Lamenting Over Spoonfuls of Soup

The sky hung in a thick, dim slab, like a ceiling over the trees that stood crooked in the wind. Not the fresh spring breeze we’re used to in Florida, but the damp, cold kind that makes you pull your coat together with tight fists. 

I got there right on time, parked in a front spot in the almost-bare lot, and slid my violet boots with fluffy pom-poms onto the asphalt. I braced for the impact of the frigid winter air and tucked my body inward as I did a little hop-jog into the pub.

Once inside, I let out a sigh, relaxing myself into the warm ambiance. How do people live in places where cold takes over for half the year? I don’t want to know, but that evening, I kept my beanie on, which was best for three-day-old washed hair, and shimmied into a round booth against the window. Happily nestled in the charm of the interior brick walls, mahogany tables, and chalkboard sign with multicolored scribbles of the daily soup options, I felt transported to a scene from a novel. 

The outside air seeped in as my friend whipped open the restaurant door and turned to her left. Our matching expressions glowed as we greeted each other from across the room and hugged before she slid into the booth I’d saved. 

We’d made it just in time as the rain brushed against the window, falling slowly, almost as if snow. And if you unlocked even a small room of your imagination, you could easily pretend it was, in fact, beginning to flurry right outside our charming windowscape. 

Immediately, we leaned over the table, skimming the inviting descriptions of bowls of soup and sandwiches made on homemade marbled rye. Dressed in our soft layers that might as well have been blankets, we made selections that felt like we were telling a loving grandmother what we’d like for supper. 

A few people trickled inside, taking seats at the corner bar. From our booth we had a view of just about every corner of the space. But the slow pace of the movement happened somewhere outside our bubble, because when our conversation began, we let our attention sink into it completely. 

And as if the weather’s grim mood had a heads-up on how to dress to match our discussion, we began to talk about hard things. 

Sure, we shared the good news first, laughed over dripping spoonfuls of homemade broccoli cheddar soup, and bounced from the light to the heavy, but we found our way to the real. 

We talked about a few things we’d gone through. Some trials our friends had walked through. With tears sitting still at the corner of our eyes, we wondered aloud how anyone gets through such loss. The loss of a child, or deep betrayal in a marriage. These things are happening all around us in life, to people we know well. 

I plopped my elbows on the table and picked at the dark, swirled bread crust. I think there are just some things in life that will always be hard. And it might always be that way. Some grief just sticks. 

As two believers in a God who heals, we stared at each other, mouths in stiff lines, and agreed. Yes, some things don’t always feel better, no matter how much time passes. I’ve reached a point in life…I don’t want to call it age, but perhaps spiritual experience, where I can know that God is good, but I can also admit that bad is bad. And it just might always be that way. To expect someone who lost a child to ever fully fill in that hole of loss? I can’t ask that of them. To think that even though I’ve healed from my past hurt, I won’t always have a little something that’s capable of dredging it back up and stinging…maybe that’s okay. 

As Christians, we don’t have to run toward a destination of “I’m all better.” Sitting with my friend told me that I’m not alone in that. That it’s no lack of faith or hope in God to know that life can be hard, and pieces of it might always be. Full mending and recovering may not be attainable on this broken earth. 

So we take the moments with those we trust, and admit that what happened could never feel okay. What hurt might hurt for a while. A long while. Rather than complain or waste time wondering why it hurts so bad or when it’ll be over, we rest in the knowing that maybe there’s no finish line to the feelings, which removes the pressure of the race. 

Grief can’t be outrun. Pain can’t be beat. And trials aren’t our competition. Realizing this lets us sit with one another and simply feel. An outpouring that God welcomes. A lamentation of sorts.