Luke 1:78-79 reminds us of God's tender mercy, saying, "Because of God's tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace." But when I hear common phrases like "Hard times either make you bitter or better," I can't help but cringe. These simplistic sayings are often shared on social media as if life's deepest struggles could be boiled down to a straightforward choice. It implies that I must pick between two marked paths, but grief is not simple.
Living with deep pain and circumstances I can never change means that I have to face the same choice over and over again.
This isn't a one-time decision. It's an ongoing struggle to fight against the natural pull of my heart toward loneliness, isolation, and self-protection. When I'm hurting, it's tempting to shut the world out, to hold onto my pain as a shield against the possibility of more.
I must choose whether to give in to despair or reach for hope at every moment. However, I can't entirely agree with the idea that hardship or grief only leads to two outcomes: bitterness or betterment. Bitterness is a possibility. I can quickly build a case for why my daughter should still be here, why my family doesn't deserve this sorrow, or why life seems so unfair. Bitterness can feel like a comforting companion when I see others' happiness displayed across social media, reminding me of what I've lost.
Every day, bitterness calls to me, and I must actively refuse it. Yet the alternative, "better," implies that I'm somehow improved by my suffering, as if I've gained something valuable in exchange for my loss. This diminishes my grief. It makes it sound like I would choose to go through this all over again just to become a better version of myself, as if losing my child is akin to achieving a goal like completing a marathon or earning a degree.
Claiming I'm "better" risks making me feel like I'm in a position to judge others' journeys through grief. It's too easy to become like the reformed smoker who forgets how difficult quitting was and starts to criticize those still struggling. I'm not better. I'm broken. I no longer believe I'm in control of my life. I've learned through excruciating experience that nothing is guaranteed and that the greatest treasure is the time we share with the people we love. No amount of time will ever feel like enough.
I can't declare victory over doubt nor claim that good has come from evil or that I've mastered the lessons my grief has tried to teach me. I can hold out my empty hands, asking for grace and mercy. I choose to love instead of hate, and from my broken heart, I extend compassion to those who are broken, too. I trust that the God of all comfort will guide me and use my experience to encourage others, just as I've been encouraged in my struggles.