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Posts Tagged ‘pain’

I never thought I’d make it six minutes after my brother’s death, let alone six years. But, here I am. Still standing.

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I put on my father’s old leather boots, grab my walking stick, and head up the mountain…

IMG_6540IMG_5006.JPGBy the time I get to the top, I begin to remember the life well-lived instead of only the death that swept me up in its furious agony.

 

IMG_6538And although I can’t explain it, my heart finds a moment of peace in remembering a day I’d rather forget.

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IMG_5549“It’s time,” I said to my husband as we sat together a few weeks ago, talking about the ways grief has touched EVERY part of our lives.

“Time for what?” he responded.IMG_5547

“It’s time for you to film my grief story. So many people are suffering the agony of traumatic loss like we did when my brother took his life. We have to do something to let others know there is help and hope. Will you do that with me?”

IMG_3022So, here it is. If you or someone you love has been touched by traumatic loss…

Please share this video with them.

This is my Story…For Those Who Weep (video)

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I think about death a lot. Don’t misunderstand me. I do not have a death wish. I just wish there was no death.

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Three years ago, I lost my brother and now I’ve lost my grandmother, too. Jay was the highly-favored “baby” of the family and Grammy was our beloved matriarch. To me, they were the opposite ends of life’s delicately-balanced scales and now, I’m tipping.

Why didn’t I know the latter half of my life would be so painful?

-That there would be more goodbyes than hellos.

-That the depth and intensity of my love would become the depth and intensity of my grief.

Why didn’t somebody tell me?!

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I’m lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle; pressing my hot mess against the cool tile. The wailing has subsided to a low moan. My limbs hang limp. Grief is the great paralyzer.

I am a leper slumped against the city gate.

“Now there were four men with leprosy at the entrance of the city gate. They said to each other, Why stay here until we die? If we say, ‘We’ll go into the city’—the famine is there, and we will die. And if we stay here, we will die.” 2 Kings 7:3-4a

The lepers knew that if they didn’t get up, death was certain. If their enemies didn’t find them first, leprosy would eventually chew through their skin. Their only alternative was to get up and go into the city. But death was certain with that option as well. They were hard-pressed either way, or so it seemed.

Enter God.

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With Him there is always a third option as unnerving as that option may seem.

“…Let’s go over to the camp of the Arameans and surrender. If they spare us, we live; if they kill us, then we die.” 2 Kings 7:4b

God’s third option included an unthinkable risk: entering enemy territory. But what did these lepers have to lose? Nothing.

And everything.

“At dusk they got up and went to the camp of the Arameans. When they reached the edge of the camp, no one was there, for the Lord had caused the Arameans to hear the sound of chariots and horses and a great army, so that they said to one another, ‘Look, the king of Israel has hired the Hittite and Egyptian kings to attack us!’ So they got up and fled in the dusk and abandoned their tents and their horses and donkeys. They left the camp as it was and ran for their lives.” 2 Kings 7:5-7

If I stay fetal on the floor, the grief will kill me and I know it. It. Is. Killing. Me. But if I get up, I’ll have to live without the ones I love. I cannot bear the thought. It is impossible to envision a day without them in it. I don’t want to. I can’t!

God, is there a third option for me?

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I never wanted to touch death, it’s just that I’ve been touched by death…and it hurts. Sitting up I pour some cool water into the palm of my hand; sanity splashing me in the face.

Dragging myself to my feet and drawing in a deep breath, I walk over and toss my cry towel in the laundry basket. Kleenex just doesn’t cut it anymore. My steps and thoughts go around in circles before I finally make a decision.

I will enter the enemy’s camp–grief, my Philistine beast.

I will face my enemy head on. After all, what have I got to lose? I pick up my Bible and press it tightly against my chest. I’m not going in there alone.

God, help me.

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And, He does!

Taking some 3×5 index cards, I open my Bible and copy down meaningful passages of scripture.

“O LORD, from the depths of despair, I cry for your help: Hear me! Answer me! Help me!” Psalm 130:1-2

“For he has not despised my cries of deep despair, he has not turned and walked away. When I cried to him, he heard and came.” Psalm 22:24

Verse upon verse, card upon card. There’s a pile of truth mounting at my feet and it sends a shaft of light across grief’s inky black.

The Word is the sound of God in the camp of my enemy.

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The verses I copy down remind me to open my mouth and pray through my pain.

Prayer is the sound of God in the camp of my enemy.

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Praying reminds me to praise Him with my tears.

Praise is sound of God in the camp of my enemy.

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Convinced I could not make it through the next moment, I realize an hour has passed and I’m still breathing.

My breath is the sound of God in the camp of my enemy.

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The story of the four lepers ends when they plunder the abandoned camp of their enemies and share the spoils with others.

I must not keep the plunder from this battle all to myself.

Several hours later, a grieving friend calls. I read her the verses that, hours earlier, plucked me out of death’s grasp. We read the Word of God together. We pray. We cry. We praise. We plunder.

WE are the sound of God in the camp of our enemies.

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My latest grief article entitled, “Through the Ashes,” was posted today on the My Purpose Now website.

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Never the SameMy journal from January, 2012 contains only two entries. The first is a black “X” across the entire page along with one sentence that reads, “Everything—life as we knew it—changed forever.” The second entry simply says, “I can’t write.”

In the days following my brother’s suicide, grief paralyzed me in body and soul. I’ve come to the conclusion that there are two kinds of pain in life: The pain of being outside God’s will, and the pain of being inside God’s will. Having experienced both, I’ve always said I’d take the latter any day. But after Jay took his life, I was tempted to rethink my preferences.

Someone once said, “Grief is life’s greatest teacher.” I’m not far enough into the journey to pass judgment. When a wound isgaping wide, you don’t care about learning anything. Grief burns a hole through the center of your chest and, frankly, most mourners just want to pick a different teacher.

IMG_4250My friend, Micki Ann, understands suffering because she has suffered. A lot. She says, “Suffering is a seed we’re given to steward.” Several months after Jay’s death, Micki Ann gave me a handful of seeds. Even though there were days when I wanted to throw them back at her, I couldn’t deny the fact that her wisdom invited intrigue to inhabit my despair.

In an effort to prove my friend’s theory, I searched the scriptures. It didn’t take long to realize that the Apostle Paul had a real knack for stewarding his suffering. Stonings? Shipwrecks? Paul went through the wringer. That’s what makes him so credible. Given his ordeals, on many nights, Paul’s words stopped my self-pity in its tracks. “Our light and momentary IMG_4254troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all” (2 Corinthians 4:17 NIV).

IMG_4264I believe Paul. I really do. It’s just that in the face of our present pain, eternal glory can seem so very far away. When I glance up from my computer and see the photos of Jay posted above it, glory’s gates couldn’t feel any farther away. On days like this, grief outweighs glory—hands down.

When I used to write essays and articles, I would conclude my thoughts with some neat and tidy resolution. But, grief isn’t neat, or tidy. It’s sloppy and snotty. Inconsolable and distressing. There is no closure, especially with death by suicide. Instead, there are only endless questions that will never be answered.

Grief makes a writer ramble, but I should at least be woman enough to confess what I can’t gloss over: I have no prescription for this pain. Truth be told, if the J-shaped hole in my heart could be filled with a prescription, I’d be the first person in line for that pill. I’m not trying to sound dramatic, just honest.

IMG_4261The temptation to shrink back from my sorrow and suffering is immense. But, there’s no evidence that grief’s purpose is to make us give up. Paul never backed off from God’s mission. Actually, the opposite is true. It was Paul’s pain that propelled God’s purpose, and he knew it. “Now I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel” (Philippians 1:12 NIV, emphasis added).

By faith, Paul pressed into his pain and in doing so, his pain shaped his purpose; giving it color and contrast and depth. And so, that’s all I know to do.

IMG_1095I press into my pain as I ponder God’s Word. I press into my pain as I grasp for Micki Ann’s seeds. I press into my pain as I pray that somehow, my lament will offer hope to yours. And, somewhere amidst all this pain and pressing, a tiny bud bursts through the dirt: What if suffering isn’t supposed to be a hazard, but a hallmark? What if suffering isn’t supposed to be avoided, but embraced? What if, instead of shrinking back, I seized my suffering? And, what if I let God till this unplowed ground, hoping against all hope, that what sprouts forth will become “an oak of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor”? (Isaiah 61:3b NIV)

God only knows what the seed of suffering might become. And, although there are still days I want to throw my seeds back, I have a sense that if I press into this pain hard enough, redemption will tip the scales in glory’s favor.

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…Like I said, I’m pushing one seed into the dirt each day. Counting down to Christmas. Counting up my blessings. Counting on His hope.

Day 11:  I dig into the dirt with my fingernails and drop the seed into the darkness. 

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But the truth is, for as noble as all this advent planting may seem, I want to crawl into the hole alongside that tiny seed and pull the dirt up over the both of us.

Hole hiding is one of grief’s greatest temptations. The darkness beckons. Pity and woe are masterful enticers. They promise to stay, to bind and hold me there alongside them. They are in it for the long haul. Tenacity at its finest.

But, I can’t go there. I cannot crawl into that hole and I cannot hide because I know that today, somebody else’s sister will hear suicide screaming into the other end of the line.

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And someone else will have a coroner and a casket come right there in the midst of their Christmas.

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I cannot hide because just last week I stood among a group of “survivors”.

I cannot hide because they are not hiding and tragedy tied us all together, right there in the middle of the courtyard.

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“This is our daughter,” a woman sobbed, pointing to a picture on the wall behind her. “She killed herself three months ago.”

My heart plummeted onto the cement and splattered out all over. I know her pain. I know how hard the grief bites in month three. And I know that for as much as she is hurting, she hasn’t even felt the worst of it…yet.

“My son went for a ride on his motorcycle. He was run over by a drunk driver.”

Her words are met by another mother’s knowing nod. Before the night is over, she too will stand and tell us that her child was run down while riding a bicycle and that the driver fled the scene.

“My son was shot and killed on the interstate.”

I reach for another tissue when what I really need is a towel.

The stories continue.

“My brother was murdered by his wife.”

“The pieces of my daughter’s body haven’t been found yet. It’s been three years.”

“This is my son,” another woman says, clutching a photograph. He completed suicide. He was our only child.”

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That’s it! I can’t take it! I want to bolt out into the parking lot, climb into the car, and wail my guts out. So does everyone else.

But we all stay right there, strangely riveted by the sacredness of the moment.

Our snot and sobs crescendo into the night sky, joining in the chorus of a million others and I wonder how we can even stand. 

But here we are.

Standing.

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We are all still standing.

So, I must push the dirt into the hold and cover up the seed, knowing that for as much as I want to stay buried…

I can’t.

I cannot stay buried…

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Because He didn’t.

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I cannot hide…

Because people are bleeding out all over…

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And they must know that all this pain and heartache is covered by the blood of the One who bled out for us all.

By His Wounds

Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope. For we believe that Jesus died and rose again, and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him” (1 Thessalonians 5:13-14).

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Click below

The Lens of Redemption; When Healing DOESN’T Happen” 

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