endurance – Page 8 – thelifeididntchoose

Just Plain Hard

Today is full of tears.

No real reason-other than the obvious one-but so many things coming together to remind me this life is hard, hard, hard.

I find on this side of burying Dominic that when two or three other stressful events pile one atop the other I crumble. Sometimes it’s other family members doing the best they can to muddle through and sometimes it’s physical pain or disappointment or the random “ya-ya” stuff of life in community with other people Whatever it is, the weight-in addition to grief-just absolutely overwhelms me.

I used to be stronger.

Or at least I thought I was stronger. But maybe the truth was the burden I was carrying wasn’t nearly as heavy as I thought it was and I just didn’t have anything to compare it to.

Now I do.

And I am oh, so weary! I want to curl up in a ball and wish for it all to be over. I want to hide in a hole and hope the world passes me by. I want to wait out my years unnoticed and unchallenged and pass peacefully to eternal rest and the joyful fullness of what has been promised.

Not an option.

So I hang in and hold on. I cling to hope and I climb the mountain. I crawl when I can’t walk. I beg for mercy when my mind grows dark and all I see is the long years stretching before me like a prison sentence.

And I cry.

I let the tears roll down my cheeks and fall into the corners of my mouth. I taste their salty sweetness and let them remind me that Dominic matters. That even when other folks have forgotten and moved on, he’s still part of my every day. My heart is still in pieces. My family circle has been torn apart.

Some days I can push it down and forget a little. But today I can’t.

It’s just plain hard.

Limping Along

Those of you who follow the blog regularly know I have rheumatoid arthritis.

It’s something I’ve been living with three times as long as the years I’ve lived without Dominic and I find strange parallels in the twin journey of chronic disease and chronic heartache.

Both are crippling in their own way, both force me to work around the pain. Both have changed me in ways I could not have imagined and certainly wouldn’t have wished on myself or my family.

Both have taught me to endure.

Both have taught me many other things as well:

I have learned to be more compassionate. With pain as my constant companion, it reminds me this life is hard and that it’s hard for others too.

I have learned not to take a good day for granted. I never know when I will wake to an RA flare, I am constantly surprised by random heavy grief days and I can’t tell when I go to bed at night what tomorrow will bring. So when a day is good, I grab hold of every moment. I laugh, I move, I do things that make my heart sing. And I store the memory for days that aren’t so good.

I have learned to be gentle to myself. I can only do what I can do. And what I can’t do today will just have to wait for tomorrow-or maybe wait for forever-and that’s OK.

I have learned to say, “no” graciously, without making excuses. I try very hard to live up to commitments so I am selective in taking on new ones. I know that if I take on too many, I’m sure to have to let someone down in the end. I can’t make others outside my disease or my grief understand so I’m learning to not try. Their disappointment or disapproval is something they have to carry, not me. (I wrote more about this here: No. It’s a Complete Sentence.)

I have learned to create “work arounds” for the things that I have to do but are very hard to do. For my RA that means unloading the dishwasher two plates at a time instead of lifting the whole stack at once. For my grieving heart that means spreading out the hard things over a week instead of a few hours. It means not feeling compelled to answer every message, phone call or text right away if my mind is unclear or my heart too heavy.

I’ve learned to wear what’s comfortable. Whether that is shoes that accommodate my crooked toes or refusing to put on a “happy face” mask in public-I am who I am. I certainly don’t mope around or try to draw attention to myself. But I’m just not responsible for making other people feel comfortable with my disease or my grief.

I have learned to plan “rest stops” on my daily journey. It may be a moment to sit down or a moment to do something creative or a moment to watch a funny video-but each thing is designed to help me recharge for the next few hours. If I try to soldier on I end up too tired and emotionally spent to do anything. One day of that and I may lose a whole week. So I pace myself.

I have learned that appropriate medical intervention and treatment is not a crutch, it’s a pathway to a more productive life. I resisted taking medication for my RA for a long time-the potential side effects are frightening. But when the swelling, pain and joint deformity became too much to bear, I gave in. I shouldn’t have waited so long. It was foolish. I will never be free of the disease, but my life can be better with appropriate intervention. It’s the same with grief. Anti-depressants and anxiety medicine do not remove the pain of grief but they can make space in a heart and mind to do the work grief requires. There is NO SHAME in using whatever tools are available to make it through.

I have learned to ask for help. There are a number of things I just can’t do alone. I used to be able to do them. But not anymore. Asking for help is not defeat. I have to remind myself of that. At the end of the day what matters is that what matters gets done-I don’t get “extra credit” for struggling through alone.

I have learned to speak my truth. (This is one I’m still working on!) If I am having a bad pain day or a bad grief day, I don’t try to hide it. I just tell those who ask and those closest to me the truth. The energy I have to expend to keep it covered up means less energy to work on the underlying factors contributing to the bad day. It’s just NOT worth it. And I’m not good at hiding it anyway.

I have learned that walking (literally or figuratively) with a limp is not a defect. It’s simply my life. I won’t apologize for it. If someone asks, I’ll share. But if not, I just go limping along, making my way forward. I might be slow, but I’m moving.

And that’s what counts in the end.

I will walk with an emotional limp for the rest of my life … But I don’t want it to just remind me of the struggle and the pain; I want it to remind me of a place of surrender, a place where God met me and blessed me. Otherwise, it is just wasted pain.

~Nancy Guthrie, The One Year Book of Hope, p. 332

I’m Not Going to “Get Over” This

Think back on the most awful thing that has ever happened to you.

Does it still hurt? Do you still carry scars from where it pierced your soul and broke your heart?

Can you forget it? Really, really forget it?

Read the rest here: When Will You Be Over This?

My Heart Hurts

Oh, how my heart hurts!

Deep down where no one can touch it-it aches for my missing child, the family I used to have, the lost opportunities, the missed moments.

And there is no cure.

Yes, there is a Balm in Gilead-there is hope in the Person of Jesus Christ.

And it soothes the pain, takes the edge off, makes it bearable.

But it does not take it away.

I’m sorry if that tosses grit in the works of your theology. I’m sorry if that makes you a little afraid that if this happened to you, the pain might last a lifetime.

I wish some of the books I’d read, the movies I’d seen, the sermons I’d heard had dealt more honestly and openly with the topic of loss, grief, heartache and unchangeable circumstance. Most of them minimized the crisis and moved straightaway to the victorious ending. That’s a convenience and device unavailable to us who are living with the reality day to day.

I can’t turn a page and get to the finale.

I can’t wrap up my experience in three points and a tidy tag line.

So as the ache began to settle in, I questioned my faith. I questioned my relationship with Jesus. I questioned my sanity and my strength and my sadness.

What was wrong with me????

Why can others move through and move on????

And then I reexamined the published stories and realized that the arc presented as going from devastation to declaration of God’s goodness was very selective.

If I wanted to, I could craft my narrative the same way.

I am definitely better than I was. Definitely more confident of God’s working in this Valley than I was. Definitely more convinced that God will redeem and restore than when I first faced the fact my son was dead.

But it is still a battle.

It is still a choice that I have to make every day. It is still something I hold onto IN SPITE of my hurting heart. My hope has not replaced the pain. It lives alongside it and sometimes overshadows it-but the pain is still there.

I can not pretend that “all is well” any more than I can claim I understand when Paul writes I am “seated in the heavenlies with Jesus”.

God sees it all in the “right now”.

I am trapped in time.

Yes, these things are true. But I do not experience them as true right now.

So in the meantime, I wait to see with my eyes what has been promised to my heart. And the distance between now and then leaves a gaping wound that hurts.

It’s simply the truth.

The Inestimable Value of Rest

It’s not the same as just doing nothing.

Sitting still doesn’t guarantee that the mind remains quiet or the spirit settled.

I know, because sometimes I’ve been forced to stay perched in a chair like a toddler in time out and it was not restful.

At.

All.

But the other day I did spend time in my favorite rocking chair, cozied up to a heating pad with my cat companion

and wrote

and wrote.

It was wonderful! And it restored my soul.

I haven’t enjoyed something like that in several months. Things to do had crowded my schedule, places to go and people to see or talk to had used up nearly every waking moment.

I let rest-genuine, soul-restoring rest-be pushed aside in hopes of making progress on a never-ending list of necessary tasks.

What I failed to take into account was that the more weary I became, the less effective my efforts and the less enthusiastic my attitude-not to mention my rebellious body!

I don’t know why I push harder when I shouldn’t be pushing at all. Because when I don’t build rest into my schedule, I’m sorely tempted to give up and give in-every little thing becomes a struggle!

The most productive people know when to take a break. The highest yielding fields remain untilled from time to time.

Life is hard and if I’m going to make it on this long and laborious journey, I’ve got to learn to take my own best advice:

Light Years

Part of my Lenten observance includes reading the book of John.

The words are not new to me, I’ve read them over and over-probably dozens of times in the past 30 years. So I decided to use a different translation this time around in order to shake out some new insights and cause me to pay closer attention to what God might have for me right here, right now.

The very first reading did just that:

Before time itself was measured, the Voice was speaking.

    The Voice was and is God.

2 This celestial Word remained ever present with the Creator;

3     His speech shaped the entire cosmos.

Immersed in the practice of creating,

    all things that exist were birthed in Him.

4 His breath filled all things

    with a living, breathing light—

5 A light that thrives in the depths of darkness,

    blazes through murky bottoms.

It cannot and will not be quenched.
John 1: 1-5 VOICE
What struck me fresh was verse 5-“A light that THRIVES….BLAZES….It CANNOT and WILL NOT  be quenched.”
So many times I think of light as barely fighting back darkness.  I carry my flashlight to check on the horses and its piercing beam burns through to give me limited visibility.  It FEELS like darkness wins and I push it back only a little.
But what this rendering of John 1:5 declares to my heart is this:  The light of Christ isn’t fighting the darkness, it thrives in the darkness.  It’s in the darkness that its power is revealed.
It’s the darkness that makes light undeniably present.
Darkness can and will be vanquished.
But the True Light will last forever.
I know very, very little about astronomy.  But I do know this:  Light generated eons ago is still traveling through space.  Light doesn’t end.  It goes on and on and on.
So even though this part of my life is dark, even though I may have trouble discerning the Light, the darkness hasn’t quenched it.
The Light is coming.
It’s no battle of equals.
The darkness doesn’t stand a chance.
Summer meadow park on sunset

True That

In a family full of young adults on the brink of life, of love, of making dreams come true, you never expect to hear these words, “It is what it is.”

But in a home where loss has taken its toll, I do.

Oh, how I long to restore the unmarred joy we used to know-when everything was possible, positive attitudes could overcome any challenge and the horizon beckoned with welcome instead of warning.

Our watchword used to be “Failure is not an option”.

I even had a cute little magnet on the fridge that proclaimed, “Another day, another disaster”.

That was BEFORE.

Before the dawning sun brought real disaster to our doorstep. Before the thing we had to face could not be overcome by more elbow grease, greater resolve or stronger faith.

Before death became very, very real to us.

We are not struck down in despair.

We are not fatalists.

But we do acknowledge the fact that this life is filled with things we cannot change. We understand by experience that some things must simply be endured. We embrace the truth that we depend on the mercy of God in every way.

So now we live this motto: It is what it is.

And we take one another’s hand and walk on, through whatever it is. We call courage to our hearts that no matter what happens, we will survive together.

We keep loving and living and leaning.

Because that’s what we do.

I Want to Get It Right

There are lots and lots of things in life where the distance between “good enough” and “perfect” really doesn’t matter.

I don’t aim for hospital corners while making my bed.

I cook without recipes-adding this or that until the taste suits me.

If I walk 8,567 steps or 10,291 steps I am not going to stress about it.

BUT-there is one thing I absolutely MUST get right.

My understanding of God-Who He is, Who Jesus is-matters for ever and ever.

I want to get it right.

I want to hear from the Holy Spirit and understand God’s Word. I need to figure out the basics even if I can’t fill in all the details because what I believe about Jesus Christ determines whether or not I will join my son in heaven.

I admit that I still struggle with reconciling God’s sovereignty and God’s goodness. I haven’t come up with an easy answer for why bad things happen in the world-often to people who don’t seem to “deserve” it.

But I am absolutely convinced that God is in control.

He is the Creator and Sustainer of this world. He rules and reigns from a place of power and glory and might. He did not make us and then leave us to our own devices. He is active, here and now.

I trust in God’s faithful, enduring love.

It certainly doesn’t always look like what I think love should look like. It includes allowing pain and heartache, dark nights and deep valleys.

Some He saves from the fire and others He gives over to tyrants.

But He also pursues me,

woos me,

strengthens me,

and sustains me.

He does not leave me to my own devices nor abandon me to my sin. He has provided a way where there was no way. His own Son’s blood is the Perfect and Enduring Sacrifice that gives me access to the Throne of Grace.

And I am convinced that the work He began in me-the work He began in Dominic-He is faithful to complete it.

I don’t get to see the finished product yet.

It’s frustrating, frightening and painful to wait for it to be revealed.

But I believe with my whole heart that it will be one day.

Daily Battle: Tempted to Give Up

So many things raced through my mind in the first five minutes of hearing the news:

Oh, God! Is it true? (I have to authenticate his identity);

How do I tell everyone? (I have to make phone calls);

What do you do when your child dies? (I have no idea how to plan a funeral);

and on

and on.

Of course, that doesn’t touch the FEELINGS flooding my heart.

I don’t really have words for that, even now.

But as the days of crazy activity and people everywhere gave way to the weeks and months of silent sorrow, all I wanted to do was to give up and give in.

What was the point of carrying on if it meant carrying this weight of sadness until I was also in the grave?

At first, my motivation was to help my husband and children through these crisis moments. My training gave me tools to give them words and ways to frame the pain. Hours of home “therapy” drained me but also gave me a sense of purpose and direction.

It was a couple of months into this journey when I faced my first test: I suffer from a gastrointestinal condition that predisposes me to catastrophic GI bleeds. Combined with the medications I take for RA, I woke one morning to find I was losing large amounts of blood.

It was nearly welcome news.

As weakness overtook my body, I could feel the lure of simply drifting away into eternity. I was tempted to lie down on the bed and allow my heart rate to decrease, my blood pressure to dive and my soul to break free from this body of death.

But I didn’t-because I could not knowingly add to my family’s heartache.

No one was home so I drove myself to the emergency room and was admitted to the ICU. Several days and units of blood later I came home, restored to life but not unburdened of grief.

And so it goes. Each day brings its own temptations.

I will be honest: I am still motivated more strongly by love of my family than a sense of mission or purpose this side of burying Dominic.

Perhaps that is sin. I don’t know.

But for right now, that’s enough.

Every day, even almost three years later, I wake up and must choose to go on.

I’m not suicidal!

I’m willing to stick around. But I am no longer afraid to die.

I can say, like Paul, “To live is Christ, to die is gain”.

The Lifter of My Head

When I taught a young women’s Sunday School class, we were exploring the third Psalm.

David wrote this Psalm when fleeing from his son, Absalom. He not only feared for his life, but his heart was broken by the shattered family relationships that led to this power struggle.

It wasn’t the first time he had to rely on God to intervene.

Psalm 3

A Psalm of David, when he fled from Absalom his son.

Jehovah, how many are they that trouble me, many they that rise up against me!

²Many say of my soul, There is no salvation for him in God. Selah.

³But thou, Jehovah, art a shield about me; my glory, and the lifter up of my head.

⁴With my voice will I call to Jehovah, and he will answer me from the hill of his holiness. Selah.

⁵I laid me down and slept; I awaked, for Jehovah sustaineth me.

⁶I will not fear for myriads of the people that have set themselves against me round about.

⁷Arise, Jehovah; save me, my God! For thou hast smitten all mine enemies upon the cheekbone, thou hast broken the teeth of the wicked.

⁸Salvation is of Jehovah; thy blessing is upon thy people. Selah.

DARBY translation

I will do almost anything to make a lesson come alive.

So I lay down on the carpet, forehead to the floor, arms outstretched and asked, “Can I defend myself in any way in this position?”

Of course the answer was a resounding, “NO!” because it was obvious that I could not.

I was at the mercy of whoever may intend me harm. I could neither see them nor stop them. It was a position of absolute vulnerability-the way prisoners knelt for execution in ancient times.

It was the position Esther assumed when she embraced very real danger to gain the opportunity to plead for the safety of her people.

And it reflects the inner truth that I am not in control and utterly reliant on the God Who made me to save me.

A friend posted this on her timeline and I really like it.

I would change only a single thing: Instead of “lift your head” I would say, “let God lift your head”.

Because I am unable to lift it myself.

I don’t have the strength, I don’t have the power, I don’t have the energy to raise my head above my current circumstances. I am bent under the weight of sorrow and grief. If left to myself, I will stay here and simply wait for the end to come-it sometimes sounds easier and more inviting.

But the truth is, it AIN’T over yet.

I don’t get to make that choice. God does. And as long as He keeps me here I want to rely on Him to lift my head and make my life a living testimony to His power, grace, mercy and love.

There IS salvation from God-not only eternal salvation but also salvation from the pit of despair and despondency that threatens to swallow my soul.

When He lifts my head, I can see it.

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Psalm 3

A Psalm of David, when he fled from Absalom his son.

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