It is kind of bizarre sometimes the things that can make me come undone and propel me deep into a mess of emotion-salad. The kind of one that leads to deep wrestling and ultimately, new perspectives. The simple and small things. Today, of all things, it was a children’s song. A song about a woman named Hannah. I had listened to it enough times with the kids to at least know the chorus. Two days earlier, I had listened to a sermon on part of her story in 1 Samuel 2. But the song – it took me to 1 Samuel 1. I had wondered why arguably the most pertinent and potentially impactful story/chapter of this entire book had not been included in that sermon series. Oh well. As the lyrics played over and over in my mind to the upbeat tune, the emotions stirred stronger and the parallels suddenly flowed as I felt this urgency to whip out 1 Samuel 1. And God soon spoke in brand new ways through this story that I thought I knew.
Hannah prayed. She prayed deep. She prayed different. She prayed raw and real and with zest and through deep, authentic grief. So much grief. I don’t share everything (or even much at all) about her circumstances, but gosh I sure resonate with her response to priest Eli… ““I am a woman who is deeply troubled. I have not been drinking wine or beer; I was pouring out my soul to the Lord. Do not take your servant for a wicked woman; I have been praying here out of my great anguish and grief.”” (1 Samuel 1:15-16 NIV).
I can resonate because I can imagine something of what she may have looked like when displaying this “pouring out” of her soul in sheer anguish that had made Eli raise an eyebrow. I can imagine it because in the deepest trenches of my own grief, I have done the very same… and I know that it is absolutely not something that looks pretty, let alone even remotely close to “normal” or “acceptable” in public – even by today’s standards, some millennia later! Today, I suspect that in such a grief episode, you are probably more likely to be suspected of a mental illness than being drunk… but the same premise exists: it is something very, very extreme. To the onlooker, it is strange. Bizarre. Uncomfortable. Somewhat distressing even. So how much more so for the one experiencing it? Yet Hannah’s grief-filled experience of prayer is not something you truly know until you have been to those very same depths.
In Hannah’s praying, her kneeling, her weeping, her desperate pleading, her pouring out of the deepest depths of her heart and soul, she is laying bare absolutely everything and holding back nothing from her Father who sees her and so deeply cares for her. Such incredible deep trust and a persistent spirit, with little to lose, and everything to gain. Such a powerful precursor to the ultimate example to be seen many centuries later by a perfect man in the garden of Gethsemane.
Oh, how much this story and experience sums up my last five years. How much more it returns me to a point of just where I need to be, once again. There is such a great need that I yearn for – a different one this time around – clutching at my heart, muddling my mind, obscuring my path, consuming many thoughts. Some days it feels that this grief from the lack of what I need is suffocating, and certainly much more so recently. I am not sure how it has taken so long to see exactly what I needed to do, probably weeks ago! I need to Hannah.
So, here I am again. On the floor, reaching in deep, feeling all that the pain, grief and anguish ever bring. Grasping the very depths of my hardest pain. Tears flow, soon followed by deep weeping and sobs. I curl up tight. I bang my fist the floor. At times I yell out, either just in noises, or a word. Whatever comes through these emotions and pain, I let come. I beg Jesus to come; to meet me here. I plead for help. I plead for what I need. I pour my heart out here, in whatever form it takes. Words are scarcely even needed.
It. Isn’t. Pretty.
Yet loud sobs change to quieter ones as I curl up and close my eyes tight while gently rocking, and resting my head on my arms. Jesus does indeed come and meet me right here… as he has never failed to do.
I mean, I can completely see Eli’s perspective and point here. Even today, the sight of someone in such an extreme state of grief as Hannah (or perhaps me in those moments just passed) is surely shocking and baffling, to say the very least. Most especially so when Hannah lived, back when mental illness wasn’t part of any kind of vocabulary, grief was only for deaths, women’s voices and actions were rarely taken seriously or meant anything, and strange behaviour by otherwise “normal” people seemed often attributed to being drunk.
Oh, how I not only resonate so deeply with Hannah’s expression of her grief, but suddenly feel such awe at her sheer bravery in such an authentic and faithful act of engaging with her grief by pouring heart and soul to God in a time and public place where it was far from likely to be understood or consoled – most especially being a woman. Even today, with the far greater understanding and pastoral care we have in churches, I doubt I would ever find the bravery to do what she did, even if, like in her time, I couldn’t just meet with God or cry out to Him wherever and whenever I liked, and a trip to the temple was required to do so.
I admire Hannah’s strength, faithfulness, and bravery, but much more so, I admire and seek the same authentic, raw, intensely deep prayers of pouring out heart and soul to God with no holds barred. Of weeping and pleading and holding nothing back while wrestling in the deepest depths of pain.
I know what it is to experience this. I know so much more how much I need it, as I reach in and find the greatest voids in the depths of my heart and soul. As I do, although the voids remain for now, something shifts and offers seemingly almost misplaced peace as the presence of my redeeming God comes alongside to stare into the voids as well. I wonder if this was Hannah’s experience also.
Whether or not what I seek is fulfilled in the way I perceive or desire, I know God is ever faithful and, like Hannah (in chapter 2), there will be times ahead filled with prayers of a joyous gratitude that reaches just as deep as the grief does now. Whatever way things go, always “there is no Rock like our God” (1 Sam 2:2b).
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“In her deep anguish Hannah prayed to the Lord, weeping bitterly.”
1 Samuel 1:10 NIV
“Then Hannah prayed and said: “My heart rejoices in the Lord; in the Lord my horn is lifted high. … There is no one holy like the Lord; there is no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God.”
1 Samuel 2:1-2 NIV
Song: “Hannah Prays” – Colin Buchanan
Added note: Upon looking for an image depicting Hannah in the midst of her grief, I want to share my disappointment at the realisation of how far it seems there is to go in churches, and even society in general, in coming to terms with what deep, authentic grief looks like in real life. An image search of “Hannah’s grief at the temple” brought quite an array of images I didn’t expect. They were rather lovely and pleasant ones: an unblemished woman looking up with a single tear rolling down her cheek, a woman simply sitting with hands clasped together, and very many showing a woman with a calm face and eyes closed… I tried different search phrases, even just “woman in deep grief” and yet yielded only more similar results. All of which I am completely certain do not come even remotely close to what Hannah (or anyone) would have truly looked like whilst pouring out her heart to God in the midst of her deepest anguish. Not at all. And many of these images were from popular, modern Christian websites! Is this really how it is perceived? Is it because we still think we need to shield people, and especially children, from seeing what the very best and most wonderful way to express deep emotions really looks like?! Are we still too afraid to normalise such expressions and use them to learn and teach – both others and ourselves?
Here are two quite different portrayals, but both which I thought to have kind of come at least a little close. Still, neither one entirely at the intensity I would perceive as realistic. Interestingly enough, one is from the 1800s, by James Tissot. I thought it more realistic than any modern ones. And at least his one shows that she had an audience.
In The Not Yet 