I compare myself to others and believe I’m supposed to be “grieving better.” I instinctively think others do it better than I am, so I respond with pressure. I push myself to “grieve better” even though I don’t know what that means. I get caught in the comparison game and always lose. I think that I’m supposed to handle life in a certain way. And when I feel this terrible, I assume I did something wrong. I guess I should be doing better. So, I push myself to do better. I don’t know what it’s like not to pressure myself. Sometimes, I make myself so hard I can’t hear the Holy Spirit. And sometimes, I don’t think I need him.
But that is folly.
Why do I push myself so hard? Why do I instinctively compare myself to others? How can I stop my fear? Am I blaming God for Deb’s death? How will this ever end? What will God change to allow me to breathe in peace, even for a few moments?
“Help me, Jesus, to understand who I am in your eyes. Help me not to
push myself too much. Teach me to rest.”
All the hope in my life is related to prayer. Prayer is hope. It’s my portal to air as I struggle to breathe underwater. I need Jesus to make sense of life. I’m broken and confused, but Jesus doesn’t seem to be ashamed of me. He takes me back every time I get back to him and never shames me.
Today, I fell into the black hole again. I lost it. I was reading the Bible this morning and began to cry. And I kept crying. I couldn’t stop crying. I dressed, ate breakfast, and was ready to work, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t go to work. I couldn’t handle anything more than I was at that moment, just sitting in my chair. I have a strong work ethic and need a good excuse to miss work. This is not from outside of myself; it’s from inside.
Maybe I could have made it to work, but I didn’t want to fall apart in front of the prisoners. I was giving myself a wide birth. I allow myself this grace. So, I stayed home, cried, and went back to bed. It’s amazing how tired I am since Deb died.
It was dark and cold outside, and it impacted me inside the house. It’s like I can’t get warm anymore. The world got a little colder without Deb. She was my light, my love, my hope. I need her to realize my purpose.
Or do I?
“Help me Jesus know myself. You have a plan for me. I want the shortcut, but you don’t give shortcuts. I must earn this. I must survive grief so my legs will be strong enough to support me. There is no short cut. This journey is undefined. Help me Jesus.”
Grief doesn’t fit into clear timelines. It will not be controlled. I don’t dictate its actions; it dictates my actions.
“Help me to feel my feelings because I really, really don’t want to. They
scare me. They are so overwhelming I feel like a leaf in the wind. It’s
terrifying.”
Was it God’s will that Deb died? I don’t know. I know two things: Deb is dead, and God is good; everything else is a little blurry. “Lord, help me see the life lines. Help me see the path before me, because I feel lost.”
I met with Don today. We met for two and a half hours. I’m surprised he didn’t need to run off somewhere. Thank you, Jesus, for your grace in giving me Don. Thank you for your love for me.
“O Lord, help me to see you. Help me to feel you. Help me to hear you.
I need you, Lord.”
My Need for Relief
No one told me that grief was so physical. It’s manifested in my body. It lives inside me. I get tired and weak, and my bones ache. I feel like I have the flu. I want it to stop because it hurts so much, but I can’t. My whole body responds to it. The pain is emotional, physical, and psychological.
I have been trying to find a metaphor to communicate this process, and the only thing that comes to mind is the intimacy of sex. It’s physical, emotional, spiritual, and psychological, all at the same time. It impacts everything about me. It changes me. Who I am, what I believe, and what I hope to be are all impacted by this nasty grief. The devastation of broken intimacy knocks me to the ground, where I can’t seem to recover.
For some, sex isn’t seen as a wonderful experience. “Am I being used?” “Am I beautiful?” “Is this an act of duty or do I have her heart?” So many women have been abused by men that sex can be seen as a painful violation that is to be shunned. For some, sex is seen as the opposite of love.
Grief is intensely personal. It’s intimate, honest, and at a different level than anything else I’ve experienced.
It’s like having your hand burned by a hot stove but unable to pull it away. But in grief, there is no flame, and I don’t have the luxury of pulling my hand away. So, the pain smolders.
And we all handle pain differently. Some keep working. Some hide in entertainment. Some get angry and take their pain out on the ones they love the most. But the pain is consuming; it dominates all conversations. The pain of this stupid hand touches everything they do.
Others handle grief by running to self-pity. They ask questions that are not questions; they are a thinly veiled accusation; “Why did God do this? Isn’t he a good God? Does he hate me?” Americans always get relief 24 hours a day. We demand and feel justified to run to gods to make us feel better. Alcohol, as well as its cousin marijuana, are the most popular gods. Getting lost in these drugs seems entirely justifiable. “If you knew all the things I’ve been through, you’d understand.”
Shopping appears to be a cleaner, more acceptable god. It seems to scratch a real itch we have, at least temporarily, to get us excited about something. The promise of the lottery ticket or the excitement of a sporting event can serve as wonderful distractions.
Others run to toxic resentment. They poison each relationship with bitterness and demand that others agree and come through for them.
The Great Revealer
Grief doesn’t define you; it reveals you.
Your hidden self comes out and everyone sees it. Part of the shame is you are surprised by who you really are. The Nice Mask falls off, and everyone sees your brokenness, including those whom you don’t want to show it to. This is why the outside world is curious to see “how he handles this.” Others want to see what kind of person you are. They want the curtain to be pulled back to see the truth. And pain is the Great Revealer.
We seek relief and want it gone. Pain pills are handy and, on the surface, seem “legitime,” but these pills can’t take the suffering away. Researcher Brene Brown talks about numbing our pain and how unhealthy numbing hinders our growth. It hinders us from being what she calls “whole-hearted people.”
There are times when I am numb and times when I purposely try to numb. I’m ashamed that this uncomfortable process makes me aware of emotions I didn’t realize existed before. I am discovering myself in this pain.
Right now, I am numb. I cried all morning, talked all afternoon, and now I’m trying to put words to the hurricane that just devastated me. I’m spent, but I believe, perhaps naively, that putting words to this pain somehow helps me understand the un-understandable.
The Weekend
I believe the question isn’t “do I numb my pain,” but “how do I numb my pain.” Learning how I numb allows me to connect with my mess. If I know how, I can submit that sin path to Jesus. Yesterday was a terrible day for me. I wanted to get a porn blocker on my computer and spent all day trying to do something I assumed would take 20 minutes. One blocker shut off my access to the internet (not good). Another did nothing (I think). Another wouldn’t upload. Finally, near the end of the day, my son found a good resource and installed it on all three of my devices. Yeah!!!
As I was frustrated with my slow lack of process, God reminded me how I didn’t have enough time to pray that morning. I was “busy” with things I thought I had to do. The truth is, I didn’t want to submit to God. I want to fix this on my own. I want control. Because when I have control, I don’t have to rely so much on God. It seemed safer to be self-sufficient. That way, I wouldn’t end up as a missionary in Africa.
He wasn’t mad at me; he just reminded me that the extent of my frustration, which seemed justifiable, would likely not have been so high if I had invited him into my mess before I experienced it. If I had more of Jesus, the disappointments wouldn’t have been so disappointing.
Then I thought, “Don’t I do this all the time?”
He gently calls me to walk with him. I hear his voice softly speaking.
“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me-watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” Matt 11:28-30 (MSG)
Perhaps my relief is that I’m not alone. Perhaps I already have the answer; it just wasn’t the answer I wanted. With Jesus, I have someone who can teach me how to live freely, walk lightly, and make sense of life without Deb.