Blessed Are They That Mourn

"Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). They say that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. That’s the kind of well-meaning statement that is less than meaningless to someone drowning in the throes of grief. It can take a lot of work and faith and trust to see any occasion to mourn as a blessing. How can something that hurts so much possibly be for our good? But mourning is a blessing. To mourn is proof that our love transcends the bonds of death. To mourn is proof that we can continue on hoping even when all hope is lost. Every sharp stab of longing, every dull, interminable ache of us missing them, every tear shed in sadness is not just the byproduct of our own frenzied minds but evidence that our loved ones have not ceased to exist, that though worlds apart our hearts are still knit together in love. It may take a lot more out of us to feel this connection which is why it can hurt so much, but the fact that we can feel such grief means that in our heart of hearts we know that we will see our loved ones again, even if death and hell and the whole of the universe separate us. There is a phenomenon in nature called quantum entanglement. Two subatomic particles can become entangled such that they can be lightyears apart, and yet, if one moves, the other moves simultaneously. Our grief is proof that even though we are perhaps lightyears or dimensions or realities separated from our loved ones, yet we are entangled still, and every time we feel that swift, sharp stab of recollection, we can know that at that very same moment, our loved one is feeling the same sharp stab of memory about us. And that ought to be a comfort.