Archive for the The Journey Category

There are so few people who are willing to visit the lonely and afflicted. To sit with the suffering person requires courage that most of us lack. We wonder, will we say something that causes them further distress? Will we somehow make them angry? What if they yell at us? Throw things? Weep unabashedly? We don’t want to wander into dark hallways where cobwebs lurk and so we wait for them to heal and return to our frothing play in the sunshine. But there is One who goes to such places and his comfort is sweet. And so for those who long for comfort, know this, you are never forsaken nor alone. If you invite Him to come close, he will.

I remember listening to Jason Gray on the radio not too long ago. He is a musician I enjoy and from whose music I take solace. He described a moment in his life where he confided to a friend that his marriage was crumbling. It was a fearful confession and a deeply painful one. His friend opened his arms wide and said, “Come here.” Then he wrapped his arms around Jason and just held him and let him cry. I remember thinking that there is nothing more profound than one who will hold us in our suffering and say nothing. There are times when words only inflict more damage when all we really need is the safe and protective arms of a friend.

I have been struggling with depression again. It is a frustrating condition, one which removes all the good feelings that make life fun and replaces them with darkness. I can remember the happy days, the carefree words to friends and co-workers, and the silly jokes. But now I’m drowning. I can’t catch a breath. My every thought is, “Swim! Swim! Swim!” because if I don’t, I’m going down and I may not make it back to the top.

Depression is a thief. And it’s really hard to be around someone who battles it. The day in and day out struggle of fighting for ones life is a grueling endeavor, and loved ones often get tired too. This morning that happened to me. I tried to talk to my husband about the pain I was feeling by sharing a deep wound I have carried since childhood. He said, “I want to help you but I can’t. And honestly, I can’t deal with this today. I’m leaving.” And he went out to enjoy the sunshine while I sat in silence wondering when the dark clouds will lift.

There is something immensely healing about tears. I think tears are natures way of rooting out the emotional poisons that lurk in our bodies. When we cry we release not only our emotional pain but all of our pretentions. I don’t believe tears are a sign of weakness, but rather of strength. Maybe that is why when I cry I feel relief.

I rode my bike and wept. I wept for what was and what will be. I wept for the wounds I have bourn in my body and the wounds I have caused others. I wept over my fear, my anxiety, my disquietness over relationships past and present. I wept because I wanted someone to hold me and not say anything and that somebody is nowhere to be found. Pain is that omnipresent human experience. It takes only a tiny needle to remind us just how wimpy about it we really are. So when I consider how important it is to have a friend who cares deeply about my sorrows, I am filled with gratitude.

“You have kept count of my tossings, put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” – Psalm 56:8

I have a lot of people in my life who tell me how to heal depression. They tell me I need more faith, more healthful food, more rest, a positive attitude, or the least helpful thing of all, “to just get over it!” I’m trying, I say. And they get frustrated when I’m not instantly healed and ready to go play. But God never responds to me that way. He meets me in my disquietude and pulls out his bottle. Then, he gently places it next to my cheek and begins to count, “One, two, ten, fifty-six…” And he never says the wrong thing. He encourages me to rest and know that I am loved and cared for.

“When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?”
– Psalm 56-3,4

Maybe there are people who have never experienced the kindness of God. Maybe they don’t think he’s real or that if he is, he is judging them or hating them or just waiting to put the whammy on them. But in our weak moments, when all of the frivolities of life crumble and the intense throb of a hammer on our thumb reminds us of our frailty, he is there. And when we are brave enough to admit our weakness, he expressly enters into our suffering and comforts us with his grace.

God met with me this morning. He whispered words of love to me once again. He looked on me with favor and said I am his precious child and that I am deeply and desperately loved. He proved it on the cross so I have no reason to doubt it. My pain is not the end of the story. God is my hero, my cornerstone, my refuge and strength. And if you are suffering or struggling today, reach out to him and he will help you too. Depression is a sickness but there is a great Healer and I trust him. Even in the pain, I trust Him.

“Blessed is the one who considers the poor! In the day of trouble the Lord delivers him; the Lord protects him and keeps him alive; he is called blessed in the land; you do not give him up to the will of his enemies. The Lord sustains him on his sickbed; in his illness you restore him to full health.” – Psalm 41:1-3

“Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. The troubles of my heart are enlarged; bring me out of my distresses. Consider my affliction and my trouble, and forgive all my sins.” – Psalm 25:16-18

I stood weeping on the bank of the river while my children splashed in the water. Their effervescent spirits were directly juxtaposed to the well of suffering I was drowning in. They leapt. I sobbed. They laughed. I mourned. Still, I praised God for His glorious creation, even as my tears gave way to sighing.

What enables the grieving person to praise God as tears drip down her nose? What mysterious power saturates the senses with pure joy even as heartache throbs in the chest? What kind of “crazy” religion comforts the mourning person in the midst of crippling sorrow?

I have not discovered a magic potion, nor have I stumbled upon the perfect pill to erase suffering. I cannot make light of the throb that comes when the hammer falls on the heart. If you are reading this and think that I offer you a makeshift splint when you need a plaster cast, please reconsider. I do not write this to offer a little distraction from the pain. I am in the pain and I have joy, and I want to share with my dear reader the reason why.

I have never experienced such a swell of emotion in response to memories. When one loses a loved one, the tidal wave of sorrow is utterly overwhelming. I stood on the bank of that river where we once played and saw my grandmother. The woman who I loved so deeply was etched in every ripple. I heard her voice calling my name and speaking such tender words of affirmation and care. Wave after wave washed over me and I struggled with how to reconcile the terrible aching loss with the beautiful memories that made her so special. I have personally found great comfort in nature when life goes awry and so finding no solace in the trickle of water or the sway of the trees, I grasped hopelessly to find solace and meaning after her death.

I suppose everyone responds to grief differently. I have seen charts that map the stages of grief but they aren’t especially helpful to me. First, the knowledge of what should happen doesn’t mitigate the pain. Second, what do I do when my symptoms are all out of order? All the charts taught me is that something must be wrong with me because I’m not doing it right.

All of the little pleasures that were once easy distractions have lost their appeal. The frivolous idioms that acquaintances have offered as condolences don’t console. Food has lost its savor and sleep has offered no respite. Worse, I find myself apologizing for my weariness. Why am I so doggone tired? I force myself out of bed and through my workouts because I must, not because there is any semblance of pleasure in waking or walking. And when I scan the heavens, tracing the clouds with my eyes in search of some kind of sign from my grandmother that she is looking down on me, I despair when I find none. All I feel is the restless echo my broken heart makes as it continues to beat like a lonely drum.

A few days ago when in the grasp of that sad stupor, I finally collapsed beneath the weight of my grief onto the only place that offers any kind of cushion; God’s word. Once there I found the sprout of something lovely, precious, and uncommonly fragrant.

“There is none holy like the Lord: for there is none besides you; there is no rock like our God.” 1 Samuel 2:2

As I read I remembered that my grandmother was a great bandager of wounds, but God is the great healer of broken hearts. I remembered how gladly my grandmother listened to me as I shared all of my emotional ouchies, but realized God can actually take them away if I offer them to Him. As a kindness to her family, my grandmother liked to bake sweet treats, but God offers his words and they are like honey to my soul. My grandmother loved to cuddle babies but God creates the babies to cuddle and cherish. As I pondered all of the attributes that made Ruby Allen so unique and lovely, it occurred to me that God created her that way. My grandmother was a gift from God to me (and so many others). And as I fully realized this, it felt like flowers, not unlike Surprise lilies, began to sprout from the dark and lonely soil of my heart.

So what does one do when thinking about a person who has had such a tremendous impact on ones life? How does one respond when contemplating each kiss, each handmade gift, and each unwarranted “I love you”? If you think that I responded by saying “Thank you” to God, you would be correct. And with that expression of praise I felt a measure of peace. Not to say all the pain was instantly removed, but the sting of death was certainly mitigated. My grandmother was a gift and her death is the not the end of the story.

Gratitude is a beautiful thing. A grateful heart has no space for anger, bitterness or regret. A heart that is thankful sings songs even when tears are forthcoming. A grateful heart can look into the chasm of death–see beauty–and smile.

God is always good. His words remind me of that time and time again. And while my feelings do not always match that great truth, it is nice when the grace of God intervenes and reminds me.

“Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted.” Matthew 5:4

“You have kept count of my tossings; put my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?” Psalm 56:8

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.” Romans 15:13

“So keep to the old roads and you’ll find your way.” – Andrew Peterson

The arms that once held me have gone limp. They faded into glory on Saturday, May 19th. And with them, the rare kind of generous and lifegiving love that I can only ever hope to aspire to. My grandmother, Ruby Allen, was that kind of beautiful soul that is such a precious gift, so honestly good and lovely, that one gasps to think of life without her. Indeed, I struggle to think of what will come even as I ponder on what was.

She was so many good things… a gifted seamstress, a crochet queen, a humble cook, a delectable baker, a glorious gardener, a garage sale coinsure, a faithful wife, patient mother, doting grandmother, lover of babies and a true friend who never knew a stranger. And yet she was also a steel-willed maven–not afraid to nurse a litter of squirrel kits who had fallen from their nest one day and butcher our pet chickens the next. She was raised on a farm and one of the most practical people I ever knew. When I was naughty I never heard her raise her voice. The worst admonition one could hope to pry from her soft-spoken lips was the quiet “tsk tsk tsk” and a gentle, “Now, let’s be nice.” And so when I remember her, knee deep in the river, giving her approval to my collection of mussel shells, crawdads, and the tiny perch I just caught, or even providing an empty can of beans to put my peepers in, I weep. Because she was the only grandmother I ever knew and the loss of her presence leaves a tremendous wound.

The are some who will say there is consolation in the good memories and I do not disagree. But grief is a sword that slices to the bone. When we lose someone who gave their life to hold us up, we suddenly fall. We scrape our knees and our tears seep into the sidewalk. We grasp for those arms but they are not there to hold us and we feel that terrible agony of sorrow slicing through us. I hate death. It is unnatural, ugly and wrong. I rebel against it with every fiber of my being, and I suppose I will keep doing that until the day I join my Grandmother in Heaven.

As I have wandered through these last few days of shock and sadness, I have heard a small whisper in the back of my mind… “Lash your heart to the ancient mast.” It is from a song written by a father to his son. It is all of the wisdom he has imparted in life set to a tune he hopes will guide the lad when he is not able to be near him. The “ancient mast” is in reference to the “Ancient of Days” from a small passage of scripture in the bible.

“As I looked, thrones were placed, and the Ancient of Days took his seat; his clothing was white as snow, and the hair of his head like pure wool; his throne was fiery flames; its wheels were burning fire.” – Daniel 7:9

In the bible, God describes himself as a loving father for those who choose to believe in and love him. So when I think about “lashing myself to the ancient mast” I am comforted. I believe what the bible says about God is true. He is real, he loves me, and he cares about my sorrows. So in this moment of unsettling grief, when I am torn asunder by this terrible change in my life, I take immense comfort in the knowledge that God does not change. While change in this world is constant, he will always be the same.

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” – James 1:17

When I clench my fists and pound the air with my wailing because I am so angry at death, I remember that our human death is not the end of our story. God created us as eternal beings and I believe we will go on living after we die. The bible clearly says that while the wages of sin is death, the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord. God is just; he punishes our sin (rejection of God/faithless hearts) with eternal death. But he sent his son Jesus to be the sacrifice for our sins and so in believing on His name we are saved from eternal separation from God (hell).

“See what kind of love the Father has given to us, that we should be called children of God; and so we are.” 1 John 3:1

My grandmother was so passionate in her love for her family that she insisted one of her great grandchildren be baptized in the river before she died. This is the way she lived her life, giving and loving and holding and healing and helping and saving and quietly teaching us to do the same. And so when I consider her legacy and the beautiful heritage she has passed down to her family, I rejoice! She exemplified the command Jesus gave to all of us when he said, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul mind and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself.”

Today the arms that held us have gone. My grandmother will be buried and the family will mourn. We will remember and somehow press forward without her. But we are not without hope. We have the opportunity to lash ourselves to the Ancient Mast and find our way home. And I take so much joy and comfort from the knowledge that Ruby exists now in her purest form; love personified, light and goodness, with no hindrance of pain or worry or weariness. I will miss her but I know I will also try to be more like her because I am so thankful for her example. Even though her light has dimmed, the Light Giver has not. And so I will gather strength from Him to help me in the sad and trying days to come.