Bleating Heart

I got knocked down last week, but it wasn’t at Petsmart and this time it didn’t involve my dog. Someone on social media warned me not to pitch a tent in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I guess that’s how my honesty about grief was interpreted—that I enjoy this nightmare resort so much I’m planning an extended stay. It’s probably safe to say not everyone is equipped with healing words when dealing with people like me.

Never have I needed friends like I need them now. Never have I felt as vulnerable to the opinions of others as I do right now. It’s a raw, tender thing people hold in their hands—my broken heart. I know why some, perhaps many, people stop talking about the pain they constantly live in and keep their grief hidden behind pasted smiles. It’s less risky. On the other side, it's also hazardous to want to console someone you love, someone racked with sorrow, when you don't know what will help. If you haven’t been here yourself, how do you know what to say? Until I lost Rob, I didn't know what comfort looked like either. 

The reader probably meant well. But meaning well can take all kinds of forms, as I’ve discovered this year. It would be uncharitable of me to list many examples here, but if you’ve ever stood at the edge of the crater that was once your life while someone told you things could be worse or how to look on the bright side, you already know what those easy explanations sound like.

They sound like someone who’s never been here.

Being knocked down like that was crippling. I worried that people are anxious for me to hurry up and move on past this place of grief but are too polite to say so. For the last week, it’s been hard to write anything. Not writing is, for me, like not gardening would be for my daughter—we’d wilt, wither, fade away from the loss. For us, these are life-saving tools that keep us moving ahead, one difficult step at a time.

I don’t want to be here in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. I’d give anything to go back to the world I lived in before that sinkhole opened up and swallowed my life, but it’s all gone. I will never be the same again. That’s reality. You can’t cheerlead yourself out of something like that. In a very real sense, I died right along with my husband. That’s a double grief to my friends and family. But it doesn’t mean I’m planting myself in a place of despair. It means I am searching for the way through. I’m doing that through my writing. I’ve been forced to learn how to carry what cannot be fixed.* How to go on in the life I’ve been asked to live now. Without my best friend, Rob McLeod, beside me.

I’m doing the best I can.

Those judgmental words led me to think about the Twenty-third Psalm, so maybe they ended up being a favor. What did David mean when he wrote about the Good Shepherd leading his sheep to a pasture that includes a valley like this one? Was it all a mean trick? Not if He is good. “Even though I walk through . . . I will fear no evil. Your rod and Your staff are a comfort to me.” This shepherd doesn’t beat up his sheep. He uses his staff to gently guide them in the way He wants them to go. He protects them from all kinds of enemies with His rod. He meets every need they have while they travel through. And they will travel through. There are no shortcuts around this valley.

David was a shepherd. I’m not. The closest I’ve ever been to real live sheep is when I throw a bunch of alfalfa pellets over the fence to the two in my daughter’s back pasture. They’re kind of skittish little things, jumping at unexpected sounds. Bleating, also known as complaining, whenever they crave more Purina Sheep Chow. Head butting the pigs who get in their way. I’ve watched them a lot, but I still don’t understand them. I don’t know how they feel in the dark. I can’t tell if they’re happy out there. No one told us what kind of hardships they experienced before they showed up here. They just landed in Katy’s pasture where they’re doing what sheep do. Eating and sleeping and bleating.

I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hang around a bunch of sheep for a living. But David put his life on the line to protect his animals. He even herded them into enclosures in that scary valley and then lay down across the opening every night, becoming a human doorway where nothing could get in or out without going through him first. He seemed to understand them. Their skittishness. Their hunger. Their selfishness.

The one thing he never did was criticize them for being sheep. Or for being afraid in the dark canyon he led them into. He just stayed with them, guiding them safely through until they reached the other side. They were his responsibility and he loved them.

That’s the thing about being in this terrible valley. I’m not even remotely interested in buying up real estate in such a desolate spot. I didn't ask to be here, but I'm not alone. I suppose I could get lost if left to my own devices—I have a terrible sense of direction. But I don’t need one. Jesus, the Good Shepherd, is with me. He doesn’t criticize me for not knowing the way out. Or for bleating too much. He knows me. He has compassion on me. He doesn’t expect anything from me except to rest, letting Him restore my soul while He leads me in paths of righteousness for His name’s sake—it’s His reputation that’s on the line, not mine.

He knows where I am. He knows where He’s taking me. To His house. And for all the rest of my days, goodness and mercy will follow me until I get there.

I’ve never been here before. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just doing it anyway because I have no choice. The only one who’s been here before is the One Who promised never to leave me or forsake me, no matter how long this journey takes.

I’ll admit, I’m overwhelmed by this dark canyon. There is no shame in that. I miss my beloved’s voice, his comforting arm around my shoulders, his warm hand in mine. But just because I’m grieving doesn’t mean I’m broken. I don’t need to be fixed. Grief is something that happens to us, I’ve learned. “It no more needs a solution than love needs a solution. It’s a mystery to be honored, not a problem to be solved.”*

It isn’t a paper cut, this bisection that has happened to my heart.

It is simply the price of love.

*"It's OK That You're Not OK - Meeting Grief and Loss in a Culture That Doesn't Understand" by Megan Devine.