Hazy Days and the Happy Choice

“We’re designed to search for reason in the seemingly senseless events that torpedo our lives, and we want to make sense of them as soon as they happen.” Rachel Wilson

I have lately been walking through life in a haze of pain. Emotional pain. Physical pain. Relational pain. With each step I feel the weight of it, like a shoe that doesn’t fit quit right, it digs into my ankle and leaves a blister. And I have this idea that one day I will wake up and the pain will be gone, and then I will experience this blissful “happy” other people are so readily prone to. The problem is, I live in the real world and waiting for the “happy” is a little like waiting on a flight that keeps being delayed. I’m staring at the tarmac and watching for the big metal machine to coming rolling up to the gate but it never arrives, and frankly, I’m just miffed. Because to be quite honest, I’m sick of these stupid shoes.

My natural tendency is to avoid the pain at all costs. And so I develop little coping mechanisms to get me through the tedium. I eat too many brownies(when no one is looking of course). I watch television(because fictional drama is easier). And I scroll through Facebook, reading political commentary, and secretly judging my friends without analyzing my own flawed opinions. I feel like I’m gliding across a frozen pond in a beautiful pair of white ice skates(because pretty is important, right?). And I know I’m going to have to deal with the cold eventually, because my fingers are frost bitten and black, but right now it’s easier to just ignore the painful truth and stay numb. Because thawing is when the pain really begins.

But thawing is also when the healing begins. And whether I like it or not, pain and healing go hand-in-hand.

This past weekend our little family made a trip to the country with the idea that we would get away from the pain and stress of our relatively ordinary lives. We haven’t had time or money for a vacation and the grown-up responsibilities are stacked up like immovable blocks. Early in the week I begged my husband for a quick camping trip and he said yes. And I was so excited! Until I woke up ill on Saturday morning.

Instead of jumping out of bed and throwing all our gear into the car, I struggled to form cohesive sentences. I knew what needed to be done but I couldn’t make a simple decision. So I wore a path between the kitchen and the bathroom while my husband kept asking me, “Are we going or what?” My little guy was busy bouncing around the house in a frenzy of anticipation and excitement. And I wanted to be excited too, except my tummy hurt and my brain was foggy. And frankly, it just wasn’t fair.

But I could not bear to disappoint my little guy, and so I started putting things into bags and packing a cooler. I knew I’d forget something—I always do—but I found great satisfaction in pulling away from the house with all of the most important things in the car(namely the children AND the dog). My little guy was chattering like a monkey on speed and my husband was losing his temper, so I pulled out a story I had printed up from the internet earlier in the week and calmly read about a little town called Sligo(in SW Missouri), and one of the families who was fortunate enough to live there. And then we were caught up in the tale of Dwilla Lewis Dubouchet and what life in the late 1800’s was really like.

We pulled into the campsite fairly relaxed, but quickly lost our cool with all the tasks that needed to be accomplished in order to put warm food into our bellies. Cooking over a campfire is no small accomplishment, but it is one of the wonderful things that make camping so much darn fun.

If you can get the fire started that is.

And since it was clear that rain had recently doused the area, it took quite a few matches (and a half gallon of lighter fluid) to get the wood going. Meanwhile my teenager grumbled and groused about hornets and heat. And my little guy ran around in circles emitting high-pitched noises between unreasonable demands(I want to go to the river NOW!). So after our bellies were full(we had to eat with our fingers because I forgot the utensils) and we were completely soaked with sweat, I somehow convinced my exhausted husband to accompany us to the river where we could cool off and relax.

Except that my little guy is behaviorally challenged and would not follow instructions. He was being unsafe in the river and after about 45 minutes of patiently directing him to stop trying to drown, I gave up and we went back to our campsite. And the teenager was still grumbling about the heat and having to sleep in a tent. And the little guy was still buzzing around making unreasonable demands, but somehow I found a way to lie down in the back of the truck and stare up into the sky. And that is when I saw it.

The trees over the truck blocked much of the sky, but there in the leaves of the canopy I saw the shape of a cross and I remembered that for all my suffering, there is One who went before me and bore the worst of it. And by his stripes I am healed(Isaiah 53:5).

Life on planet earth is a succession of pain and sorrow. Our bodies are fragile and perishable. People wound us with their actions and words. We suffer mental and physical illness. We anguish and sob over traumas so recklessly inflicted upon our person. But this is not the end of our story. As Rachel Wilson so eloquently writes in the book she co-authored with her husband, Andrew, (The Life We Never Expected), “We rush to explain all the ways in which having special-needs children has, despite appearances, enhanced our lives. We strive daily to make sense of the senseless, so that the pain we’ve experienced will not be in vain. In other words, we write our own happy ending. But we are not the storyteller. We don’t have the power to resolve the twisted plot and bring triumph out of tragedy. Only God does. And his timing is often very different from ours.”

This morning I saw the sun rising through thick fog. It was more like a mirage than a sunrise. The small, pale, orb hovered there on the horizon like an opaque gem, shaking smoky sunbeams at the earth. I stopped my bike and took a picture, but I couldn’t quite capture the eerie light and dull throbbing ache that seemed to resonate through the clammy air around me. Maybe it was just my “hurty” heart and the realization that I may never know a pain-free life this side of Heaven, but in that moment I desperately longed to ask the Storyteller one simple question, “Why all this suffering?”
Today I am thawing. I am facing the frostbite. And it hurts. But it is not the end of the story. I like the way Rachel Wilson writes it, “The biblical drama ends with redemption, as the hero defeats the villain, gets the girl, saves the world, and lives happily ever after.”

If this was not the case, I would truly have a reason to despair. But as it stands, my suffering is temporary and therefore, I have only one real choice: Rejoice!

Sunday morning my family found respite in the Meramec River after about 2 hours of fitful sleep. The spring fed water gurgled in a beautiful blue array around us as we splashed and laughed and frolicked. We planned to spend most of the day there, but 30 minutes into our play, a frightful storm blew in. Amidst the thunder and lightning, we scrambled to the truck, raced back to our campsite, and loaded the last of our belongings as the first raindrops hit the windshield. And it felt rather anticlimactic to drive home against the backdrop of dark storm clouds and feisty wind after a full day of “not relaxing”. But as I sat next to my children, who nibbled on cold hamburgers and carrot sticks, I had to smile. Because even though we did not get the quiet, relaxing weekend we had hoped for, I know that one day I will. And when I think about what that looks like, what it will actually be like to walk on the shore of Heaven’s beautiful rivers with the Storyteller, knowing exactly and fully how the story ends, well, what are a few silly dark storm clouds and frostbitten fingers anyway?

On August 4, 2016   /   The Journey   /   Leave a comment