This blog is where I think out loud. Laugh at myself. Ask the hard questions. Explore the extent of my courage. Reveal my weaknesses. And sometimes hope for a little common sense to show up. This is where I risk exposing my point of view, the details of my journey through life, and what I’m learning in the classroom of experience. Everything I believe is dissected here in the sanctity of my private space and yet you are invited to listen in on my private thoughts—the good, the bad, and even the ugly.
But this is not a place where I invite anyone to try to fix me. No one wants someone else to fix them without asking. What we all need is to be heard. We long for someone to listen. And when we’re in excruciating pain, we need to be surrounded by the comfort of witnesses. "Grief is a natural response to death or loss. It is not an illness to be cured or a problem to be fixed. . . You need someone to see your grief and to acknowledge it." *
I’ve had people tell me that they don’t know what to
say to me. They feel helpless or ineffective or useless because eloquence and
wisdom evade them. But that’s the perfect place to be. In the absence of
knowing what to say, we discover the truth—you don’t need to say anything. You
just need to show up.
I’ve been on both sides of pain, as a witness to yours
and a participant in mine. I’ve said things I regret because I wanted to be the
savior, too, just like everyone tries to be. To come up with the answer to the
impossible question and be the hero. I never do. No one does. No one can. In
general, attempts to do so end up wounding a broken heart again at the exact
moment that they most need comfort.
We don’t know the answers to the hard questions in
life and yet we keep trying to explain as if God is on trial and we are His
legal representation. We fear that if we don’t defend Him with our anemic
reasoning, His reputation might be tarnished. As if.
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We don’t know why a baby dies in a mother’s
womb, but we’re quick to tell a grieving mother that she can have more
children.
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We don’t know why a father dies of cancer
leaving his children to grow up without him, but we think it will comfort them
to say that he’s no longer suffering, ignoring the reality that their suffering
has just begun.
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We don’t know why a wife dies but it’s
obvious to us that it must have been God’s will and that God had other plans
for her besides granting her family’s prayers for her recovery.
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We don’t have a clue why a million things
go wrong from sexual predators to elder abuse, financial bankruptcy to car
accidents, mass shootings to terrorist attacks. We don’t know why avalanches
occur or tornadoes appear or earthquakes erupt. We can’t explain how the wind
moves or why the Titanic sank or why politics is corrupt.
The common denominator here is that we don’t know and
yet we offer explanations to someone in pain when we’re not the ones trying to
breathe in and breathe out every moment for the rest of our shattered lives.
Why do we do this?
For so many reasons. I’d like to think that at the
core of our hand-wringing hearts, we want to stop the suffering we see in the
eyes of those we love. We want them to smile again, laugh with us, find the
lilt in their step and hope for a better future. We want to see them whole, to
watch them enjoy life, we want the person they used to be before they suffered
loss to re-surface.
And we want them to stop reminding us with their tears
and anger and depression and questions that we might be in their shoes someday.
We are uncomfortable with grief. We are ignorant about grief. Our culture has
not taught us that grief is part of life just as dying is, so we don’t know
what to do with either one except to try to make it go away.
And when people of faith suffer great loss, if they
don’t bounce back quickly enough, praise God soon enough, and get back in the
game fast enough, we shame them. We may critique their spiritual walk. We may even
question if they really know Jesus. Certainly, we believe it’s our job to set
them straight and explain that they have no right to question or complain or
cry their eyes out endlessly. They must trust and obey for there’s no other way
to be happy in Jesus, as the hymnwriters say.
Life is a no question zone. Put on your happy face and
move on.
I thought I had all the answers once. I thought I had
suffered and overcome enough to earn immunity from any more trauma and loss. I thought I
knew how to pray without ceasing. I wasn’t great at trusting, but I’m a pretty
good reader, so I thought if I studied enough and taught what I’d learned and
discussed enough books that I’d figure out what God is doing in the world and in my
life. I thought bad things happened to other people and that Rob and I would
grow old together and never have to live a single day apart. I thought
scripture verses would dissolve grief, so I gave them to people in pain and sat
back in satisfaction waiting for them to rejoice.
And if the puzzle of their complicated life was
missing an important piece, I thought I could share one of my own and it would complete their story. It didn’t matter if their picture was
different than mine or the shape didn’t fit. Just pound that funky piece into place so no
one would have to look at the awkward hole in their life anymore.
What I do here in this blog space is process my life. I
write because it is my glory. It is an outlet for my difficult emotions and
unimaginable questions. It’s where I put down “on paper” what I thought I knew
and what I was forced to discover. It’s where I move the pieces of my puzzle
around and look for a picture to emerge. When it does, I post it. It’s not
always the picture others expect me to reveal. But it’s always honest.
I need to explain why I'm here with this broken heart, processing the details of my shattered life while I try to survive without Rob beside me. No one can comprehend how much he meant to me or how rich our relationship was or how safe he made me feel or how much he and I loved each other. No one sees me come home at the end of every day to an empty house where no one waits for me anymore, try to convince myself to prepare a meal that I alone will eat, and in the evening when something I read or watch on TV or see in an email triggers sorrow, that I am alone here with my head bent down, sobbing, trying to catch my breath with no one to put their arms around me and tell me it’s going to be all right.
No one else has the missing piece to my puzzle.
Nor am I the only one in this position. 800,000 people become
widowed in America every single year. And I guarantee that every one of them
has had salt rubbed into the wound by good intentioned, painful words assuring
them that losing half their heart and all of their dreams is God’s will.
I’m not here to destroy God’s reputation. He’s not
afraid of my honesty. He’s not easily offended, either. And He has never let go
of me. The feelings I am experiencing are normal and real. I’ve taken some hits
for expressing them in public, and I’ve also given voice to some suffering
hearts who are afraid to speak up.
Remember the elephants who gather around a fallen
member, standing still, forming a quiet circle of support? They don’t do or say
anything. They just show up.
To those of you who have shown up, you have my eternal
thanks. You know who you are. Thank you for being here without having answers. For
loving me as I am. For reminding me that we are all human. And for praying for
my family.
❤😘😞
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