have this added trouble, that I cannot feel surrendered.” My constant reply is: “You probably never can feel surrender, but you can.

The Lord Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, has shown us how to suffer. He chose His Father’s will. Satan prompted Judas to mix the cup and give it to the Savior. But the Savior looked past Judas to the Father, who allowed his cruel act. He then said, "Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?" He then added, "If I cannot pass this unless I drink it, may your will be done." He gave up His own way, saying, "If you are willing, remove this cup from me." Still, not my will, but yours, be done.”

Let all sufferers who read these lines go apart and dare to say the same words: “Your will, and not mine. Your will be done in the earth of my life, as in the heaven of Your purpose. I choose Your will.” Say this thoughtfully and deliberately. Not because you feel it, but because you will. Not because the way of the cross is pleasant, but because it must be right. Say it, whenever the pain returns, whenever the wound bleeds. “Not my will, but Yours be done.” Dare to say yes to God.

“Even so, Father, for so it seems good in Your sight.”

And so you will be led to feel that all is right and well. A great calm will settle on your heart. It will be a peace beyond understanding. You will find a rest that coexists with suffering.

It will walk amid it, like the three young men in the fiery furnace. The burning coals must have felt like the dewy grass of a forest glade. The doctor told us my little child was dying. I felt like a stone. But in a moment, I seemed to give up my hold on her. She appeared no longer mine, but God’s.”

Be Sure to Learn God’s Lessons. Each sorrow carries at its heart a germ of holy truth. If you get and sow in your heart, you will bear fruit, as seed-corns from mummy cases do in modern soil. God has a meaning in each blow of His chisel, each incision of His knife. He knows the way that He takes. But his object is not always clear to us. In suffering, God touches the minor chords. He develops the passive virtues.

He reveals the treasures of darkness, the constellations of promise, the rainbow of hope, and the silver light of the covenant. What is character without sympathy, submission, patience, and trust? What is it without hope that grips the unseen as an anchor? But these Graces are only possible through sorrow.

Sorrow is a garden. Its trees bear the fruits of righteousness. They are peaceful. Do not leave without bringing them with you. Sorrow is a mine, its walls glistening with precious stones. Do not return to daylight without some specimens. Sorrow is a school.

You are sent to sit on its hard benches and learn from its black-lettered pages lessons that will make you wise forever; do not trifle away your chance of graduating there. Miss Havergal used to talk of “turned lessons."

Count on the afterward. God will not always be causing grief. He ploughs the dull brown acres. He wants to sow precious seed.

Believe that in days of sorrow, He is sowing light for the righteous and gladness for the upright in heart. Look forward to the reaping. Expect the joy ahead. It will fill your heart with song when patience has done her perfect work.

You will live to recognize the wisdom of God’s choice for you. One day, you will see that the thing you wanted was only second best. You will be surprised to remember. You nearly broke your heart and wasted your life on something that would not have satisfied you. It was like a child chasing a butterfly or a soap bubble. You will meet your beloved again. You will have your love again. You will gain a deep character, great sympathy, and patience. You will understand and help others. If you give these to Christ, you will be glad you were afflicted. You will see God’s plan and purpose; you will reap His harvest; you will behold His face and be satisfied. Each wound will have its pearl. Each carcass will have a swarm of bees. Each foe will yield its goodly spoil, like Midian did to Gideon.

The way of the cross, rightly borne, is the only way to the everlasting light. Only the path through Gethsemane and over Calvary's hill leads to the Easter visions and the Ascension's glories. If we do not drink His cup, or are not baptized with His baptism, we cannot expect to share in the joys of His espousals and the ecstasy of His triumph. We must also fill up what is lacking in His sufferings. If we meet these conditions, we will not miss a note in the everlasting song or an element in the bliss possible to men.

Not possible to remove the adverb. The death of Hallam was the birthday of Tennyson’s beautiful poem “In Memoriam.” The cloud of insanity that brooded over Cowper gave us the hymn “God Moves in a Mysterious Way.” Milton’s blunders taught him to sing of “Holy light, offspring of heaven’s first-born.” Rist used to say, “The cross has pressed many songs out of me.” No one likely suffers without helping to ease grief, to triumph good over evil, love over hate, and light over darkness.

If you believe this, could you not bear to suffer? Isn't the worst part of suffering its loneliness? And, its aimlessness? Then dare to believe that no man dies to himself. Fall into the ground, bravely and cheerfully, to die. If you refuse, you will be alone. But if you yield, you will bear fruit. It will sweeten and strengthen the lives of others.

They may never know your name or thank you for your help.