Grief, Lived

No man ever steps in the same river twice – Heraclitus

“The giant climbed down the beanstalk chasing Jack, and when Jack got to the bottom, he ran into the house, and what did he get?”

I can almost see myself as a child, thinking hard, focusing on remembering the right word. “He got...a shovel?” I hear my tiny three-year-old voice say on the tape recording. My dad laughs. I imagine tears in the corners of his eyes – his eyes always glistened when he laughed fully, rich with pure delight.

“No,” he says. “An ax!”

As I listen to this treasure from the past, I picture us sitting in my grandmother’s living room, where she used to tell me, “I love you the most,” and where my daddy and I made this recording. I think of night sounds of the country coming in through the open window as the wispy curtains blow. I made mud pies in that yard. I once picked my grandma’s yellow tulips and brought her a bouquet. She was so disappointed but tried not to let it show. I hear the voices from my childhood, and I cling to the innocence and joy. I imagine who my father was before the iron grip of addiction grabbed hold. I hear the gentleness in his voice and wonder how the years could have been different. I look at my son and think about how my grandma must have loved my dad, her youngest, her baby boy. Oh, the dreams she must have had for him.

Years later I sit on my bed and hold the phone to my ear as I listen to the end of a dream. “He’s been down for some time,” the coroner says.

It’s the one piece of information that I’m not comprehending, that just isn’t processing. I keep thinking, “No, wait. I’ll just go back. If I just go back...” Even though whatever rationality is left in me knows that can’t make any sense, it’s the strongest urge, the loudest thought. I’ll just go back. To the last phone call. To a few days earlier. To before he drew his last breath, alone in his apartment.

Heart attack, the death certificate says. Was tobacco a factor? Probably, it says. I once tried to hide his cigarettes. There was so much more to him, though, than the struggles he faced. He was compassionate. He saw the best in people. He gave even when he didn’t have enough. He loved animals so much because he saw in them what human beings were lacking. He was fun-loving and adventurous, despite the fear that sometimes kept that hidden. He wanted better for himself. He learned lessons. He taught others. His life held meaning and purpose beyond a scope any of us could ever envision. If only we all could see that every time we looked into someone else’s eyes.

I experience God in the days that follow. I see clearly how he has led me through these trials, feel His presence, and have a peace and assuredness that I don’t know how to explain. And all of it leaves me just as quickly when darkness consumes me once again. This is the course that mere mortals take.

A couple of weeks after my dad’s funeral, I am home alone when Monte knocks at my door. He happens to be in town and says he just wants to give me a hug. We talk in my kitchen, and I am somehow aware of the significance of this moment, of how much it means to me that the skinny, goofy little boy I used to know grew up to be one of the good men, a role model for my children as they grow up. I am thankful for this brother I gained when I married my husband, for his presence and influence in our lives. We’ve hiked trails together, climbed mountains, talked about the deep stuff around campfires. He’s a comfort and a constant. I find myself thinking forward to years down the road, as we all grow old together. I’m so glad he’ll be there to the end.

Four months later, on the morning Monte dies, I drive the hour and a half to his house in disbelief, struggling to piece together what to say to Jessica – just in case it’s actually true, on the off-chance that a perfectly healthy 31-year-old can truly die in his sleep, with no warning. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure it’s a mistake – they’ve revived him, and no one has told me yet.

I pull up to a yard full of cars where people in shock are inside the house looking for things like his wallet and his wedding ring to make sure they are safe. Except for him. He isn’t here, because his body has been taken away. I go outside to Jessica and try to think of words. What words would I want someone to say to me?

I stroke Jessica’s hair as the scorching July sun bears down on us with no remorse. “Amadeus won’t remember his father,” she says, broken. I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

At Monte’s funeral, his four-year-old daughter runs over to me during the final worship song. I stretch out my arms, and she grins and leaps into them. I hold her to my chest; she leans back and beams up at me, our eyes locking. I’ve always loved her daddy’s eyes – the deepest brown, a gentle humor twinkling in their depths. Do you know you have your daddy’s eyes, sweet girl? I can’t bear it and put her head to my shoulder. Why can’t he be here? Why? I weep as joyful praise music fills the room; the throb of aching hearts pulses louder.

We cling to one another as we wrestle with a plan that we do not understand. We say we want to go back, but the only hope we have is that of reunion, of dreams restored and realized, of love eternal and oceans of tears parting. I will have my dad whole again. I will hug my brother again. I will know that blessed peace again, and one day it will never leave me.

Two years to the day we laid my dad to rest, I think about how cold it was that morning and how today holds signs of spring, with warm sunshine and wild wind left over from this morning’s storms. The sky is so blue; all the gray has passed. My children are roaming in the woods by our house on legs that are getting longer by the day, their features growing and changing minute by minute – their speech, their voices, their smiles. I want to bottle them up and keep them as they are today – ripe with joy and innocence, their lives spilling over with possibility. And yet I know that what I really want is the moving forward, the unending flow that never keeps us stuck in one place. On this day next year, not one will remain the same. None of us remains as we are now, forever.

The river is not the same, and neither am I.

Advent

She's not asking me why yet. She's a mighty little chatterbox who has lots of words in her vocabulary – functional words like shoe and milk, typical words like bye and outside, unusual words like tickle and clock, and fanciful words that only make sense in her toddler mind – but 'why' isn't a part of her life yet. She's still focused on the concrete, the names and the things and the places. The why is a detail that's harder to reach because we don't know to ask the question until we've run out of answers. The why requires a journey, and many times these broken vessels we call our selves never arrive at the destination.

And that is why faith can be so hard. 'Why' is not an easy question to answer. The expectation of hope can be beautiful, but the expectation of an arrival that has yet to come can be like a tiny flame in a dark winter night, waiting in peril for the slight draft that will blow it out.

For those of us who are experiencing a season of so much anticipation, so much expectation, while suffering through all the hurt and disappointment of the seasons before, guarding that candle's flame can feel like a lost cause. What's the use in protecting a fire that doesn't appear to give enough light or warmth?

To everyone who is broken this season, to everyone who is weary and tired, to everyone who has battled loneliness or loss or addiction, fear of the unknown, unfulfilled dreams, illness, financial hardship, painful relationships, or suffering beyond what is even imaginable –

There is hope on the horizon.

That is what this season is meant to represent. Though much of our experience has taught us that joy is hard to come by and pain will inevitably prevail, what we've come to expect is not always what arrives. Joy is coming. We hold the candle to invite Him in so that the peace of His presence can fulfill what the flame cannot.

When she's older and asking me harder questions than “Cookie?”, she may find that at times, the answers don't fulfill the longing. They aren't meant to. There is more to seek beyond answers, beyond expectations. My prayer is that asking why would always point her back to 'who'.

We celebrate. We prepare. And we wait with yearning for the joy to come.

Why I'll Be Rejoicing In November

Oy, this election. You're killing me, Smalls.

Election seasons are hard. This is nothing new, and yet every time one happens we seem to act even crazier than before. I will admit, however, that this one is particularly bad, for reasons of which I'm sure some of us are all too aware.

Beginning long before this outlandish spectacle began, I have often found myself under the spell of discouragement, and even at times, of despair. As the world appears to spiral more and more out of control with each passing day, I get caught up in the horror of it all far more often than I should. It's like a disease that flows over into other parts of my life, affecting even the areas that are supposed to be filled with joy.

That is complete and utter insanity.

Given all I know about God and His promises, and His incredible grace and love, I am nothing but a great fool when I give myself over to the pain and confusion this world has to offer. Why do I hold this redemptive hope in my hands and still walk around like it doesn't exist? I have everything and act as though I have nothing.

Every obstacle should be viewed as more opportunity to grow in grace, to fully understand that my life does not end with my departure from this earth. If it did, I'd have every reason in the world to fret, throw my hands up in disgust, and give up. Instead, I have every reason in the book to celebrate.

God is sovereign. “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted” (Job 42:2). “The Lord has established his throne in the heavens, and his kingdom rules over all” (Psalm 103:19). None of this has changed. Just because I feel as though everything is completely out of control doesn't mean that it actually is.

He is good. “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28). It doesn't look good. It doesn't feel good. In fact, I'm willing to bet that most of us would describe the past several months (and longer) as awful. But we trust in Him and all His wisdom and might and love because HE is good. Even when we're surrounded by the bad, we're enveloped in the good.

He wins. “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). We are already victorious. In spite of ourselves, all that is messed up in this world will not defeat us. We will not remain in the wilderness forever.

I am vowing to remember these points as I set out to change my approach. I've lived far too long under the blanket of defeat, missing out on the peace held out to me just on the other side.

I will rejoice because I still have the abundant life, and I carry blessings with me in each and every step I take.

I will be thankful for that knowledge and remember that until my dying breath, I will fight for what matters.

I will not allow my sense of worth to diminish because I feel as though my voice hasn't been heard.

I will not forget that there is a plan and purpose for it all, even when it hurts, even when it sucks, even when I am in fear.

I will seek to live in the light of glory, praising Him with every breath.

I will not throw my hands in the air and give up and quit fighting and close my eyes and wait for it all to be over. I will not let the fire in my soul burn out. I will walk this weary road, but I will not forget where it leads.

Laid Bare

I don't belong here. I'm worthless. What's the point?

I felt it when I held my sick, teething baby and wondered why I couldn't be any better at this. Upset and frustrated, I cried along with her, telling myself I didn't deserve children because I couldn't handle the hard parts. Not like other moms could. I didn't have patience, I couldn't handle sleep deprivation, and what kind of mother is angry because she is exhausted? I'm bad at this just like I'm bad at everything else, I thought.

I feel it when I want to write encouraging posts for other Christian moms, so I delve into the latest from other bloggers and writers I've enjoyed, but I can't relate. Their posts are progressive and provocative, and I am not. I question if I even truly have a platform or if what I'm doing even matters or makes a difference. If this is my calling, then why do I get the sense that I don't belong? No one even cares what I have to say anyway.

I feel it when I've spent months working out hard and eating right and doing all the healthy things but still not getting completely rid of the tummy that housed three little souls until their births. It's not enough that I lost all the baby weight and then some because there are other women doing it better. She's had kids too – how did she get that flat stomach and those abs? If she can be that fit, why can't I? It's useless for me. I guess I should just give up.

I tell myself that I'm telling myself lies, but for some reason it's harder to believe myself then. The lie is more comfortable, more convincing. It has been a companion for far too long. It has grown roots and taken up shelter in the depths of my soul like a weed that won't die, and I let it because I've never lived life without it. I know I'd be better off to dispose of it, but I still keep it around, hidden like a secret treasure, because I can't figure out how to let go of something I've held on to for so long.

All we have to do to see how easy it is to believe lies is look at the world around us. We think everyone has gone mad, but it's more than madness; it's the enemy. When the world has been led to believe that lies are better than the truth, we can't be surprised when madness ensues. It's no wonder we are in this place we don't want to be, in the midst of insanity. But if I can't let go of my own lies, what makes me think I can fight the rest of them?

The mind is the easiest place to attack – at least, I know mine is, because I'm already attacking myself in there. I don't matter, I don't measure up, I'm not good enough, not doing enough, not funny enough, smart enough, wise enough, pretty enough, successful enough...I am vulnerable...discouraged...wide open to pain and hurt...and wide open to MORE lies.

I don't want to be here anymore, held captive by thoughts. And quite frankly, I don't have the luxury of being here anymore. There's too much at stake. 

If I could give people on this earth anything at all, it would be to give them the truth – that they are loved by the creator of the universe, more than they could ever possibly imagine. If each and every human soul could feel the love and hope that rests in the promise given to us on the cross all those years ago...if they could see that the lies they've filled themselves with all this time have a purpose, and that purpose is to prevent them from reaching that promise...if only they could see that we are at war in unseen ways…

But I'm speaking to myself. Because I forget all of it when my mind is filled with all the wrong stuff. I can't fix the world, but I can get my head right. I can't convince the world that it's wrong, but I can remind myself and anyone who cares that we don't belong here – and that's precisely why we feel it. We can feel it together.

I can no longer live under the weight of the lie that the enemy is not that big of a threat. It's certainly more comfortable under it – like a child's warm blanket pulled up in the night when sounds get scary. But those sounds are real. The enemy is not just toying with me – the enemy seeks to keep me underneath the covers. Only I can decide what I am going to do with that truth.