A grief poured out...

She had big brown eyes, set in the front of a round, dark face, framed with raven, black hair. Maybe in her late twenties? A circular red dot was positioned on her forehead. Red powder had been expertly poured along the centre line of her parted hair, symbolizing her matrimony, her status as a married, Hindu woman. Her sari was traditional colours of reds and golds, wrinkled and worn from her travels...

Leaning against the back wall, her feet pulled up under her, she sat on the worn and dirty cot. She sat and watched, heavy with fear and concern, as her husband's chest rose and fell with every breath. How could this be? What would happen to them now? Her husband had had a pain. They rushed him here. And now they waited. And she watched. He was very sick. An organ was infected. She did not know what would happen.

Is this a man she loves? In a tradition of arranged marriages and female submission, what is this woman's story? Her face tells a story of young love, and her eyes tell a story of grief… Does she have children waiting for her at home? Like many women in this culture, does she live with her husband's family? Is her mother-in-law good to her? Do they treat her with kindness? Or as a servant? As a foreigner in her new home?

I did not speak her language. I did not know her background. I did not share her religion. We could not have been more different… Still, I recognized her grief. I knew her suffering as a woman who loves and a woman who grieves. In shared grief, I sat with her. Binding my heart to hers. Praying and interceding, pouring the love of God over her in tears… A woman's grief knows no bounds. The language of sorrow is universal. The sadness and fear that accompanies death, or the possibility of death, is shared in every culture. It is one of those things that make up the human experience… It is simply human.

With one of the nationals, we sat and prayed. Through translation, body language, and emotional eyes, I shared with her about my husband's death. My great sorrow. The heavy grief. I shared about my Jesus. How he is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit (Ps 34:18). With my hands, I showed her. With one hand representing my heart, in great pain and heavy grief. The other hand representing Jesus, in compassion and perfect love. Lacing my fingers together, I showed her how we can grieve with Jesus who is perfect love, and in Him find healing and comfort and peace. How are soul can grow to bear many sorrows when we have His strength and His love living within us… She wept and clung to me as we prayed. I felt as though grief was the open door through which the Holy Spirit was pouring out His love, His loving embrace reaching into the very depths of her heart.

She met Jesus that day, I am sure of it. He was there and she could see him in my eyes, and as He ministered to her own soul. He knew her, and saw her, as he saw Hagar on that appointed day (Gen 16:13). Through Him, I too could see her soul, her agony and desperate need for peace. I admonished her, Do not forget what you saw here today, my sister. When you go back into your life, when you go back with your family, when you worship in the temple… Remember Jesus. He is your Peace. When you need peace, seek Him and you will find Him. 

Walking away from this woman tore my heart in two. What a life she must live. What a journey she is on. Holy Spirit, remind her of Your presence with her... 

I could live my whole life being blessed by women such as she. How easy it was for me to pour myself out as a drink offering, pouring out my grief, so that others might see and know of His love…

*This is a story of a real couple. One whom I had the privelege of praying with. One whom, if my sources are correct :), has since committed to Christ… which means the alteration of their lives in often extreme measures...