Brad Franklin’s book When Sorrows Like Sea Billows Roll has proved to be a source of solace and direction for those who face bereavement. Brad writes from his own personal and painful experience of losing his wife Megan in 2019.

As a publisher, we have been blessed by accounts of those who have found his writing to be a grace and help in their most troubled times. In this week’s article, we have sampled a full chapter from this title, trusting that it will be a help to hurting hearts and an invitation into the wider counsel that Brad gives in his book.

I didn’t cry at Megan’s funeral or her graveside service. I wore the same blue suit to both. I smiled and even laughed at both services and during the teas that followed. I don’t know how you’re supposed to act at your wife’s funeral. Over the next few months, I got on with looking after the children, did the school run, gave haircuts and tried to get back to work. I did the shopping, prepared meals, and even started having people into our home for meals again. Through it all, I grieved and got on each day as best I could.

And for a lot of that period, I smiled. Sometimes I didn’t. I also don’t know how you’re supposed to act eight months after your wife dies. On the first anniversary of Megan’s death, I received so many kind messages. I replied, I think, to all of them. Around that same time, we had a full house for what used to be our annual New Year’s Eve open house. I made chilli, we had pineapple upside down cake, we made jokes, and we generally enjoyed the evening. Of course, it was tinged with sadness so near to the anniversary of Megan’s death. Believe it or not, I also don’t know how you’re supposed to behave around the first anniversary of your wife’s death. Cry? Laugh? Be sombre? Smile? All of the above?

I’m not sure there is a way you’re supposed to behave. At that time, an obvious truth began to dawn on me: everybody grieves differently. Over the course of that first year, I saw this
truth as I interacted with other people who themselves were grieving Megan’s death.

Varieties of Grief

Let me give you three composite reactions to Megan’s death, each drawn from actual interactions:

Reaction 1: ‘Brad, you look tired. I’d be the same way. You’re doing well though. Keep it up.’

Reaction 2: ‘I don’t know how you made it through the funeral. I would have been crying my eyes out. I still would be.’

Reaction 3: ‘You must be missing Megan so much [awkward pause to regain composure]. Her death reminds me of my brother’s tragic death.’

Of course, I’m not classifying any of these as right or wrong. Just notice: they’re all slightly different. The Bible also contains a diverse sample of grievers. Let’s see three.

First, David. He’s under threat, and he cries to the Lord. He prays for retribution to fall on his enemies. Yet when his enemies themselves are near death, David describes how he felt: ‘Yet when they were ill, I put on sackcloth and humbled myself with fasting. When my prayers returned to me unanswered, I went about mourning as though for my friend
or brother. I bowed my head in grief as though weeping for my mother’ (Ps. 35:13–14).

Next, consider Nehemiah. From Susa, he hears of the fate of the Israelites still living in Israel and the sorry state of Jerusalem’s walls. Nehemiah’s reaction: ‘When I heard these
things, I sat down and wept. For some days I mourned and fasted and prayed before the God of heaven’ (Neh. 1:4). Then, he moves to rectify the situation. Lastly, consider Jesus. Upon Lazarus’s death, many weep at the tomb. Then the onlookers recognise, in Jesus’s tears, His love for Lazarus (Jn. 11:36). You probably know how this ends: Lazarus is miraculously raised to life.

So, in sum, Nehemiah grieved for his homeland and people, and he got busy. David grieved at his enemies’ plight, just as he’d weep for his mum. Then he captured his grief in poetry. Jesus weeps. Yet a resurrection transforms the scene from sorrow to joy. Three different grievers. For three different reasons. Leading to three different reactions.

Anecdotal evidence urges me to push my point one step further: everybody grieves differently AND most people expect you to grieve like they do. We don’t do this intentionally.
But think about it: we’re surprised when someone cries, and we barely felt a flicker of emotion. We’re taken aback when someone doesn’t sob, when our eyes are splotchy and red with tears. We see it in the questions we ask ourselves: ‘Have I got this wrong? Am I just overly emotional? Does she not have a heart?’ We compare ourselves to others and their reactions. We may even, in our worst moments, be offended or hurt if others don’t feel or act the way we do.

As others grieved Megan’s death differently than me, I began to ask a weird question: ‘Do
people think, because I don’t cry like they do, that I didn’t love Megan? Because I did, and I do! I may not cry much, but don’t think that means I don’t miss her!’ I felt compelled to express my love for Megan out loud to others, just to prove that I loved her! Like I said: different grievers, different reasons, different reactions and even different expectations.

How to handle each other’s grief

What should we do about this? Let’s remember what Hebrews 13:3 tells us: ‘Continue to remember those in prison as if you were together with them in prison, and those who
are ill-treated as if you yourselves were suffering.’ We need to actively think of and care for brothers and sisters who are in a bad way. We need to identify with them, as if their suffering were our own. Because, well, it is. ‘If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honoured, every part rejoices with it’ (1 Cor. 12:26).

Such is our unity with other Christians, especially within our local church. Your redundancy is my redundancy. Your rebellious child breaks my heart, too. Your new flat purchase near the church is a win for me, even if I’m still in a bedsit a couple miles away. I’m to think of your ups and downs as mine, and care for you as best I can according to your needs. Paul echoes this admonition in Romans 12:15: ‘Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.’

We’re to actively celebrate other’s successes and grieve over their sorrows. This is a command to feel with others, in so far as we can, or at a minimum, it’s a command to be aware of others’ joys and sorrows and treat them fittingly. I may not have a miscarriage, but your miscarriage affects me too. Inversely, your award of recognition at work is a cause for shared celebration. If you’re happy, I’m happy. If you’re hurting, I’m hurting.

My aim: to know you, your ailments, and your normal way of grieving so that I might love and serve you in your sorrows. Peter sums up well the Christian’s responsibility to grievers: ‘Finally, all of you, be like-minded, be sympathetic, love one another, be compassionate and humble’ (1 Pet. 3:8).

Let’s summarise all that we’ve said so far, and make a final appeal. Christians, recognise that your brothers and sisters don’t grieve like you do. So don’t hold them to your standard of grieving. Be humble, patient and sympathetic in your dealings with each other. Your goal is to ‘please God’ (2 Cor. 5:9), not look exactly like others.

Let me close by offering a two-part appeal. First, Christians: get to know your brothers and sisters well. Be a committed member of your church. Get extensive time, socially (think
food and drink!), with other members. Do stuff together. And as you do, ask questions about each other’s highs and lows. Pay attention to where you can help when the time comes. Then, praying for help, do it.

Second, if you’re an elder of a church, encourage this kind of culture in your church. Does
your sermon application direct the church in how to care for each other in times of suffering? Are you modelling this kind of awareness and mutual care in your personal life and in your ministry to the flock (1 Pet. 5:2–3)? May the Lord help us hereto His glory and our good.

I’m still not sure how to act at your wife’s funeral. Or at the one-year or three-year anniversary of her death. I look back and ask myself: ‘Did I handle that well?’ And I don’t have an answer! But this much I do know: I loved my wife. I miss her like
crazy. I smiled. Sometimes I cried. I still do. I’m okay with that.

Brad Franklin has served on the pastoral team of St Giles, Islington, since 2011. He is married to Naomi, and is the father of seven boys and two girls.