Freedom to Move On

The loss

The text comes in as I’m getting up in the morning. Mom has breathed her last breath. She’s gone.

(I’m okay with getting the message by group text. There are many family members to notify. We knew it was coming any minute. It’s a little early in the day for a phone call, especially for those in the times zones west of me.)

No tears fall. I’ve cried them all already. The day she was diagnosed with “dementia, most likely Alzheimer’s.” As I watched her brain wasting away and her personality disintegrating. Each time she took another drastic step downward. Sitting in my rental car after saying goodbye at her bedside for the last time, before returning home a week ago.

I’ve been grieving for her for a while. 

The relief

At this point, the sense of relief is greater than the sense of loss. I’ve never been in this position before. Not sure what to expect.

The last several years have been busy and stressful for me and my siblings. Bad news about Mom’s falls and emergency room visits. Decisions to be made regarding her living situation and medical needs. Increasing difficulty in her ability to communicate. More frequent trips to see her. More frequent phone calls.

But the worst stress, the greatest trauma, was knowing that one I loved was hurting so much. Witnessing her struggles with pain and physical limitations and cognitive issues and depression and fears and obsessive thinking. She was too aware of her own losses. Yet hesitant, like many in her generation, about taking any medication that would make her feel better emotionally. Part of me just wanted her to move on to a better life, to be freed from all her troubles.

That phase has passed now. Mom is at peace. We’ll be making all those decisions that have to be made after someone dies, but that won’t be nearly as stressful as helplessly watching the continuing decline of a loved one in her nineties.

I’m ready to move on, too. To catch up on all the things I haven’t gotten done because of the extra time I’ve spent helping meet Mom’s needs. Because of the emotional energy being drained by seeing her suffering.

I don’t resent losing that time and energy. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. I’d do it for ten more years if she had that long.

But there’s a welcome sense of freedom from the responsibility and stress. Now I can move on.

The grief

Until my body reminds me that I’m mourning. I’ve experienced a significant loss. Yes, there’s great relief. But there’s also the sorrow of missing her, which will come out one way or another.

Right now it comes out, not in intense emotions, but in physical and mental fatigue. A song pops into my head. “Slow Down,” by Chuck Girard (1974). It’s an invitation to slow down, be still, and wait on the Spirit of the Lord. (Thank You, Father, for bringing this song to mind just when I need it. I haven’t thought about it for many years.)

This is a biblical concept that our busy American culture doesn’t often consider. The Israelites are told to be still in Exodus 14:14, when they’re trapped between Pharaoh’s army and the Red Sea. In Nehemiah 8:11, the Levites calm the people as they’re grieving over their sins, encouraging them to be still as they respond to the reading of the Book of the Law of Moses. While prophesying about the coming Messiah, Zechariah 2:13 calls all mankind to be still before the Lord.

Psalm 37:7 combines the ideas of being still and waiting on the Lord. Waiting on the Lord is encouraged in many of the other Psalms and in the prophets.

Every day I feel like I get more behind on all the things I want or need to do. But there it is, right there in the Bible—slow down, be still, wait. I need to hear this at this time in my life when I’m so eager to move ahead. At this time when my body is screaming at me to slow down.

The challenge

But I don’t want to slow down! I want to plunge forward, to check more and more items off of my to-do list.

Why?

As I’ve said, it’s partly because I want to catch up on the things that I’ve put on a back burner while Mom’s been wasting away. That’s the most obvious reason. And it seems fully justified.

But I think it goes deeper than that. If I slow down I’ll feel the grief. I’ve been grieving for so long, I just want it to be over with. I don’t want to deal with it anymore. I’d rather be fixing things.

I’m a problem solver. I can see all kinds of problems with my house. The dust bunnies under the bed and the grunge on the windows and the minor upgrades and repairs that I’ve been postponing. I see problems with weeds and overgrown plants in my yard. Problems with my mismatched and aging wardrobe.

Now that I have more time, I can fix all those things. Fixing things feels better than being still.

But I need to be still so that I can move ahead. Just like physical healing, emotional healing won’t happen if I’m too busy and active.

Slow down now. Have the strength to do more later. I’ve faced this lesson so many times (including here and here and here), but it’s still hard to rein in my impulse to push on. I guess I’m a slow learner.

The biggest reason for slowing down, though, comes at the end of the song. “Know that He is God.” An echo of Psalm 46:10.

My desire to solve problems, do things, be done with the grieving, to move on, is partly my desire to be my own god. To take charge of the situation. To do the things I want to do, in my way and in my timing. To see my will being done.

When I slow down, I have to listen, contemplate, and consider, not just act. Listen to what the Bible says. Listen to wise pastors and teachers. Listen to the Holy Spirit within me. Contemplate His will, His direction, as it’s revealed in His Word, through other Christians, and in my own heart. Consider the fact that many of my to-do’s are trivial in God’s eyes.

I need to slow down so that I’ll stop trying to be God.

 

 

 

Joy and Sorrow at Christmas

Different views of Christmas

Words to a Christmas carol, as I remember them from my childhood:

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.
If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do.
If you haven’t got a ha’penny, then God bless you!

My impression of our expectations of the Christmas season today: Get excited! Be happy! Put up flashy decorations. Enjoy the great American pleasure of shopping. Eat holiday foods. Drink holiday drinks. Party. Escape from the hardships of life.

But then I look at the thoughts in the old carol. First joyful anticipation—looking forward to the birth of Christ and a fat goose to feast on. Next a poor old man. A prayer (expressing hope and compassion) for God’s blessing if you’re so broke you can’t even give away half a penny. All enfolded in an upbeat melody. Real joy in the presence of real suffering. A joy that opens the heart to give to those in need.

Which of these two images is more consistent with the first Christmas?

The up side

There were many happy moments surrounding Jesus’ birth. When Mary visited Elizabeth during both of their pregnancies, they praised God and celebrated together. (Luke 1:39-56)

An angel of the Lord appeared to lowly shepherds, bringing good news of great joy. A great company of the heavenly host suddenly joined them, praising God. (Luke 2:8-20)

Wise men from the east followed a bright star to Bethlehem to worship Jesus and present Him with precious gifts. (Matthew 2:1-12)

It’s good and right for us to celebrate His birth with joy and thanksgiving. God living among us in the flesh was the greatest gift the world had ever been given. The very idea that He would live a human life, with its roughness and dirt and hungers, leaves me in awe of His undeserved love and compassion. How can I help smiling and laughing and feasting and giving generously?

But what about those who are experiencing sorrow and pain at this time of year? Are they supposed to just ignore the aching, plaster on a fake smile, and join the celebrations? Should they feel guilty if they’re unable to pump up the enthusiasm that the season seems to demand?

The down side

There was another side to the months surrounding the first Christmas. A solemn side. A dark side. A painful side.

Mary and Joseph faced the unjust judgment of all their friends and neighbors when she became pregnant before they were married (Luke 1:26-38). They were required by a decree of Caesar to make a difficult journey from Nazareth to Bethlehem shortly before Jesus was born. When they arrived in that overcrowded little town, the only lodging they could find was in a stable. That’s where she had her baby. (Luke 2:1-7)

I have a tendency to romanticize their lives at this point. Look how they loved each other, if they were willing to go through so much together. Look how strong their faith was, as they obeyed God every time an angel gave them new instructions.

It seems almost blasphemous to think that they might have questioned God or complained or even just felt weary and discouraged. And yet they were human. And young. They didn’t fully understand what God was doing through them (Luke 2:33). They probably weren’t the perfect pair that I’ve always imagined.

When the Magi came, King Herod was so alarmed by their statement that they were seeking the king of the Jews, that he ordered all the baby boys in and around Bethlehem to be killed. Mothers were helpless as their precious children were murdered. Joseph and his little family fled to Egypt for safety. Another uncomfortable journey. (Matthew 2:1-18)

We could easily make Christmas a time of mourning and sorrow if we chose to look only at the dark side of the times. That obviously wouldn’t be appropriate.

But I think it would be okay to grieve even as we rejoice. To recognize that, as long as Satan is active on this earth, he will attack most viciously when God is pouring out His greatest blessings. And as long as we live on a planet broken by the Fall, pain will always hover around even our most joyful days.

Being both up and down

In spite of my caricature above, in some ways we Americans do experience both joy and sorrow at this Christmas season. We’re more aware of the needs around us now than at any other time of the year.

People give more generously. Organizations provide holiday meals. Children with impoverished or imprisoned parents receive special gifts. We recognize certain kinds of suffering and our obligation to help reduce it.

But do we allow those who are hurting in other ways to feel their pain? Or do we subtly pressure them to get with the program and rejoice?

A Christian friend shared a recent experience with me. Her husband’s health is declining. When she went to an event at church (alone, as her husband was too sick to attend), her heart was heavy with the sorrow of watching him suffer and of knowing that their marriage of more than fifty years was coming to an end. Her pain was intensified as she noticed other women in similar positions laughing and joking.

Her conclusion as she was telling me the story was that she’d had a bad attitude. She should’ve been able to put her grief aside, as those other women were apparently doing, and rejoice in our Savior.

Why can’t we do both? Both grieve and rejoice. Feel the very real pain, as many of the writers of the Bible did. (Especially the prophets and psalmists.) Even Jesus wept. Even when He knew that great rejoicing was only a moment away. (John 11:1-44)

This is the Christian life. It hurts. We suffer. We can’t and shouldn’t downplay that suffering. But the rejoicing is so much fuller than the sorrow. Jesus was born and walked among us. He died to give us eternal life. He rose from the dead. There is now no condemnation for those who follow Him. Nothing can separate us from the love of God. (Romans 8:1, 38-39)

But the pain still lingers. We can get through it because, as one who lived life in the flesh, Jesus is with us in that pain.

Just like in the Christmas carol. We can enjoy the feast without ignoring the sorrow. An old man stands on a street corner begging. Others are so poor they can’t help him out. But Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat, we have the privilege of praying to a compassionate God to bless the needy, and the overall melody is upbeat.

 

 

Words

A painful loss

Opening the email app in my phone one morning. Kind of in a hurry. Skipping over the promotions and the daily news feeds. Spotting a note from my church. These don’t come often, so it must be important. Reading it.

“Francine died today.”

Crashing. Aching. Burning. Crying.

No, God, no. No, no, no. Not Francine. No. This can’t be. The pain is too great.

I’m not hurting for myself. I barely knew Francine. I’m grieving for her two children, both in their early twenties, one with special needs. Her mom was her advocate.

Francine’s husband just died three months ago. In their fifties, without any life-threatening health issues that they were aware of, both losses were unexpected.

How can their daughters possibly cope with their deaths? How can they possibly live with the trauma?

Trying to pray

I’ve never met the two of them. It sounds like they have plenty of support. Trying to contact them might be more intrusive than helpful.

The best thing I can do is to lift them up in prayer. But how do I pray? My words feel too shallow, too sterile. Like giving God a to-do list. Words seem too small to cover the enormous breadth and depth of their heartbreak and shock.

The news affects me physically, not just in the intellectual and emotional realm of words. I cry. My stomach tightens up. My breathing becomes sighing. I need something more than mere words to pray with.

But I don’t have anything more. Words are the highest form of expression that God’s provided for us. How do I go beyond that?

For the next few days, I use whatever words I can in my prayers for these two dear young people. Although I don’t do it to be selfish, it also helps me. It’s a good outlet for my own grief and horror and anger. I need to bring my emotions to God, rather than letting them come between us.

Today, as I try once again to pray, and once again feel helpless in finding the words to express my greatest concerns and desires for Francine’s daughters, I feel a certain freedom to forget the search for words and simply sit before God with an open heart. Could there be anything wrong with that?

Maybe.

The importance of words

There’s a danger in praying without words. The threat of laziness. Especially in a lazy culture where we’re always looking for shortcuts and conveniences rather than depth and meaning. Avoiding words lets me avoid the struggle.

If I don’t have to struggle to find words, then I don’t have to struggle to understand and come to terms with the tragedy that’s hit these two young women. I don’t have to struggle to deal with and work through my anger and confusion. I don’t have to struggle to understand how God can be present in this situation. Without words, prayer can become a time to just sit and wallow in my feelings, in my self, rather than turning to God.

My friend Kyle, who was one of the best pray-ers I’ve ever known, once asked me if I thought it was possible to pray without words. (Posing the question, as usual, before even hinting at his opinion. And, as usual, I responded without stopping to ask or wonder what his opinion might be.) I immediately said yes, but it should be rare so it doesn’t become a cop-out.

Because of the dangers and pitfalls that can occur, Kyle stated very strongly that we should never attempt to pray without words. Such an exercise couldn’t even be labeled prayer.

In response, I cited my first depressive episode. There were times when I was completely mentally unable to string two words together. But I needed to pray. And I did. Without words. And somehow I knew that God heard me.

God sees into the depths our hearts. Even when we do use words, they’re not enough to convey the fullness of our experiences. They’re so inadequate that we need the support of the Son and the Holy Spirit, as they pray to the Father for us (Romans 8:26 and 34). Our words are so inadequate that the Holy Spirit “intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.”

And yet the Bible is full of prayers written out in words. The Psalms contain many examples of working-through prayers. They start out in anguish or fear or anger. But as the prayer continues, it becomes praise to God for who He is and what He’s done. Without the words used in the early part of the psalm, could the writer ever reach the joy or comfort expressed at the end?

Some might argue that using words can be just as shallow as praying without them, and I would agree. Repeating the same phrases without thinking. Simply saying, “Lord, I pray for John,” without mentioning what John needs.

I once sat in a Bible study where the leader asked for prayer requests. We brought up some very specific concerns. Instead of laying each of them before the throne of God, the leader just went down the list name by name, and asked for His will to be done in that person’s life. It felt so empty.

These types of prayers cater to our laziness as much as praying without words does. Words need to be backed by thoughtful awareness, and sometimes even struggles. They need to be spoken (if only in our heads) with the recognition that we are in the presence of the almighty God, the creator of all that exists, the One who is above and beyond all that we can comprehend. A big God who expects and encourages us to go deeper and higher in our communication with Him.

Words are important to God. He created all that exists through words (Genesis 1). The Bible is called His Word (e.g. Matthew 15:6). In John chapter one, Jesus Himself is referred to as the Word. Words aren’t just a human construct that we can dispense with or rise above in our prayers. They relate very intimately to the triune God.

Praying

And so I usually make every effort to put my prayers into words. Sometimes it takes a very great effort. But, as with the psalmist moving from anger and depression and disappointment to joy and praise, it’s well worth the work.

Right now, in this moment, though, I don’t know how to express all the anguish and fear that I feel for Francine’s daughters.

Right now, while the wound is so fresh, I sense that it’s okay to spend a bit of time simply praying without words, letting my grief for those two young people touch the heart of God and leaving the rest up to Him.

Later, I’ll return to the struggle to find the words, because that’s the example God gives us in His Word. But I’ll also trust Jesus and the Holy Spirit to pray more deeply and effectively than anything my puny words can express.

 

 

The Joy of God

A reminder

Another follow-up to my earlier post, "God in the Fire.” In that article I wrote, “The God of the Bible is a God of constant pain.” This is true for at least a couple of reasons.

First, as long as there is sin, He will hurt somehow, as parents hurt when their child goes astray. In the days before the Flood, “The Lord was grieved that he had made man on the earth, and his heart was filled with pain” (Genesis 6:6).

Second, God is outside of time. He lives in the eternal now. In some sense, He’s always experiencing whatever has happened, is happening, or will happen.

One of the profound consequences of His being outside of time is that the Father and Son are always, eternally, forever, unremittingly living the grief of being separated from each other as Jesus hung on the cross bearing the sins of the world. And so I repeat, “The God of the Bible is a God of constant pain.”

But as I was working on that post, as I was pondering it even when I wasn’t sitting at my computer typing, something I read reminded me that He is also a God of joy. Deep, profound, unceasing joy. Joy beyond my understanding.

Of course I knew that, but I don’t often think of Him that way.

Joy and sorrow in the Old Testament

In the first few chapters of Genesis I see a God who creates a beautiful, perfect universe including an ideal paradise called Eden. He individually molds two unique human beings who bear His own image, and lovingly provides for their every need and desire. I can easily imagine Him being filled with joy as He views and interacts with His creation.

But then it all falls apart. Adam and Eve sin. The remainder of the book describes how every single person messes up, even His chosen ones. Exodus tells the history of Israel’s doubts and rebellions as God supernaturally frees them from slavery in Egypt, guides them by day and by night, and supplies all they need on their way to the promised land.

In the next three books, the Lord presents His perfect law for them to follow. He provides a sacrificial system as a way for those who stumble to return to Him. Even as they live daily with His miraculous signs and wonders, they constantly, repeatedly break that law and prove that they desperately need that system.

From Joshua through 2 Chronicles, God’s people have a few good moments, but they keep falling short, piling sin upon sin, until He punishes them by sending them into exile. The prophets reveal His broken heart as He warns Israel of the consequences of their disobedience.

Reading through the Old Testament, I find failure and judgment, but I rarely seem to catch a glimpse of a God of joy. In fact, the only direct reference I could find to God’s joy is Nehemiah 8:10, “The joy of the Lord is your strength.”

Of course there are many indirect references. The delight He takes in Israel (Deuteronomy 30:9). Their sacrificing to Him and rejoicing because He’s given them great joy (Nehemiah 12:43). David’s statement that the Lord Himself will fill him with joy in His presence (Psalm 16:11). God’s promise in Isaiah 56:7 to give His people joy.

Joy and sorrow in the New Testament

It’s a little easier for me to remember God’s joy when I’m reading the New Testament. But how often do I think of Jesus as a man of joy? Isaiah 53:3 describes Him as “despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.” I tend to focus on this aspect of His experience because I feel closer to Him in His troubles than in His triumphs.

There are a few explicit references to Jesus’ joy, though. Luke 10:21 says He was “full of joy through the Holy Spirit.” When He was speaking to His disciples shortly before He was betrayed—knowing that His betrayal and sacrifice were coming soon—He used the words, “my joy” (John 15:11 and 17:13).

Still, I tend to think of Him as being dragged down by the weight of the world, rather than being continually filled with joy. During His years of ministry, I imagine Him grieving over suffering and injustice and hypocrisy and sin. In Matthew 26:36-44, I see Him deeply troubled by His upcoming crucifixion.

So I cherish this reminder that I just happen to stumble across as I’m going through each day with thoughts of His pain lingering in my mind. My God, the God of the Bible, the creator and sustainer of all that exists, the one who sacrificed His only Son for our salvation, is a God of eternal, unbounded, unremitting joy. Even in the midst of His constant sorrow.

My mistake is in assuming (although I don’t openly admit it) that the sorrow somehow diminishes His joy. I tried to think through this in my earlier post, with the analogy of my jug and His barrel. But the Bible gives me a better idea of how to understand a God who feels very real pain, yet is filled with overflowing joy.

Paul tells us in 2 Corinthians 4:17 that an eternal weight of glory far outweighs his suffering. His “light and momentary troubles” include imprisonments, severe flogging, and exposure to death again and again; receiving thirty-nine lashes five different times; being stoned once, shipwrecked three times, and beaten with rods three times; being constantly on the move; being in danger from rivers, bandits, Jews, Gentiles, and false brothers; being in danger in the city, in the country, and at sea; and being deprived of sleep, food, water, warmth, and clothing (2 Corinthians 11:23-27).

In addition, he had some kind of physical condition that he describes as a “thorn in the flesh,” tormenting him so badly that he repeatedly pleaded with the Lord for relief (2 Corinthians 12:7-8). Like Jesus, Paul also grieved constantly for the sin and rebellion among God’s people (Romans 9:3-4, 2 Corinthians 11:28-29).

Where does a mere mortal like Paul get the inner strength to be “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” (2 Corinthians 6:10), if not from a God who right now, right in this moment, and for all eternity, is doing the same thing? I need to remember that.

 

 

Final Lessons From Charlie

Saying goodbye to the best dog in the world

I saw the signs. I knew it wouldn’t be long. But I kept thinking, “As long as he’s happy. . .” I was wrong.

Of course he acted happy. That’s what dogs do. It’s an instinct that they can’t resist. When they were in the wild, they had to hide their weaknesses and put on a show of strength. Otherwise they’d be attacked by predators.

Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Poor Charlie.

Maybe I just wasn’t ready to let go of the best dog in the world. The one who trusted me more than I trust God. The one who, unlike any other dog that I'd ever known, loved people more than he loved food.

So I let him suffer for too long.

I knew he had an uncontrollable, inoperable growth. But even as it continued to expand, it didn’t seem to bother him. He didn’t seem to know that it was there.

In the last few weeks, though, Charlie had begun showing signs that something had changed: Eating a little less eagerly. Occasionally acting restless. Straying from his usual routines. Failing to come to me in the evening, when he knew he could get some extra attention. At other times, appearing more needy, seeking more strokes. Lying out in the sun more often. He’d learned from his achy joints that heat could reduce pain.

I should have recognized what was happening.

It wasn’t until late one afternoon, when I took a closer look at his growth, that I could see clear indications of how very much it was hurting him. Poor Charlie.

My heart broke. Partly because I knew the time had come when I’d have to say goodbye. But even more because I’d allowed this dog that I loved so much to suffer needlessly.

It was too late to contact the doctor that day. And I needed to process my next steps, to be certain that there was only one way to relieve his pain.

The next morning I called the vet’s office as soon as it opened and made one last appointment for Charlie. I sat by his side as he fell asleep and as the overdose of anesthetic was administered. I said my last farewell with tears in my eyes.

How do they do it? How do dogs put on such a good show of being strong and happy even when they’re in agony? Don’t they realize that it only makes their suffering worse?

Hiding our pain

And yet we humans often do the same thing. Pretend to be happy. Pretend everything’s okay. Even when the pain is almost unbearable.

Not so much with physical achiness. In that case, we rush to the medicine cabinet or to the doctor. But we do it with emotional suffering.

“Don't cry out loud. Just keep it inside, learn how to hide your feelings.” (From “Don’t Cry Out Loud.” Lyrics by Carole Bayer Sager, 1976.)

“I am a rock. I am an island. And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.” (From “I Am a Rock,” by Paul Simon, 1965.)

“In order to shield my pride, I’ve tried to cover this hurt with a show of gladness.” (From “The Tears of a Clown.” Lyrics by Smokey Robinson, 1967.)

Songs from my youth voicing our human tendency to hide our pain and weakness. To imagine that remaining aloof from others and maintaining our pride will feel better than taking the risk of being hurt. Why don’t we realize that it only makes our suffering worse?

We’re not dogs. We’re not compelled by instinct to pretend that we’re strong, that all is well. Yes, there are predators out there who will try to take advantage of us in our weakness. But there are also sources of comfort and strength. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matthew 5:4, italics added). “God . . . comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4 NLT, italics added).

Unlike dogs, we’ve learned as a species that we grow stronger emotionally and spiritually by facing our pain, revealing it to trusted friends, and allowing them to minister to us in our time of need. Why is it so hard to do that?

Seeing others’ pain

One reason I didn’t understand how much Charlie was hurting was because I didn’t try to look closely enough to see for myself how bad it had gotten. I was willing to take him at face value.

How often do we as Christians treat our fellow sufferers the same way? How often do we simply accept the show they put on instead of trying to peer beneath the surface? How much anguish could we address and relieve if we just took the time to look at the signs and reach out to them?

As with Charlie, the signs are usually there. A lack of appetite. Increased restlessness. Changes in routines or habits. Withdrawing from others. Acting more needy. Self-medicating.

Are we willing to see them?

Once I realized what was happening to Charlie, my next steps were obvious and straightforward. That doesn’t tend to be the case with human beings. Our emotional struggles are more complicated than a dog’s physical pain. Trying to be there for someone who’s hurting inside can get messy.

But if it’s done with prayer and compassion, desiring what’s best for the sufferer, being in tune to their needs and to the Holy Spirit’s leading rather than forcing our own agenda on them—and apologizing and learning from our mistakes when we fail—God can use us to help relieve their pain.

This isn’t optional. It’s what Jesus did when He walked this earth. It’s part of our calling as His followers. Part of His plan to heal those who are hurting.