Almost 5 months... and still counting, every week, every day, every minute.
The month of January has been a month of long, drawn out, constant emotional crisis. I am so thankful for the grief resources that write about the complexities of emotions in grief, the accumulation of multiple losses, the strain of living in a non-grief society... I can honestly say that this month, I have experienced just about every emotion on the Grief Share devotional's list, pretty much all the time, pretty much at the same time...
Denial, rejection, guilt, anger, jealousy, fear, pain, loss, sorrow, apathy, rage, confusion, anxiety, sadness, inadequacy, envy, dread, anguish, betrayal, distrust, loneliness, helplessness, disappointment, resentment, vindictiveness, depression, bitterness, dismay, abandonment, and lack of control. (Not sure about vindictiveness...)
No more the five simple stages of grief!! (Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, in no specific order. *Kubler-Ross model, Wikipedia) The list is much larger and more complex! The emotions become entangled with each other, past hurts lumped in with present hurts, and the depths to which grief reaches continues to expand, deepen, and widen, threatening to overtake my whole being, certainly my life.
I have not coped well this month. I became "unglued" to the point of not recognizing myself, which scared me and only encouraged my emotional anxieties...
I could engage with the long list of reasons why this month has been harder than others, what factors have impacted my "emotional well-being" or lack thereof... But it would be a meaningless journey of nothingness :) Some of them may pop up on my blog over time, but for now, it would not be "beneficial" to discuss (...to use one of Lynn's words when discerning whether to confront or not confront certain issues on a more "public" level.)
In short, being the grieving person... sucks. Can I say that? It sucks. And I have recognized the still small voice, calling me back into a stillness and rest, saying, Remember what I told you? Remember the year? Stop taking burdens, heavy loads onto yourself when you are broken and weak. Rest in me and let me be a guard around your heart. Trust Me to bring you to healing and wholeness. No one can do it but Me.
The bittersweet nature of having so many loving and caring people in my life, is that they all need me to help them help me. This is something I can no longer try to do. It is impossible, (on a scale involving hundreds of people). I am laying it down. I need people, but I cannot bear the burden of helping them help me... Perhaps I'll write more on that another time.
So, I am pulling back a little bit. I am withdrawing from the masses I appreciate and dearly love. I am trying to accept the fact that I cannot yet engage with the church where we were in ministry together and with the vast networks of people that Lynn and I so enjoyed growing and fellowshipping with... This is another layer of loss for me. Another way Lynn's death continue's to impact my life... I cannot stay connected, on my own, to so many people. I have to choose a smaller life that I can more reasonably manage...
The snowball effect of Lynn's death continues to roll over into new layers of depth and brokenness. I am weak and burned out. I need my few. And I need to rest.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
The few.
I recently opened a devotional* and read, God is "a very present help in times of trouble." (from Psalm 46:1) This ministers to me, but not in the way it used to. I recognize, now, the need for those around me who will make this a tangible reality in my life... An ever present help in times of trouble...
I am learning that, in a time of such brokenness, in the midst of catastrophic loss, a person needs not only the masses, the local body, the church at large, but the few. I needed to ask myself, Who are the few? Who are the few who will come alongside and be ever present in my time of trouble?
This is not a job for everyone. It is a different ministry than that of the masses. I cannot have 400+ people engaging up close in my suffering, no matter how loving and wonderful they are! This is not about church ministry, it is about friendship. It is about a deeper fellowship. It is about a higher commitment to suffering that says, I am in this with you. When you suffer, I suffer. You may not know what you need, I may not know what to say, but I am here for the long haul. I am here every day. I am here to make sure you get out of bed in the morning. I am here to bring you coffee. I am here to play with your children so you get a break. I am here to listen, and to pray. I am here to be strong when you are weak. I am committed to holding you up and walking you through this every step of the way until we reach the other side.
Is this kind of fellowship possible? Does it exist? How many of us have longed for it? How many of us have longed to move beyond the pleasantries, to tear down pretences, to scream and rage in our loss with someone who stands by till the end? How many of us long for what Jerry Sittser calls, a community of brokenness, the kind of community that seems to reflect God's heart for his beloved bride... We long for it, but we forget... that it comes at a cost!!!!!
Jerry writes:
...to find a community of brokenness, it requires a choice on the part of those who want to provide a community for suffering friends. They must be willing to be changed by someone else's loss, though they might not have been directly affected by it. Good comfort requires empathy, forces adjustments, and sometimes mandates huge sacrifices. Comforters must be prepared to let the pain of another become their own and so let it transform them. They will never be the same after that decision. Their own world will be permanently altered by the presence of one who suffers. It will bring an end to detachment, control, and convenience. It will prevent them from ever thinking again that the world is a safe place full of nice people, positive experiences, and favourable circumstances.
No one can be that for everyone. But are you that for someone? Do you still adhere to the belief that the world is a safe place full of nice people, positive experiences, and favourable circumstances? If so, you are missing out! You are missing out on the fellowship of his sufferings. (Philippians 3:10)
I know that someday, when I have walked this journey to the other side, holding the hands of those who stepped forward as my few, that together we will rejoice in the depths we have seen and known and experienced together. And we will be ready for the next journey of suffering, the next sister or brother to link arms with in a time of great need, and say, Now rest! We will be strong when you are weak! We will hold you up! We will lead you, in the power of the Holy Spirit, to the other side, from glory to glory, from step to step on the narrow path through the narrow gate, in the way everlasting... FOR HIS NAME'S SAKE!!!!!!!
Be blessed my friends.
*Streams in the Desert, by Mrs. Charles Cowman, (Thank you Uncle Weldon and Aunt Brenda!).
I am learning that, in a time of such brokenness, in the midst of catastrophic loss, a person needs not only the masses, the local body, the church at large, but the few. I needed to ask myself, Who are the few? Who are the few who will come alongside and be ever present in my time of trouble?
This is not a job for everyone. It is a different ministry than that of the masses. I cannot have 400+ people engaging up close in my suffering, no matter how loving and wonderful they are! This is not about church ministry, it is about friendship. It is about a deeper fellowship. It is about a higher commitment to suffering that says, I am in this with you. When you suffer, I suffer. You may not know what you need, I may not know what to say, but I am here for the long haul. I am here every day. I am here to make sure you get out of bed in the morning. I am here to bring you coffee. I am here to play with your children so you get a break. I am here to listen, and to pray. I am here to be strong when you are weak. I am committed to holding you up and walking you through this every step of the way until we reach the other side.
Is this kind of fellowship possible? Does it exist? How many of us have longed for it? How many of us have longed to move beyond the pleasantries, to tear down pretences, to scream and rage in our loss with someone who stands by till the end? How many of us long for what Jerry Sittser calls, a community of brokenness, the kind of community that seems to reflect God's heart for his beloved bride... We long for it, but we forget... that it comes at a cost!!!!!
Jerry writes:
...to find a community of brokenness, it requires a choice on the part of those who want to provide a community for suffering friends. They must be willing to be changed by someone else's loss, though they might not have been directly affected by it. Good comfort requires empathy, forces adjustments, and sometimes mandates huge sacrifices. Comforters must be prepared to let the pain of another become their own and so let it transform them. They will never be the same after that decision. Their own world will be permanently altered by the presence of one who suffers. It will bring an end to detachment, control, and convenience. It will prevent them from ever thinking again that the world is a safe place full of nice people, positive experiences, and favourable circumstances.
No one can be that for everyone. But are you that for someone? Do you still adhere to the belief that the world is a safe place full of nice people, positive experiences, and favourable circumstances? If so, you are missing out! You are missing out on the fellowship of his sufferings. (Philippians 3:10)
I know that someday, when I have walked this journey to the other side, holding the hands of those who stepped forward as my few, that together we will rejoice in the depths we have seen and known and experienced together. And we will be ready for the next journey of suffering, the next sister or brother to link arms with in a time of great need, and say, Now rest! We will be strong when you are weak! We will hold you up! We will lead you, in the power of the Holy Spirit, to the other side, from glory to glory, from step to step on the narrow path through the narrow gate, in the way everlasting... FOR HIS NAME'S SAKE!!!!!!!
Be blessed my friends.
*Streams in the Desert, by Mrs. Charles Cowman, (Thank you Uncle Weldon and Aunt Brenda!).
Monday, January 21, 2013
Why?
The why question is a big one. I try not to entertain it. I avoid it at all costs, knowing it ends nowhere. But some days, I cannot escape it. Like suddenly being forced to look at your own reflection in a mirror... Today, Alea was holding the mirror.
The girls are playing house again, talking about how "the dad" died. Roya is "fake" crying for her "pretend" dad, and Alea, (apparently the Mom this time), starts comforting her. My shoulders tense... I'm in the kitchen preparing toppings for a gluten-free pizza for supper... The play starts moving out of "house" and into "real". I've been dreading this one... I hear Alea comforting Roya, telling Roya that Daddy will be back, just as Roya used to comfort her... He's coming back. I know she believes this. She prays at every meal, and help my Daddy... At first she thought he was lost, and screamed many hours at night fearing for him, unable to verbalize her thoughts. Later, she understood he was safe with Jesus and not lost (which I assume came from overhearing adults use the phrase lost your father).
My girls can only comprehend so much about death. Young children are protected by their youth and gradually realize the depth and finality of their loss. Alea had not yet understood the finality of death, just as Roya had not when it first happened. We moved beyond this "stage" with Roya, but my 3 year old was just getting there. I knew, with the heavy weight returning to bear over my body, as Alea verbalized her genuine belief that Daddy was returning, I had to tell her the truth...
So I take her aside and look into her eyes, and say, No Alea. Daddy is not coming back. She hears me, as though her greatest fears are being discovered, and sobs... real cries of new and fresh awareness, new grief. Here we are again, back to the couch, my daughters huddled on my lap, reading children's books about death and dying. I'm trying to explain heaven, trying to help Alea understand that her Daddy cannot come back. Why? Alea sobs. Over and over, she asks Why? So I talk them through it again, tell them what happened, bring out the "human body" book, tell it as honestly and literally as possible so their imaginations do not imagine the worst... Alea is broken over her Daddy's broken heart. Why? She keeps asking. Why won't my Daddy's heart work!?!
Why? My reservoir of answers is exhausted and the question remains. Why? Why does my four year old tell me she doesn't like herself, that she wants to die? Why does my 3 year old fear her own heart malfunctioning and entering into some scary abyss called death that she cannot wrap her head around? Why when others are celebrating their families, enjoying anniversaries, welcoming new babies... Why when fathers bend down to love on their children, is there no father for mine? Why did God see us worthy of this higher calling called grief? Why did he see my daughters so worthy of fear, loss, loneliness, and self-doubt? Why must I bear this burden alone, when every other wife my age is complaining that their husband doesn't do the dishes, or plays hockey too much, or doesn't read her mind and understand all the feelings of her heart? Why am I somehow worthy to be shocked into brutal awareness of blessing and loss, life and death, sorrow and grief?
There it is. Alea held up the mirror and forced me to see the question reflected in my own heart as well as hers. A question for which there are no answers... Why?
The girls are playing house again, talking about how "the dad" died. Roya is "fake" crying for her "pretend" dad, and Alea, (apparently the Mom this time), starts comforting her. My shoulders tense... I'm in the kitchen preparing toppings for a gluten-free pizza for supper... The play starts moving out of "house" and into "real". I've been dreading this one... I hear Alea comforting Roya, telling Roya that Daddy will be back, just as Roya used to comfort her... He's coming back. I know she believes this. She prays at every meal, and help my Daddy... At first she thought he was lost, and screamed many hours at night fearing for him, unable to verbalize her thoughts. Later, she understood he was safe with Jesus and not lost (which I assume came from overhearing adults use the phrase lost your father).
My girls can only comprehend so much about death. Young children are protected by their youth and gradually realize the depth and finality of their loss. Alea had not yet understood the finality of death, just as Roya had not when it first happened. We moved beyond this "stage" with Roya, but my 3 year old was just getting there. I knew, with the heavy weight returning to bear over my body, as Alea verbalized her genuine belief that Daddy was returning, I had to tell her the truth...
So I take her aside and look into her eyes, and say, No Alea. Daddy is not coming back. She hears me, as though her greatest fears are being discovered, and sobs... real cries of new and fresh awareness, new grief. Here we are again, back to the couch, my daughters huddled on my lap, reading children's books about death and dying. I'm trying to explain heaven, trying to help Alea understand that her Daddy cannot come back. Why? Alea sobs. Over and over, she asks Why? So I talk them through it again, tell them what happened, bring out the "human body" book, tell it as honestly and literally as possible so their imaginations do not imagine the worst... Alea is broken over her Daddy's broken heart. Why? She keeps asking. Why won't my Daddy's heart work!?!
Why? My reservoir of answers is exhausted and the question remains. Why? Why does my four year old tell me she doesn't like herself, that she wants to die? Why does my 3 year old fear her own heart malfunctioning and entering into some scary abyss called death that she cannot wrap her head around? Why when others are celebrating their families, enjoying anniversaries, welcoming new babies... Why when fathers bend down to love on their children, is there no father for mine? Why did God see us worthy of this higher calling called grief? Why did he see my daughters so worthy of fear, loss, loneliness, and self-doubt? Why must I bear this burden alone, when every other wife my age is complaining that their husband doesn't do the dishes, or plays hockey too much, or doesn't read her mind and understand all the feelings of her heart? Why am I somehow worthy to be shocked into brutal awareness of blessing and loss, life and death, sorrow and grief?
There it is. Alea held up the mirror and forced me to see the question reflected in my own heart as well as hers. A question for which there are no answers... Why?
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Learning to live.
Is it something about having young children? or is it just me? Does life really move forward this fast?
I wake up in the morning and the day says, Choose life! Choose joy! Learn to live again! But every step forward is a step further away from the past. This grieves my soul. Still, I am learning that to live in my loss, to stay in the past, to NOT move forward, results in a death far more devastating than Lynn's, the death of a soul that is still free to choose...
I have set before you life... now choose life! (Deut 30:15)
My understanding of loss continues to grow and expand with each new day, along with my understanding of life. I MUST live and choose life in the through. My loss cannot define me or my daughters, but nor can I escape it. It will be always be there, the stump in our backyard, shaping us, changing us, bringing a depth of sorrow to our existence and a deeper understanding of life...
I am also learning that to live again requires love, requires learning to love again.
In some ways I feel much braver than ever before. There is a sense in which I know how short life can be and desire to live it to the full... But then I also know the risk involved in loving, the pain of loss. I physically shake over the brokenness and vulnerability such a loss brings... I don't wonder or fear the distant, hypothetical possibility of death. I know it. I've lived it. I've tasted the reality of death and know it could happen to anyone at any time. So do I dare love again? Do I dare pour my love into my children, my family, my friends, knowing that they too could die? Any moment of any day? Do I risk the devastation of another loss that could come into my life? Do I risk love?
But learning to live again requires love. To stop living... that is not an option. So the risk is inevitable. As the soul grows, love deepens. As love deepens, risk skyrockets. Loss becomes even more painful after death...*
*More inspired thoughts from Jerry Sittser's incredible book, A Grace Disguised: How the Soul Grows Through Loss.
I wake up in the morning and the day says, Choose life! Choose joy! Learn to live again! But every step forward is a step further away from the past. This grieves my soul. Still, I am learning that to live in my loss, to stay in the past, to NOT move forward, results in a death far more devastating than Lynn's, the death of a soul that is still free to choose...
I have set before you life... now choose life! (Deut 30:15)
My understanding of loss continues to grow and expand with each new day, along with my understanding of life. I MUST live and choose life in the through. My loss cannot define me or my daughters, but nor can I escape it. It will be always be there, the stump in our backyard, shaping us, changing us, bringing a depth of sorrow to our existence and a deeper understanding of life...
I am also learning that to live again requires love, requires learning to love again.
In some ways I feel much braver than ever before. There is a sense in which I know how short life can be and desire to live it to the full... But then I also know the risk involved in loving, the pain of loss. I physically shake over the brokenness and vulnerability such a loss brings... I don't wonder or fear the distant, hypothetical possibility of death. I know it. I've lived it. I've tasted the reality of death and know it could happen to anyone at any time. So do I dare love again? Do I dare pour my love into my children, my family, my friends, knowing that they too could die? Any moment of any day? Do I risk the devastation of another loss that could come into my life? Do I risk love?
But learning to live again requires love. To stop living... that is not an option. So the risk is inevitable. As the soul grows, love deepens. As love deepens, risk skyrockets. Loss becomes even more painful after death...*
*More inspired thoughts from Jerry Sittser's incredible book, A Grace Disguised: How the Soul Grows Through Loss.
Friday, January 11, 2013
The stump.
Jerry Sittser writes of another profound image in his book, A Grace Disguised, about a tree stump. He writes that grief is like a tree stump in your backyard... It used to be a tall, glorious tree, filling out the space with its lofty branches and greenery. But now it is a stump. At first, all a person can see is the stump in their backyard... a constant reminder of what used to be there. But, slowly and surely, they begin to look around, plant some flowers, and other trees that blossom and bloom... The stump becomes an important masterpiece in the midst of a lush and thriving garden...
Right now, on my journey, I feel overcome with grief. I feel overcome by death... I see the stump in my backyard, the death of all that was, that used to be, all that was lost in the death of my greatest blessing... the grand tree that stood tall and proud, and others came to marvel in its shade... :) I feel like I am transitioning into some new stage... some unwanted "progression" that points me toward a new life... new seeds... a growing garden.
This may not make any sense, but I am committed to honesty for the sake of others, so here it goes... In this season of transition, I find my head spinning, grappling with past, present, and future, grasping for some certainty, some understanding, some comprehension... My life is moving forward, but my world is radically different. Lynn's life was complete, finished, no regrets or unfinished business... while my life is left undone, unresolved, in constant flux, unfinished. My heart loves Lynn in the present. The girls and I will hold him closely in our future. Yet, we will only know him in our past (earthly speaking...).
As a Christian, I grapple with God's sovereignty over my life, leading me, planning and preparing me, mixed with the shock and trauma of catastrophic loss. Circumstances like, for years I prayed for a miracle, that God would lead us into financial freedom, I got down on my knees and begged God to make a way for us to be in His will and still be debt free... Now I am in a more stable financial position than we ever were before... My prayers were answered? There was a dream, not yet shared, that Lynn had as a child... We fought off the beasts that came at us from the forest, side by side, until Lynn stood back and I went on alone, conquering the final beast by myself...
When my head is spinning with all of these details, I find myself zeroing in on the stump in my backyard. It doesn't make any sense. I want to understand it. Why is there a stump in my backyard in place of my tree? What was the sense in cutting it down?
God is a great Gardener... He is calling me to move, just a step, beyond the stump. To look around my backyard and (at least be willing) to plant some seeds. I see the Holy Spirit, lightly dancing/working around my yard, (like the character depicted in The Shack, by William P. Young). No matter what, despite everything, in all circumstances, God gives life to everything.
The stump is an essential part of my story. I wish I could understand it, but I can't. Knowing that God can use it, can bring good out of it, doesn't help. It offers purpose, but does not ease the pain of catastrophic loss. The stump will always be there, but my garden will grow... Someday my yard will be lush and green and thriving. The stump will sit, perfectly accentuated by the surrounding artistry, masterfully designed by my great Savior and King...
Right now, on my journey, I feel overcome with grief. I feel overcome by death... I see the stump in my backyard, the death of all that was, that used to be, all that was lost in the death of my greatest blessing... the grand tree that stood tall and proud, and others came to marvel in its shade... :) I feel like I am transitioning into some new stage... some unwanted "progression" that points me toward a new life... new seeds... a growing garden.
This may not make any sense, but I am committed to honesty for the sake of others, so here it goes... In this season of transition, I find my head spinning, grappling with past, present, and future, grasping for some certainty, some understanding, some comprehension... My life is moving forward, but my world is radically different. Lynn's life was complete, finished, no regrets or unfinished business... while my life is left undone, unresolved, in constant flux, unfinished. My heart loves Lynn in the present. The girls and I will hold him closely in our future. Yet, we will only know him in our past (earthly speaking...).
As a Christian, I grapple with God's sovereignty over my life, leading me, planning and preparing me, mixed with the shock and trauma of catastrophic loss. Circumstances like, for years I prayed for a miracle, that God would lead us into financial freedom, I got down on my knees and begged God to make a way for us to be in His will and still be debt free... Now I am in a more stable financial position than we ever were before... My prayers were answered? There was a dream, not yet shared, that Lynn had as a child... We fought off the beasts that came at us from the forest, side by side, until Lynn stood back and I went on alone, conquering the final beast by myself...
When my head is spinning with all of these details, I find myself zeroing in on the stump in my backyard. It doesn't make any sense. I want to understand it. Why is there a stump in my backyard in place of my tree? What was the sense in cutting it down?
God is a great Gardener... He is calling me to move, just a step, beyond the stump. To look around my backyard and (at least be willing) to plant some seeds. I see the Holy Spirit, lightly dancing/working around my yard, (like the character depicted in The Shack, by William P. Young). No matter what, despite everything, in all circumstances, God gives life to everything.
The stump is an essential part of my story. I wish I could understand it, but I can't. Knowing that God can use it, can bring good out of it, doesn't help. It offers purpose, but does not ease the pain of catastrophic loss. The stump will always be there, but my garden will grow... Someday my yard will be lush and green and thriving. The stump will sit, perfectly accentuated by the surrounding artistry, masterfully designed by my great Savior and King...
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Winter.
Winter...
The winter seems barren and desolate. I have long wondered how I would cope through the cold winter months... Now, being in them, I find myself asking the same question... How do I cope?
God has called me to this barren land, to embrace the pain, to enter in and do the work of grief... I hear Him whisper, Remain faithful to me, my daughter. Remain faithful to the perilous task of grieving, to the pilgrimage you are on... for I will accomplish my purposes in you.
Yesterday, I faced the dreaded task this winter brings... packing. I opened a drawer and sobbed into three shirts while the girls ran circles around me laughing and playing... Pretend you're the girl and I'm making rainbow soup! No, I'm the Mom and you can be the princess. Pretend I made the soup and now we're going to the sea! - Mama sobbing into Daddy's shirts has apparently become a commonplace event in our "new normal" :) They didn't skip a beat!
The shirts remain on my bed. The box in my room stays empty. How can I pack away my husband's things? How can I look into my bedroom closet and not see Lynn's colorful array of ties and worn belts? How can I open my drawers and find them empty of his belongings? How can I face my front closet without the comfort of his coats hanging there alongside my own? Ugh. Dreadful packing... I've decided that I may be able to manage the task at a rate of one sock a week... But even then, it feels completely unbearable and makes me want to scream in agony. I don't want to say goodbye!
There are so many ways I'd like to avoid the pain. So many opportunities our culture affords for distraction. That seems our typical response to pain after all, Have some distraction! Take a pill! Turn on the TV!
But God has called me to the wilderness for an express purpose...
Therefore, behold, I will allure her, will bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfort to her. I will give her her vineyards from there... a door of hope; she shall sing there, as in the days of her youth... And it shall be, in that day, says the Lord, That you will call Me 'My Husband'... I will betroth you to Me forever. Yes, I will betroth you to Me in righteousness and justice, in lovingkindness and mercy; I will betroth you to me in faithfulness and you shall know the Lord. (Hosea 2:14-20)
As I look ahead toward empty drawers and closets in the many months to come, I feel like I am stripped of everything I hold dear... Paul's words haunt me, But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ... (Phil 3:7)
If I can remain faithful on this path, I know it leads to abundant life. But to gain abundant life in Him, is to count all things loss... to let go... to lose my life and find it in Him... to be stripped of all that I hold dear...
Can I do it? Can I endure these long winter months? Will winter end and spring arrive? and a door of hope be opened?
The winter seems barren and desolate. I have long wondered how I would cope through the cold winter months... Now, being in them, I find myself asking the same question... How do I cope?
God has called me to this barren land, to embrace the pain, to enter in and do the work of grief... I hear Him whisper, Remain faithful to me, my daughter. Remain faithful to the perilous task of grieving, to the pilgrimage you are on... for I will accomplish my purposes in you.
Yesterday, I faced the dreaded task this winter brings... packing. I opened a drawer and sobbed into three shirts while the girls ran circles around me laughing and playing... Pretend you're the girl and I'm making rainbow soup! No, I'm the Mom and you can be the princess. Pretend I made the soup and now we're going to the sea! - Mama sobbing into Daddy's shirts has apparently become a commonplace event in our "new normal" :) They didn't skip a beat!
The shirts remain on my bed. The box in my room stays empty. How can I pack away my husband's things? How can I look into my bedroom closet and not see Lynn's colorful array of ties and worn belts? How can I open my drawers and find them empty of his belongings? How can I face my front closet without the comfort of his coats hanging there alongside my own? Ugh. Dreadful packing... I've decided that I may be able to manage the task at a rate of one sock a week... But even then, it feels completely unbearable and makes me want to scream in agony. I don't want to say goodbye!
There are so many ways I'd like to avoid the pain. So many opportunities our culture affords for distraction. That seems our typical response to pain after all, Have some distraction! Take a pill! Turn on the TV!
But God has called me to the wilderness for an express purpose...
Therefore, behold, I will allure her, will bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfort to her. I will give her her vineyards from there... a door of hope; she shall sing there, as in the days of her youth... And it shall be, in that day, says the Lord, That you will call Me 'My Husband'... I will betroth you to Me forever. Yes, I will betroth you to Me in righteousness and justice, in lovingkindness and mercy; I will betroth you to me in faithfulness and you shall know the Lord. (Hosea 2:14-20)
As I look ahead toward empty drawers and closets in the many months to come, I feel like I am stripped of everything I hold dear... Paul's words haunt me, But what things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ... (Phil 3:7)
If I can remain faithful on this path, I know it leads to abundant life. But to gain abundant life in Him, is to count all things loss... to let go... to lose my life and find it in Him... to be stripped of all that I hold dear...
Can I do it? Can I endure these long winter months? Will winter end and spring arrive? and a door of hope be opened?
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
The Way.
Somehow, God's mercy has led me through another tunnel of despair. I am back on the road of "healthy" brokenness, my feet pointed towards glory, the Holy Spirit as my guide, leading me in the Way...
The Way... I recently watched this movie, starring Martin Sheen, about a father who mourns the sudden death of his son by finishing The way of St. James, a great pilgrimage route to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain, El Camino de Santiago. (*Google search)
Tom (Martin Sheen's character) carries his sons ashes in a box attached to his pack and pushes himself forward, doing the work of grief as he puts one foot in front of the other, walking somewhere around 200km, maybe more?
The work of grief... The english dictionary says that grief is a noun, but I am quite certain it is incorrect. It is most definitely a verb, requiring specific and intentional action. It is a pilgrimage. A journey upward towards the call to abundant life, towards the life that we are all called to live in Christ Jesus our Lord.
I am struck, however, by the various characters in the story, each with their own losses, dreams, and purposes... Together they walk, and take respite in the small villages and towns along the way...
Grief allows for these periods of respite. Seasons of distraction, light-heartedness, coping mechanisms... But how tempting would it be to camp out in one of these adorable villages, drink wine and eat with beautiful people, and lay a blanket over the past, over grief, over the pilgrimage onward...
I find that my mind plays tricks on me during my periods of respite. It seeks to forget the pain and grief and seems to say, Camp out here for a while! This is a wonderful life! It will not disappoint! Look at the opportunities ahead! Life can be better than ever! These words sound mysteriously similar to Satan's attempt at wooing Jesus in desert... Leave your pilgrimage towards death, pain, and suffering! Bow down to me and I will give you everything!!
Grief is hard, exhausting, devastating work. It is a wilderness season to be sure... But it is the Way everlasting. And it does lead to abundant life.
Father, help me enter into this pilgrimage of grief, allowing the Holy Spirit to stretch and grow my soul so that I do not live a diluted, North American, prosperity driven version of the gospel of Jesus Christ, but instead share in the fellowship of his sufferings, invite death, pain, and suffering into my life knowing full well that Jesus will rise again in the midst of it, bringing healing and light and transformation... the fulness of salvation in Christ Jesus my Lord, the abundant life of joy and perfect love and true contentment in Him...
...that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death, if, by any means, I may attain to the resurrection from the dead. (Philippians 3:10-11)
Father! Lead me in the Way everlasting!
The Way... I recently watched this movie, starring Martin Sheen, about a father who mourns the sudden death of his son by finishing The way of St. James, a great pilgrimage route to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia in northwestern Spain, El Camino de Santiago. (*Google search)
Tom (Martin Sheen's character) carries his sons ashes in a box attached to his pack and pushes himself forward, doing the work of grief as he puts one foot in front of the other, walking somewhere around 200km, maybe more?
The work of grief... The english dictionary says that grief is a noun, but I am quite certain it is incorrect. It is most definitely a verb, requiring specific and intentional action. It is a pilgrimage. A journey upward towards the call to abundant life, towards the life that we are all called to live in Christ Jesus our Lord.
I am struck, however, by the various characters in the story, each with their own losses, dreams, and purposes... Together they walk, and take respite in the small villages and towns along the way...
Grief allows for these periods of respite. Seasons of distraction, light-heartedness, coping mechanisms... But how tempting would it be to camp out in one of these adorable villages, drink wine and eat with beautiful people, and lay a blanket over the past, over grief, over the pilgrimage onward...
I find that my mind plays tricks on me during my periods of respite. It seeks to forget the pain and grief and seems to say, Camp out here for a while! This is a wonderful life! It will not disappoint! Look at the opportunities ahead! Life can be better than ever! These words sound mysteriously similar to Satan's attempt at wooing Jesus in desert... Leave your pilgrimage towards death, pain, and suffering! Bow down to me and I will give you everything!!
Grief is hard, exhausting, devastating work. It is a wilderness season to be sure... But it is the Way everlasting. And it does lead to abundant life.
Father, help me enter into this pilgrimage of grief, allowing the Holy Spirit to stretch and grow my soul so that I do not live a diluted, North American, prosperity driven version of the gospel of Jesus Christ, but instead share in the fellowship of his sufferings, invite death, pain, and suffering into my life knowing full well that Jesus will rise again in the midst of it, bringing healing and light and transformation... the fulness of salvation in Christ Jesus my Lord, the abundant life of joy and perfect love and true contentment in Him...
...that I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to His death, if, by any means, I may attain to the resurrection from the dead. (Philippians 3:10-11)
Father! Lead me in the Way everlasting!
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