loss

Is Crying “Wrong?”

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I’ve heard it so often, and said it so often when tears are present. “What’s wrong?” It’s one of the most common phrases people say when they move toward someone visibly hurting. Another common thing we hear around tears is, “I’m sorry.” The one I am thinking of specifically is said by the hurting person, apologizing for their tears. However, if someone is talking to a friend and that friend begins crying, sometimes you’ll also hear “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry”.

The other thing crying, or tears, will do is act as a repellent. Every Sunday that I had energy and the constitution to be in our church building the first year after Mom died, my tears were plentiful. They still are, though not five tissues a morning anymore. I can certain tell you that my tears, physical evidence to my grief, acted like Deet to a mosquito swarm. People avoided me. Not always. Sometimes someone would see me and instead of avoiding eye contact or ignoring the obvious, they attempted to connect. I appreciated the effort. And I would often hear, “What’s wrong?”

It is a trying question to answer when a wave of grief has hit you. And you know the person means well, and they actually approached you instead of busying themselves with something else. You don’t want to scare them away with your current emotional state, but you also want to be honest. What do you say? “Well, a memory just hit me of when I was in the ICU with Mom, seeing her torn apart and in continual agony, and I’m struggling to see how God could have allowed this, and I’m missing her dreadfully while also feeling so grateful for her life. So I guess what’s wrong is that my mom is dead, people treat me as if I have the plague, everything in my life has changed, I don’t know who I am anymore, and I desperately miss my mom.”

Should we say the brutal truth? Do we give a small hook into our reality and see if they “bite”, wanting to know more? Do we simply answer, “Grief”? What do we say? Honestly, I don’t believe this question has one answer. It depends too much on the individuals, the context, the interwoven stories at play as two people connect. However, I share this to bring up a point about tears. When someone is visibly hurting, we tend to 1. apologize 2. ask what’s wrong, or 3. avoid. These options fall short of what is very much needed.

APOLOGIZE

We must be very careful to note that the tears are a healthy response to suffering, grief, loss, and death. They are appropriate and fitting. Tears aren’t wrong. Tears are right. They are a sign of something that has gone wrong. They are a sign of pain. They should never be apologized for. I understand the discomfort. People come up to me, begin talking to me, and then when they see me crying seem to feel responsible for causing my tears. They apologize. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.” I have heard this same experience over and over from others who are grieving, and here’s what we want to say. “You didn’t cause our tears. You helped me cry them. They were under the surface. You saw me, you cared enough to stop and acknowledge my pain, and you gave them a path to flow. You are helping me grieve. You are helping me bear my sorrow.” If you’ve helped us cry, it is something not to apologize for, but to hold as precious and sacred. So many people and circumstances tell us our tears are unwelcome. You just made space for them. That’s significant. And when you cry, you have done nothing wrong. Chances are you’ve done something very brave and good: you’ve felt some of the pain in your life. You have acknowledged the reality of something broken. If Jesus indeed saves our tears in a bottle, counting every one, what does that tell us about how precious they are to him?

ASK WHAT’S WRONG

Of course, the heart behind the “What’s wrong?” question is usually a good one. We sense that something has indeed gone wrong. Something isn’t right. We want to to know what it is. Asking “What’s wrong?” can imply that tears are wrong, but also that there is a problem, and to every problem there is a solution. As any person grieving a death could testify, there is no fixing this problem. No one can bring our loved one back. And we don’t expect any listener to fix. We want presence in our sorrow, not a solution. What I would love to be asked instead of “What’s wrong?” is “What are these tears for today? Or, “What are you grieving?” “Where are these tears coming from?” These are more inviting. It helps the grieving one know you want to see their pain, not solve it. Hurting people desperately want to be seen and acknowledged in their pain.

AVOID

The more I’ve lived with my grief and talked with other grieving people, I see the same thing. People want their pain to be seen and acknowledged. Not fixed. Presence, not practicals. Many of us, myself included, have left people alone in their pain, because 1. we don’t know what to do, 2. we don’t want to make it worse, 3. we assume someone else is looking out for them, 4. we assume they want to be left alone, or 5. we simply don’t want anything to do with such pain.

The trouble with reason 1 (not knowing what to do) is a belief that we should be able to do something to help, or to fix it. The irony is that what actually helps is acknowledging you can’t fix it. Where else in life is that true? If our car was in the shop, and we talk with our mechanic about our options, and he says, “Sorry, ma’am, your car needs a new transmission, and I can’t put it in for you.” That doesn’t help us at all. But with grief, when someone sees your pain and makes space for it, when they are willing to feel some of it with you, it does help. It brings a little bit of healing. It helps them bear their sorrow. Realizing you can’t fix it and making space for pain is exactly what grieving people need.

The second reason (we don’t want to make it worse) falls apart quickly when we understand that neglect tends to be more painful than a beginner’s attempt. This is confirmed in the psychology world. I have read that neglectful/emotionally distant homes cause similar traumatic childhood wounds as physically abusive homes. Neglect is terribly harmful. One pain I wasn’t prepared for was the pain of avoidance from so many. In our culture, it’s rare to have pain held well. It’s another loss the bereaved mourns. I remember a few different people who responded to my grief insensitively. I told both of them that it hurt, and recommended a resource that helped others know what to do when someone is grieving. One person took my advice, read the book, learned, and began to respond helpfully. The others kept silent, and haven’t tried to reach out again.

To the third reason (assuming someone else is taking care of them), don’t assume someone hurting is receiving presence and care. Chances are, in our society and particularly in churches, people willing and able to support and love a struggling, grieving person well is the exception, not the rule. In our experience, our family was strongly supported practically while Mom was sick, yet as soon as she died, we were left alone in our grief. There are a few exceptions, a few who did move close to us in our pain. The majority did not. Of course, everyone has a unique experience, and this isn’t a blanket statement. Sometimes I hear beautiful stories of how people drew near to the grieving and allowed their friends’ pain to change them. Ask a grieving person about their experience, if you’re curious.

The fourth reason (assuming they want to be left alone), is also damaging. How do you know that’s what they want? Have you asked? People grieve differently. Also, it is such a process. It is never done. It changes, and the griever changes over time. It is always better to ask, not assume. What if you approached a hurting person to check in with them? You can offer what you have, so they have less of a load on them. An example is, “I see that you’re in pain. Would you like to talk about it, or would you like to be left alone right now?” Don’t take their answer today to be their answer tomorrow. They may need to be left alone today, and may need to talk tomorrow. Another helpful question is, “How is your grief journey today?” Avoid the “Let me know what you need” statement. Grieving people often don’t know what they need, don’t know what you’re able to offer, and will probably forget who said that to them. Most of all, it puts the load directly on the griever to reach out to you, when they are the one who needs to be pursued, over a long period of time.

To reason 5, simply not wanting anything to do with such pain, I resonate. I understand so deeply. Before Mom got sick, I had become an expert at avoiding pain. Despite my broken story, I saw the silver lining in my own life, and sadly, I’m sure I tried to spread that silver lining to hurting people. I hate pain. I don’t want to hurt. Now, not by choice, I am now a reminder to others who were like me that their loved one could also be gone at any moment, that life is fleeting, that pain is severe and impartial, that life really can get this hard. My nightmare could also be your nightmare. I think people often avoid me not to hurt me, but to avoid the reminders I bring them. If you are wanting to avoid such pain, I get it. No human wants to hurt, particularly like this. Why in the world would we choose to feel pain, to lean into grief, to open ourselves to suffering, to aches so deep it feels like your heart can’t go on beating? Why would we want to bear another’s suffering along with them?

This is a greater mystery than I can expound. There’s a reason the “Why?” cry has been debated and expounded throughout human history. However, I’ll leave you with a few nuggets to consider. Nugget 1: what other option do we have? How well does avoidance/distraction/numbing/pretending work with the deep pain and wrong of this world? It doesn’t take long to discover that those may help for awhile, but do more damage in the long run. Nugget 2: to love and to lose are two sides of the same coin. We cannot have one without the other. If we give up the pain of losing, we give up the joy of loving. Then what becomes of our hearts? Nugget 3: Only one world religion tells of a God who suffers intensely, profoundly, completely. A God who takes all the pain of humanity onto himself, who gets in the pit for the sake of the ones he loves. He suffers to produce salvation and rescue for all who want it. That same God says any who would come after him will suffer likewise in this life, in order to share in the glory of the next.

Opening my heart to my own pain and others is the best and hardest way I have known of living. It’s awful and wonderful. Horrible and beautiful. Joyful and sorrowful. It’s being human, and being alive. It’s living with the ache of the day when all my tears will be wiped away for good. A verse I cling to these days is Revelation 21:4. 

‘He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’

Tears are not wrong. They are good. And praise Jesus, they are temporary.

Grief in Year 2

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If this is helpful for you, I’m grateful. Reading other’s processing through their suffering is thirst-quenching for my soul these days. So I’ll share some of my personal processing in the hope that it might encourage someone else.

What does life look like now?

In Robert Moll’s book “The Art of Dying”, he includes wisdom from Susan Zonnebelt-Smeenge. First Rob says, “Proper grieving takes time, and taking that time recognizes the importance of the person’s life. When two people…….have intertwined their lives together, it takes time to undo those ties. The grief process acknowledges the depth of the relationship.”

“Any person who loses a loved one needs to recognize, Susan says, “I was attached to this person. I walked through life with this person, and this person has interwoven his or her life with mine. I’m hurting in all the ways that this person was in my life. I have to make some really major adjustments.”

I have a deeper realization that I will continue unpacking, processing and grieving Mom for the rest of my days. This is a snapshot of 17 months after the fact. It is never done. We don’t move on. We continue moving, changed forever by grief. After the first year marker, I struggled under expectations that now all the firsts were over, grief would subside. It would be tamer. I thought I would struggle less and the waves would settle down. At the end of the day, I thought I would hurt less. I desperately wanted (and still do want!) to hurt less. While a lot of this has happened (grief is tamer, and the waves are less violent), I am also experiencing deeper and more painful grief. In many ways, I’m becoming able to hurt more. Part of this is because of the uniqueness of our story (ex: who Mom was to me, our relationship, my age and circumstance when she died, and the insane season of caregiving that preceded her death). The first year for me was full of the firsts, yes. It was also full of unaddressed trauma, executing her will and dealing with her belongings, coming home to grieving children who don’t know what to do and lost their mom as she was, a husband who hung on to single parenting so I could collapse but is also grieving and wounded, learning about grief and trauma, dealing with continuous health issues due to intense caregiving and loss, and more. All of these things are ongoing. It was, and still is, complicated. Layers upon layers. I remember one person’s statement to me at church after her funeral: “At least you’re home now, so life can get back to normal.” I think I smiled and nodded at her, not knowing how to explain that the old normal is gone. Our old normal was buried with Mom. It’s never coming back.

This second year has ushered in the ability to continue grieving with more perspective. The trauma counseling has helped move the trauma so the grief is more free to flow. Craniosacral therapy has been a huge help with this. I had no idea how much grief is held in our bodies. One example is my right lung. A week or so after Mom died, I went down with my first bout of many of fever and congestion. Side note: I think I got sick on average every three weeks for the first six months. After the fever broke, my right lung hung onto a hacking cough. Over a year later, I still have it. After multiple doctor visits, bouts with antibiotics, and x-rays to rule out cancer or other complications, my naturopath explained why right lung congestion is typical and normal for grief, and gave me a way forward to address it. She’s worked with my therapist to help me grieve well. It sounds crazy, as I told my kids the other day, but along with certain supplements, as I learn to welcome the waves of grief and lean into the pain, letting the tears come, my right lung has become more clear.

Some days I just want the pain to stop. It takes so much encouragement for me to keep leaning into the pain. I want it to end. I’m tired of hurting. When I’m “doing well”, it means I’m allowing myself to feel the pain I need to feel in order to grieve. Doing well means feeling pain. Pain I wasn’t able to access in the chaos of the first year. My cranio appointments have been superbly helpful with this. It is one of the few spaces in my life where my grief is welcomed. My therapists understand how much strength it takes to feel this kind of loss. The hard work I do isn’t visible. It’s not attractive. Like I said, I don’t like living with continual pain. But it is incredibly important.

I get why so many of us are terrible companions to the hurting. People quickly become experts at avoiding feeling this way. The TV shows or other distractions are continuously beckoning, signaling “RELIEF” to you. Christians in particular can be experts at using parts of the gospel to avoid grief or attempt to “speed it up” in others. Again, quoting Rob Moll (pg 132), “Mourners can use heaven as an excuse to avoid necessary pain, pretending that the loss of death isn’t real because we will be reunited with our loved ones in heaven. Christians sometimes impose a kind of ban on mourning, using the hope of heaven as an excuse to avoid being confronted with someone else’s pain.” The trouble is, avoidance never delivers healing. When I turn the show off, the pain is waiting for me. Christian positivity isn’t any better. Even though it spouts some truths I do believe about Jesus and life after death, the toxic positivity pushes me both away from grief and away from God. If I ignore grief too long, it grows and affects all areas of my life. It appears the only way out is through the pain.

It’s exhausting to contemplate. I can’t handle more than one day at a time.

Trauma connects to trauma, so unsurprisingly, as I address the trauma moments of caring for Mom and watching her die, older traumas are also rising to the surface. They ask to be addressed. It feels like the reward for pursuing health and recovery is more pain. More fire. You’re obeying God? Great. Here’s more pain. My therapist calls it a gift. Deep down, as much as I fight it, I agree with her. Addressing these wounds is ultimately a great and wonderful thing. It’s one way to take up my cross. The rewards will be worth it. She also has helped me see that I have a choice of how much I address and when. She knows I went through hell before Mom died. She’s listened to my story of what it was like. The trauma is there. It’s waiting for me when I’m ready to look at more.

People are so interesting and messy. Myself included. The most common thing I’ll hear now in regards to my grief is something like, “It’s good to see you smiling again.” Or, “You look great.” Apparently I look better to people. This coincides with a lack of questions about my grief. The unwritten message blares out to me: “We knew you were grieving, and didn’t know what to do with you. Now that you’re smiling more often, you’re obviously fine, and we won’t mention your mom or that horrible season again.” They don’t understand that I’m continuing to grieve, that functioning doesn’t mean I’m fine, or how I need to talk about my mom and the suffering we went through. The only people who ask my how grief is doing now are the ones who showed themselves as helpers at the beginning. My circle of support knows, and asks, and has no timeline on my grief. Everyone else has moved on. While I still ache for this enormously significant part of my life to be acknowledged and seen, I understand better that not everyone is able to. I’m thankful for the small circle of people who do. I am very passionate now about helping others in the same way I have been helped.

The small moments in life I took for granted are now very precious. I do smile and laugh, along with crying and groaning. My time with my kids is precious. Still draining as it ever was, but I see the value of it so much more deeply than I ever have. Joy and sorrow are definitely related. I think of them as fraternal twins. They don’t look alike, but I’m convinced they are joined at the hip until our final tears are washed away. I see it everywhere now: in my own life and in others. I saw it a couple weeks ago watching Robert Irwin’s dedication dance to his mom on DWTS. If you haven’t seen it yet, watch it, and watch the preparation of his dance. You see joy and sorrow intermingled. I cannot live now without opening the door to both. I can’t divorce one from the other. Living fully means loving and losing, and I am learning to welcome both, however painful it will be.

I still wrestle with God. Funnily enough, when I “have it out” with him, he and I get closer. Go figure. I have never felt such a sense of welcome from God when I bring him my messy self. It’s so clear he wants me to bring it. All of it. So we wrestle. My prayers are full of cries and questions and anger and “Help me” and naked honesty. I’m learning it’s worship. Vaneetha Rendall Risner agrees. In her book, Walking Through Fire, she shares how lament became her language in the midst of her compounded losses (pg 111), “….my brutal honesty pulled me toward God. And the closer I was drawn, the more my lament transformed into worship–and even trust. Actually, it wasn’t transformed. I learned that lament didn’t need to be transformed–lament itself was an integral part of genuine trust and worship.”

Yes. Amen, sister. Thank you for putting it so well.

There’s more. There’s always more, but that’s a decent snapshot for now. If you followed along, I thank you for listening.

Continued Lament

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God, here I am. Almost 10 months since Mom died. 15 months since we knew something was wrong. I am still heavy-laden. And I wonder how I am supposed to go on. I’ve learned it’s possible to live without Mom, but there’s a deeper question. My heart is not a virgin anymore. I see the devastation that is possible. Horrific has a shape now. It is no longer abstract. I see what is possible. I see the potential losses. I see the hurt of the world. And my heart is breaking more. How can one endure this?

I see in my pain and my questions how You are so near. This is uglier than I thought it could be, and none of it seems to scare or surprise you as it does me. You know the worst. You know the depths, where I have not even touched. I see the ways you have worked in me through the pain. I see the foolishness in my heart I did not see before. I see the brevity of life. I see the importance of considering death. I see the insignificance of things I used to think mattered more than they do.

Did you have to work that through pain? Isn’t there another way? I don’t understand how you work, God. Why must you use pain? Even while the results are good, I cry out. This rips at my very being. My tears keep coming. How much longer will you have me in the fire?

You count each tear. You are so connected to me and to my grief that you know how many tears I have cried. How can you care that much about me? How can your heart break with mine? When no one else understands, you understand to your core. When I am alone, you are with me. When I can’t take more than one step at a time, you have gone before me and hold me up. You’ve provided for me in countless ways. I tried to keep a list and I know I can’t remember every person, every help, every practical need you’ve supplied in this horror.

None of this feels good. Trying to grieve well in a culture that avoids pain is another burden on top of the burden. Wasn’t the ugliness of her cancer enough? Wasn’t losing Mom enough? Wasn’t seeing the damage being done to our children and being powerless to stop it enough? Yet you thrust me into a place that does not know how to grieve. And it’s loneliness on top of loneliness; pain on top of pain. I need people, yet often they push me away from healing in their attempts to help. They have all meant well, God. Yet often they hurt. Yet sometimes they help. Did C.S. Lewis ever start a grief sanitarium? I would join one if he did. One tends to feel crazy if one attempts to grieve well.

How can life be so beautiful and so ugly at the same time? How can sorrow and joy intermingle so intimately? How will you one day divorce the two? Will every tear really be wiped away forever? To believe in you is to believe in the strongest magic we cannot comprehend. It really is the fairy tale of all fairy tales. If you really are who you say you are. All our greatest desires, all things beautiful, all our deepest hopes and aches are met in you. You truly are who we were made for.

There is so much I don’t understand, and will never understand. You are not waiting for me to understand. You are teaching me to grieve. To cry. To laugh. Help me figure out what life is about. What my life should be about now. Living for myself simply isn’t worth it. You see all the stories we tell. The good ones are the ones that echo self-sacrifice and loving others, because that’s your character. I’m still alive, so you must have a purpose for me. Let’s get on with it. I want to be with you.

Moving On vs. Moving Forward

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As time passes after Mom’s death, I have become aware of an unwelcome intangible. Somewhere there is an expectation that at some point in this process, I will “be over it”. Or if not “over it”, at least “past it”, where my grief and loss is something not talked about anymore. A friend and I were talking about this a couple days ago. While she was sharing, I began to think about it more. I’m guessing those of you who have experienced a close loss can relate. Where it comes from I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a combination of ourselves and our culture. Maybe it’s a side effect of us pushing death to the perimeter of our lives instead of how it used to live in the forefront. But whatever the source, this expectation of what healing looks like brings more damage than healing. I’d like to do what I do a lot of lately: take the expectation, look at it and examine it, question whether it is logical and true or not, and if it is not, replacing it with what is true. It’s part of how I keep my sanity in a culture where grieving is foreign.

First let’s look at this expectation more closely. It’s most often heard in the silence after a loss. Often there is an onrush of help and support in the first few months following a death, for example. Then, naturally, as people resume their regular rhythms, the help wanes. And so do the questions and conversations for the bereaved about their loved one and their grieving process. I have yet to find an example where this has not been touted as the norm. This wax and wane of people is a natural one. People will offer what they can, and for most of us, the short-term is most feasible. The trouble comes after the dust settles and the bereaved is left with their new reality, grappling with how to do life now. In this comes a lot of silence. You aren’t asked about how you are coping. They don’t bring up your loved one anymore. While their life went back to normal, yours did not and never will. C.S. Lewis compares bereavement to an amputation. And on top of that loss, you live in a culture that avoids your “amputation” after a certain point. One thing that bereaved people hear in this silence is that the broken part of themselves is not a place others want to go. Or they’ll hear that it’s not where others should go.

My personal experience with this happened most recently after Christmas holidays. I reached the eight month mark, and realized I am just dipping my toes into the extent of the damage done from Mom’s cancer journey, death, and subsequent executor role. One thing piled up on top of another, and the load kept increasing with few breaks, and I haven’t stopped since this whole thing started over a year ago. It’s been insane. Eight months in, I am just realizing this. And when that happened, I felt nervous, and a little guilty. It felt like I wasn’t doing enough. I wasn’t processing it fast enough, because the one-year marker was coming up and it feels like I should be farther along than I am. One year means it gets easier, right? And while some aspects are indeed getting easier, others are getting harder. Therapy digs up wounds that need to be healed. The body still knows and feels the effects of grief. Often there is trauma that keeps the bereaved trapped. The griever needs to figure out each day, each season, how to live in their new reality.

When I talk to people who have been bravely facing their unwanted reality for longer than I have, they confirm for me that the expectation to “move on” exists for them as well. The ones where it’s been years past their loss or major change. Grief doesn’t wave goodbye to us after a certain time frame: she travels with us the rest of our lives. We grow around our grief, yes. It’s not an always intense force; it ebbs and flows like waves. But it does not leave us. Our loss and our pain is just as much a part of us as our nose. It changes us, and will be part of our lives until our last day. Sadly, we have not done a good job seeing this part of our fellow humans. We know our neighbor lost their spouse a few years ago, but we’ve stopped asking about it. We don’t want to make them sad, we rationalize. Maybe we don’t want to get our hands dirty. Or maybe we just don’t understand deep grief. In the meantime, our neighbor walks with their grief every single day, trying to figure out how to do another day without their person. And while it may bring tears to their eyes, asking “How are you doing with your grief?” gives a chance for that sacred part of themselves to be seen and heard. Being seen for who you are, all of you, is priceless and healing. No matter how many years it’s been. Treating the loss of a loved one, or any other loss (divorce, for example) as old news, is damaging.

So as I examine this expectation, I see a term that needs to be defined. What is “being stuck in your grief”? Both the wounded and the helper can fear that this is happening. “Am I grieving, or am I stuck?” As I and others have wondered, is being stuck experiencing signs of grief years after the tragedy? Is it rough holidays, or grief triggers, or the need to talk of them long after others have stopped asking how you are doing? Also, what does moving forward look like? Is it feeling like you used to? Being more happy than sad? Feeling as if you have “gotten over it”? Arriving at a point where you never speak of your loss?

It’s safe to say that health includes moving forward in life. It does not mean living controlled by your grief for the rest of your days. Continuously reliving it, letting it define you, lack of healing are some of the signs of getting stuck in your loss. GriefShare talks about moving on versus moving forward, which is a vital distinction to understand. Moving on is a false assumption that we will somehow get past our grief. It ignores the fact that our grief travels with us, as an amputee travels without their limb. Moving forward is learning how to live without our loved one, or without our leg. Moving forward means addressing any trauma experienced. Life will never be the same, but we still have a life to live. So we learn how to live with our grief, not controlled by it. We learn how to move forward.

People who expect you to revert to who you were before, and think that you are stuck because you are not the same or because you continue to walk with grief long after, do not understand loss. They most likely have the definition of being stuck = being affected by your loss, post-loss. Often with a certain time limit (3 months, 1 year, 3 years, 10 years). These people are also quite uncomfortable with pain and are quick to give solutions or advice. They believe that faith in Jesus means mainly happy emotions, bows on top of tragedy, what our culture calls “positive thinking”, just with a religious spin in the Christian realm.

In order to help more hurting people, our culture needs a reset on how we handle pain, tragedy, grief and loss. This “toxic positivity” brings more damage than we realize. The Disney/Pixar movie “Inside Out” illustrated this better than I can do with my words. Remember Sadness and Joy trying to find their way back to Headquarters? Remember when they met Bing Bong? How he was devastated at the loss of his rocket he and Riley used to ride. For him this loss was ultimately an ending of his precious time with Riley. Joy tried to cheer him up, to fix him. It didn’t help. Sadness sat with him and listened. There were tears. It was painful. And it was healing. If you continued watching, you saw the same thing happen with Riley. She needed Sadness in order to experience Joy. The two go hand in hand in this life. They just do. Whether we like it or not. We cannot have one without the other. We should not reject the hard, painful parts of our lives, however much we hate them or don’t understand all the reasons why. If we have the courage to lean into all of life, the good and the horrible, it is there we experience the fullness of being human. It is also there where we draw closest to God. It is there where faith grows.

For my Christian siblings: this is near and dear to God’s heart. I didn’t realize how much so until my heart was utterly broken and I began to know Jesus’ presence in my suffering. I started seeing how linked suffering and salvation are. The seemingly contradictory truths that God hates death and suffering while he also uses it to accomplish his purposes, redemption and ultimate restoration. I started seeing lament & suffering all over the Bible.

Unfortunately, we’ve allowed a poisonous positive spin to infiltrate our churches. In our discomfort or ignorance with pain, we shut the door to hurting people who need to know that God invites our groans. I know it sounds crazy, but He is a suffering God! From Genesis 3, He’s known pain beyond what we can claim. And I’m seeing all over Scripture that He not only wants our anger and pain, he shares our anger and pain. He laments with us. He invites our questions as a loving parent invites their child to share what’s wrong. Aching for his broken creation, He comes so near to his brokenhearted. He invites them into this process, which I’m finding leads to depths and riches of God I have never known before. Hurting people need this good news, and instead are met with shallow messages of God’s goodness apart from their pain. The questions devastated people ask are not found in our churches. Their cries are not welcome on Sundays. Their anger is called sinful instead of part of their process of lamenting to God. Their questions are not tolerated. Their doubts are not acknowledged. The picture of God we portray to people is shallow. We try to fast-forward a grieving person to trust in God, skipping the hard parts. All this is flat-out wrong, un-Scriptural, and harmful. This is not who God is, what He says, how He responds to our suffering, or how Jesus suffered. This is a large part of the book I’m writing in my spare time. We need to do an about-face with regard to suffering, Church.

The “positive gospel” does not tell a suffering world many things it needs to hear. The most lamentable miss in my heart lately is about our suffering Savior. I’ve grown up in church, and I knew Jesus died on the cross for my sins, but I had no concept for Jesus as God’s son living a sorrowful, tear-filled, grief-acquainted life. Some of the things I’m learning are astounding and comforting. For example, in a sermon entitled Praying our Tears by Tim Keller, he pointed out that only one perfect human heart walked this broken earth, and that perfect human heart wept. A lot. Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, close friends with grief. And to the degree Christians grow in their resemblance to Jesus, they will grow in their heartbreak. They will hurt more. They will ache more. They will suffer more.

So we now need to ask the hard questions. Take a look in the mirror and be brave. And I mainly address these questions to my Christian friends. How do we respond to the loss in our lives? How do we process the pain in our lives? Do we feel it and face it with God? Are we doing the hard work of looking at it? Are we learning how to lament? Are we studying what God says about pain and suffering and grief? Do we care most about comfort, or Christ? Are we willing to feel the heartbreak of being alive in a beautiful yet busted up world? Why do we so quickly put a positive, religious spin on it? “But God…..” “At least…..” Ill-timed Scripture aimed at reminders of God’s goodness while ignoring their pain. Trying to clean someone up instead of being present in their mess, because perhaps their mess touches on something unhealed in our own hearts. Or perhaps we really want to be comfortable more than we want Jesus’ road.

While there are so many facets at play here, one thing seems obvious. We need to be willing to face the pain of our own life; only then can we begin to bear the pain of another. Hearing about the horrible way someone’s reality changed permanently is very hard. In some cases, heartbreaking. And that discomfort and heartbreak needs to be felt. For us and for others. God does not ask us to put a silver lining on it. He never puts a silver lining on it. Instead, He invites us to share in his pain, into the depths. Not simply for the sake of feeling it. Not because He’s sadistic and enjoys inflicting pain. Because He’s there with us in it. Because there is so much more of Him to know through it. Because He knows suffering on an intimate level. He both weeps with us and works through the pain. Because His suffering brought redemption. Because through the depths come the greatest of heights and hope.

Suffering and loss do what comfort cannot. It has purpose beyond our understanding. That’s easy to say until you’re in severe pain yourself. While I shy away from it, Jesus did not, and does not. His presence gives me the strength to learn how to live with my grief instead of shoving it down. Dare I say that’s the best part about this horrific season: however horrible it gets, I’m never alone. Someone greater and better than me is in it with me, feeling it with me, drawing close to me. Someone who will never leave me or be taken away. Someone who will finally heal it all. And that makes all the difference in the world.

Balance

/ melissamagdsick / Leave a comment

Hi. I’m blogging less often due to doing more writing and journaling offline. I think there’s a book or two in there somewhere. We’ll see once the dust settles.

Most often, when I’m with other people, there’s a draw I feel to be “okay” for their sake. Sometimes it’s a helpful draw. My kids, for example, draw me into fun and cuddles and comforting moments. My husband draws me into similar things with an adult twist on life and God and grief. My friends draw me into distractions, enjoyable moments, reminders that not all of life is horrible. I’m thankful for the breaks.

I’m finding, though, that there needs to be a balance in order for this griever to be healthy. Sometimes that draw to the positive is unhealthy. To process the death of my mom and the last months of her life, to heal and move forward, requires time to go back, to remember, to revisit, to consider. There needs to be time to be drawn out of my grief, and time to be drawn in. The lighter moments are a breath, a gift, a refresher. They are given as a respite, in order that I may plunge back into the processing pool once I’ve caught my breath. I need both: breaks and plunges.

What I’m coming to understand about my own story is that the last year of my life, and the last 6-7 months of Mom’s life, were full of trauma and grief. I am just beginning, eight months in from her death, to see the landscape and name the destruction done. Things went from zero to sixty with her health, what I needed to do to take care of her, her decline, her death, and then my executor role heavy in the first three to four months afterwards. I’ve barely been able to come up for air. Neither has my family, in very different ways. We’re now at a place where the ground under our feet seems stable enough to stop and take a look around. Pursue counseling. Give our bodies a chance to come out of fight or flight. That’s a whole other issue: the way our bodies hold grief and trauma, and how it manifests itself with various health problems.

With all that we’re facing, it’s becoming clear that we need both draws. Draws out of our grief and draws in. The trouble in our culture is that the vast majority of people live in a “draw out” kind of manner. I’m starting to see it everywhere. It’s in how we talk to each other. How we do church. It’s even in my journaling prompts for my “Tell Me Your Story, Mom” book. I’m not finding any questions like, “What was the hardest part of childhood?” Or ,”Tell me about your most painful moment as an adult.” It’s all about favorite moments, accessories, school, dating, work, etc. in an upbeat fashion.

Nope. We want to hear what’s good in someone else’s life. We want to hear the positive spin, the silver lining. Perhaps that’s where the “at least” statements come from. I used to use them often. When a child goes into surgery and suffers, “at least it was successful.” The conversation with someone you bump into at the grocery store: “What was your favorite part about your trip?” One one hand I get it: who wants to expose their messy, hurting, broken, anguished parts to a friend in the cereal section of Trader Joe’s? Not me. But when we never ask the other side of the question (ex: What was the hardest part of your trip?), or held the suffering child’s pain along with them (ex: How do you feel about getting surgery and missing basketball season?), we neglect caring for the whole person. We send a message that the only presentable, worthy parts of a person are the happy parts. The good news parts. When the reality is that our whole lives are going to be a blend of both: a mix of happy and horrific, difficult and easy, good and bad, joys and sorrows. This “stay positive” thinking lends itself to ignoring, minimizing or stuffing the harm, leading to long-term damage and unhealed wounds. Which leads to a culture of people who do not know how to help a hurting person because they are an unhealed hurting person.

I’ve struggled lately telling people what I need. My needs aren’t as practical as they were at the beginning. We’re good with meals, groceries, errands. We have two drivers again for kids’ activities. We’re on stable ground with the practicals. Prayer is always our top need, so I do ask for that the most. However, as I’ve thought about it, I discovered another gap. I need people who can draw me INTO my grief. People who aren’t afraid to see my mess, hear my undone anger or fear, and who can sit with that. Someone who will listen, let me cry, and bear it with me for a little while. Not try to change me or quote a proverb or verse or silver lining. Those are draws out. If all I have are draw outs, they won’t help me heal. At times, I need draws in. I need a safe place to be my broken, hurting self. I want to be seen. All of me, especially the anguished parts with which most of us are uncomfortable. Psalm 34:18 tells us God is near to the broken-hearted and saves the crushed in spirit. Jesus also tells the mourners that they are blessed, for theirs is the kingdom of God (Matthew 5:4). When a person is able to sit beside their hurting friend, ache along with them, they make space for this very holy place. For God to be present with them and their broken heart. They allow blessing to come. Platitudes and verses and silver linings rob us of that beautiful process that takes place in our agony. I get it. I hate this. I would never choose to swim in this pool. I wish all of life were positive and happy. But it’s not the world we’re living in. There’s bigger things going on than our personal comfort. There’s war and eternity and salvation at play, to name a few of the intangibles beyond our understanding. There’s meaning and purpose to the pain we feel.

So now I have a new need. I’m praying for people who can bring some balance by drawing me into my grief. Being able to sit there with me. No fixing. No positive spinning. This isn’t an easy ask. It’s painful. It’s the harder road. It’s much easier to avoid. And I could really use someone to join Jesus and me in the pool.

Thank you to my “draw out” crew as well. I need you, too.