Morning Mournings: Re-learning Loss

The Weight of “Such a Time”

A beautiful queen named Esther was used by God to save her nation. She was born orphaned, a woman, and a Jew—three strikes against her. Yet, despite it all, God used her to save her people. It is an inspiring story that moves us to action, and its most famous line, “for such a time as this,” has become synonymous with a call to action for many Christians.

Esther used to inspire me to be and do more. It reminded me that God could use anyone. I identified with her at so many levels, but things have changed in my life and but I found this story more troubling and challenging this time, while listening to a sermon on Esther on a Sunday morning at church. Coming to grips with being a caregiver to two students with special needs, was God asking me to do even more than I had been doing for years? How is that fair?

This phrase, "for such a time," reminds us that God sometimes places us in positions that require us to do the hard work—the kind of work that challenges us, pushes us to our limits, and demands our courage and strength. He knows that even in the hardest moments, we can be vessels for change and support. We may not always see the full picture in those moments, but looking back, we realize that these very times were where we were meant to be, growing, learning, and moving forward with purpose.

But now, I simply responded to God by saying that I have become tired and weary of all “such a times” I’ve been engaged in. Even before we received the diagnosis, “the time” was when I noticed my son did not like to play pretend like other kids. “The time” was when he could not play with the playground equipment independently, and I had to teach him how to climb. “The time” was when he cried at both drop-off and pick-up in kindergarten from September to February. “The time” was when I stood up for my kids when they were not getting the support they needed, or when I just couldn’t anymore and asked for support.

What other “time” was God calling me to rise up to?

Loud Laments

But as I re-read the book of Esther once more, a new insight strikes me. My attention was drawn not to the heroine, Esther, and her life, but to her uncle, Mordecai, instead. I never really pictured him as a hero of any sort. Sure, we readers were all very grateful he was there to raise Esther and challenge her, but let’s be real—his was a supporting role.

And yet now, I find myself mysteriously drawn to him. In particular, I am drawn to how the Bible describes the events in Esther 4:1:

“When Mordecai learned what had been done…”.

Haman, the villain in the story, had not just devised an evil plot to annihilate the Jews but was seemingly on the path to success. That is where we find Mordecai rise to the scene again.

What do I do when I learn of dreadful news? I had had a feeling that my son was not a typical child for a long time, but I was too scared to get a diagnosis. I was scared of him being labeled, and to be honest, I was scared to hear the news because I was scared of failing as a mother. So, I just worked harder and harder to fix what I perceived as broken. But when all was exhausted and we pursued a diagnosis, my husband and I sat in my son’s school with his principal, the SERT, his homeroom teacher, and the board psychologist. We heard the diagnosis, but I was not surprised. It all made sense.

The Jewish people knew Haman was no benevolent government worker or politician. When Mordecai learned of the latest news against the Jews, what did he do immediately afterward? “...he tore his clothes, put on sackcloth and ashes, and went out into the city, crying with a loud and bitter wail. He stood outside the gate of the palace, for no one was allowed to enter while wearing clothes of mourning.” (Esther 4:1-2)

All I could think was, “Mordecai, I get you.” I understood his heart. After we left the school office, we got into our cars, and we sat there, in the school parking lot. And after what seemed like ages but must have been mere seconds of silence, I began to let it go. I cried, and the tears literally felt bitter to me. My husband held my hand, and I just cried. For weeks, I would continue to cry with a bitter wail. Most days, these loud bitter wails happened after I dropped off the kids and before I got home. The only space I could do this, as I soon found out, was in the safety and comfort of my car.

Mordecai did not shy away from his mourning. The news necessitated not a call to action first, but rather for Mordecai to mourn, lament, and wail. He literally wore his mourning. Wearing it physically, I’d imagine, required courage but also speaks of his deep grief. When the grief is so deep, we do not care what others think anymore because the pain takes over and it is an existential crisis. In fact, we want the world to know and yearn for the world to pause and collectively come alongside us. But just as Mordecai knew he could not wear his grief and go into the city, I knew I could not wear my grief and go into the spaces in my life: my work, my home, and even my church.

A League of Lament

How do we wear grief and pain? For months, I literally felt a cloud over me. I felt the pressure to “move on” and to “be proactive,” but I had a deep sense and desire to just feel miserable, and more than that, for others to notice me. It felt selfish, but hearing sermons on Esther were God’s reminders, I believe, that I was actually supposed to do this. I was supposed to lament. It was part of God’s will for me to “wear” my gloom and doom face, my hopeless heart, and my handicapped hands. Like Mordecai, it was ok to admit I couldn’t go into places I used to go carefree anymore unless I changed my mourning into rejoicing. Like Mordecai, God slowly taught me it was not only okay but a new calling to let others see my tears, hear my wailing, and feel my pain publicly.

After the diagnoses, all I wanted to do was to hide. I questioned everything I had and had not done in the last 12 years and how I could have prevented this. I felt ashamed and was scared to be given the “we told you so” look. But as I read what happened next in Esther 4:3, I felt renewed strength and saw new possibilities: “as news of the king’s decree reached all the provinces, there was great mourning among the Jews.” The people heard the news, and they responded like he did. They mourned greatly, communally, loudly and publicly.

I asked God secretly, “Can you show me people who will mourn with me?” I wanted to mourn with others. I didn’t want people to fix me or send me recommendations. I wanted people who would wear sackcloth with me, who would stay outside with me, and who would just wail with me. “They fasted, wept, and wailed, and many people lay in sackcloth and ashes.” (Esther 4:3b) They did not just say to Mordecai, “I’m so sorry,” or “I’ll pray for you.” I wanted people to say, “We can pray together” instead. I didn’t want people to say, “Come in when you are ready—take your time.” Instead, I wanted people to stay outside with me for as long as it may take, but not alone.

The diagnosis might have opened doors for our family, clarified a path, and given us answers, but at the time, all it felt like was a loss. I had lost dreams and hopes I didn’t even know I had deep inside me. I had so many questions I was scared to utter. I felt helplessly alone and hungry to see others in pain, too. That somehow, seeing a collective grief would remind me that God was there with me rather than waiting until I was “okay” to meet with me at the end of the tunnel.

Queen Esther rose “for a time like this” only because of Mordecai’s wailing and lament. If you read carefully, she gets wind of what had happened through the maids and eunuchs, who told her that they had heard of Mordecai’s lament. In today’s terms, Mordecai “made a scene” and made everyone “uncomfortable.” He did not choose to mourn “in private” and was told to do so outside the city gates and return only when he was “better.”

I wonder how Queen Esther would have known of the news if Mordecai had wept in quiet spaces or how much longer would it have taken. I wonder if the maids and eunuchs had told her only because they knew Esther’s secret - that she was related to him and were indirectly asking her to “fix the mess.” I wonder how often we witness lament and feel the urge to fix it because we are untrained, unaccustomed to pain.

Lopsided Logic of Letting Go

Not much unlike my own experiences, Queen Esther’s first reaction at hearing of her uncle’s distress was to “send clothing to him to replace the sackcloth.” (verse 4). Mordecai wasn’t naked, but Queen Esther sent him clothing that would be more suitable, jolly and acceptable. By wearing sackcloth, he was putting “attention” on him. Queen Esther probably did this without even thinking - she cared for her uncle and wanted him to “just be happy.”

How often do we do the same when people we care about mourn? We tell those who are in pain around us to try to be happy, as if they are choosing to be miserable. We comfort by offering “clothing” to replace their pain, without ever asking if that’s what they even need. How often have we offered advise, given food or offered prayers without ever hearing from the people we think we are comforting? Our actions are sometimes driven by a dangerous assumption and value: to move on is to heal and to mourn is to be stuck.

What happens next is surprising. Her uncle “...refused it.” (verse 4b) Growing up, I never thought refusing people’s kindness was an option, even if their kindness stung or hurt you. If people tried to be kind to you, I thought, you should be thankful, even if their kindness is not what you truly need. I admire Mordecai for feeling sure enough of himself and having the courage and vulnerability to tell Esther, “Thank you, but no thank you.”

Listen to Loss

What happened next? Esther didn’t give up. She didn’t just leave Mordecai outside to “give him space” or deal with his grief alone. She didn’t just say, “You know where to find me.” Instead of sending maids and eunuchs, she now sent Hathach, her attendant. Instead of trying to offer what she thought Mordecai needed, this time ordered Hathach to go to her uncle to “find out what was troubling him and why he was in mourning.” (verse 5). Mordecai was given space to tell his story. He showed his evidence and he asked that it be shown to Esther. What Mordecai needed was someone to listen.

I needed people who knew how to listen and sit comfortably in my discomfort. To be vulnerable is to risk. You risk being lectured to, you risk being told you should not feel this way and you risk being given advise that you already know. My Hathachs and Esthers were not perfect, but they “became” alongside with me. These are people I was able to tell my whole story, uncensored, unvarnished, unedited. Raw and real. As “Mordecai told him the whole story” (verse 7) he then was able to the rest – laid out a list of requests: show the evidence to Esther, explain this to her, urge her to go to the king, urge her to beg for mercy, and urge her to plead for her people. Esther needed to learn to listen and sit in Mordecai’s pain before she could rise in such a time as this!

License to Lament

In the midst of my grief, I found a new calling. As I followed Mordecai’s example, I realized that God had given me permission to mourn. This season of lament wasn’t a detour but a necessary part of my journey. It was a time to deepen my faith and to connect with others who were also hurting.

Through my own experiences, I've learned the importance of listening, of offering a compassionate presence, and of simply being there for others. I've discovered a newfound empathy and understanding, a capacity to truly connect with those who are suffering.

As I continue to navigate the challenges of raising children with special needs, I am grateful for the lessons I've learned from Mordecai. His story has given me the strength to endure, the courage to be vulnerable, and the hope to persevere.

Bright mornings are a symbol of new beginnings, but they seemingly clash with the darkness of mourning. As a society, we struggle to reconcile these two forces. There doesn’t seem to be enough space for the two to coexist. We shy away from discomfort, preferring sanitized versions of pain and loss. We offer quick fixes and well-intentioned advice, often overlooking the simple act of presence.

Mordecai's lament serves as a powerful model. His public display of grief, his vulnerability, and his willingness to sit in the discomfort were instrumental in setting the stage for Esther's courageous actions. In the midst of his mourning, he paved the way for a future filled with hope.

In this season, God was not calling me to follow Esther’s example. He knew as a mother of special needs children, I was already in the trenches of “such a time” but He wanted me to know that I needed to mourn and that perhaps my public mourning would cause “Esthers-to-be” to rise up.