I’ve allowed periods of silence in my life, post-Deb that is. Silence allows me to think and to understand my feelings. I’m starting to like it. Sometimes, there’s a war going on inside me. Silence allows me to become connected with myself. It involves all of me: psychologically, spiritually, physically, and grammatically. I’m trying to understand something I’m not sure can be understood. Grief is emotional but also impacts my ability to think and spell. It’s unpredictable. In my battle, I need to tolerate the chaos inside me.
I’m not sure why I stare at Deb’s grave. I don’t know why I feel the need to stand in it, but I can’t seem to stop. I don’t talk to her (she’s not there). I don’t pray for her (she doesn’t need it anymore). And sometimes, I don’t even think about her. I stare, standing motionless. I know she is dead, so I’m not grappling with that reality. I don’t think she will pop out during one of my stare episodes. I just stare. I don’t really understand what I’m trying to do. Perhaps, I’m not trying to do anything. I’m not sure. I know I want to go to her grave. I’m like a moth compelled to the light. I think I like being close to her.
Part of me doesn’t want to go out in the cold. It’s Michigan, so it’s wintery outside now. I can tolerate the cold, but do I want to? Do I need to? I don’t have to walk out there. I just want to be out there. I’m conflicted, and I don’t know what’s going on inside me. I’m sure it’s more about my emotions and less about my thoughts, but I’m not completely sure.
I fear my own emotions. I don’t understand them, and they control me. We are not always on the same page. I assume my mind should be running things, but that’s not true. I would like to know where the off switch is so I could turn out the powerful waves that knock me to my needs, but I can’t.
Still, I don’t think I can heal without feeling these nasty feelings. I want to run, but there is no place to run. Perhaps that’s why I stare at her grave. I need a distraction from my turmoil, and being outside sharpens my focus.
I invite Christ into my pain, and he always says yes. When I do, he reminds me of three things:
1) He’s a good God
2) He’s taking care of Deb in real-time (better than I ever could)
3) I have hope (I won’t always feel like this)
Loss
Losing Deb is kind of like losing a limb. I keep trying to open the car door, but my arm is gone. And…I feel the phantom pain of something not being there. That feeling impacts my whole body. At times, it consumes me. At other times, I experience a strange sense of peace, of contentment. Henri Nouwen wrote something I think about every day.
“Joy is hidden in the middle of suffering.”
Joy doesn’t stick out; it’s concealed. It’s not automatic like my car drives into work. It must be sought out. In fact, trying to have joy usually makes it invisible. It’s more of a byproduct of a trust in God to do something good “in the pain.” It’s experienced by accident.
Joy happens in the suffering. I’m not sure I can have joy without it. And it only happens when I rest in my Savior. He saves me in real time. I never needed Jesus more than I do now. I must have him. If I lost his presence, I’d crumble like a house of cards.
I think Americans, are unwilling to accept what they don’t want to accept. With their American bravado, they assume that they can “make life fair,” which is confusing because life is inherently unfair. One thing I do know is that this battle is inside me. Fairness is an external pursuit; acceptance is an internal pursuit. Most fighting for fairness externally are disappointed and angry (think America). Most fighting this battle internally may reach their goal.
Carl Rogers said anxiety occurs when someone holds on to two conflicting ideas at the same time. One idea of what I want, one idea of who I am. The greater the distance between these two circles, the greater one’s anxiety.
But doesn’t this describe most in our country? Don’t we swim in anxiety? We are so consumed with it that we don’t realize it’s there. We call it a different name. We use the word “normal,” when we are controlled by fear and foreboding. We want more and never realize this battle will never be enough. We put ourselves in “relentless want” and can call it “home.” It’s like explaining what water is to a fish (if the fish was really smart and could understand English). Americans assume “more” is the solution and never stop to realize there is never enough. We bristle at the idea of “acceptance” and condemn those who “lower their standard.” to the point of being happy without anything.
And I am an American.
Grief
Grief is the process of acceptance. Not agreeing with or approving the death, just accepting it. I always tell prisoners, “You can’t heal what you don’t accept.” Acceptance is a point of view, a choice we always have the option to make. It’s how we see life. To accept grief, you need silence and solitude. Otherwise, it moves to the back burner, and you never get around to immersing yourself in it.
I wish Deb would come back. I left her pillow on my bed for several months, secretly hoping she’d return in the middle of the night. I never told anyone this because it’s so silly, but there was a piece of me that…. kind of hoped for it. I know this is ridiculous, but sometimes I’m willing to believe lies to make reality more tolerable, to make the edges less sharp. It’s embarrassing to admit this, but a piece of me is willing to believe anything for relief. I know this is folly, but it’s my folly.
This is my first Christmas without her. And honestly, I hate it. I want it over so I can get on with my life.
The reality is she is not coming back. I am on my own. And wanting her back is the most selfish thing I could of God. She’s doing great right now, running around like Jackie Joyner-Kersey, never getting out of breath, laughing with her family, and feeling wonderful in Jesus’ presence. Pulling her out of heaven back into this broken world would be nothing but cruel.
I need to know my job. Right now, my job is to accept Deb’s death. I disagree with it. I disapprove of it. Just accept it. She’s dead. That’s not going to change. Jesus is not making an exception for her.
Dark Days
I have dark days, but with family, the dark is less dark. I have been gifted with a great family, great friends, a great Church, and most of all, a great Savior. The Lord is orchestrating my mess into something he calls “good, ” and I have proof.
“That’s why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.” Romans 8:28 (MSG)
He’s hurting, just like I am. He’s more precious to me right now than he ever has been. He’s not only on my side, but he’s grieving with me.
“When someone is hurting or brokenhearted, the Eternal
moves in close and revives him in his pain.”
Psalm 34:18 (The Voice)
I can’t imagine doing this alone. I am a blessed man.
More Lies
“Dear Lord, I lift you in praise. You are good. You are holy, and your mercies endure forever. I praise you, Jesus, for your creation, which I get to see every day. I praise you because you are worthy, Lord. I want to glorify you in all I do. Please hold me in your hands.
You work for good for those who love you, but I sometimes question if that’s true. It doesn’t feel true. I sometimes wonder if you forgot me. These lies have been circling my head like gnats on a summer night, whispering secret evil to me: “You don’t have what it takes,” “You are a loser,” and “You are too weak to be used by God.”
When I think of these lies, I occasionally agree with them. They feel true. But when I hold onto your promises, I know that “nothing can separate me from the love of God.” You have saved me. When I was five years old, you knocked on the door of my heart, and I allowed you in. What a great day that was. I was happy, but I couldn’t explain it.
But my heart has become hard over the years, and I numbed your voice. I’m alone now. No one is here with me. And at night, the loneliness gets louder. Darkness seems to amplify this feeling. No one asked how my day was. No one was there when I got home. No one made a meal for me. No one is walking with me. No one is making me watch one of those weird Brit Box shows where I can’t understand what they are saying, even with subtitles.
But you promised that you work for the good of those who love you. Is that true for me? Am I included in that promise? Right now, I don’t feel anything good. I can’t make sense of life. It’s too confusing. It’s too painful.
There is a war in my heart, Lord. You are on one side, and the lies on the other. Are these lies only lies? Are they true? Is there hope? These lies seethe just under the surface, ready to pounce. And when they pounce, I’m devastated. Disoriented. Hopeless.
Jesus, who is like you? Can anything be compared to your love? Can anyone sit on your judgment seat and decide if you are good?
I am a weak man with weak words. They strain to reach you. Still, you are here. You are Immanuel, God with us, God with me. How can I get better than that?
Forgive my sins, Jesus. I try to find shortcuts to circumvent my grief, but that is not your will. You want me here, right where I am, in the grief. You want to use this to further your kingdom.
You have never turned me away, and you have not stopped knocking on my door. You want to offer me something better, to make me sit in your pain. You are my solution. You offer me yourself. Help me see you, Jesus. I offer you my lies, which I pray you may remove. They stick like barnacles to my hull.
Help me follow you. Help me be submissive to your word. Didn’t Job say, “Shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?” Job 2:10 (ASV)
Help me see your face. Help me to rest in your presence. Then, I will tell the world about your good deeds.
In Jesus’ name, Amen”