The Long Mourning

It had already been an emotional morning -- revisiting another grief, decades old. But isn't that the way of grief? Sneaking into ordinary days that begin the same as every other: cooling coffee to the right, discarded cereal bowl to the left, morning paper refolded, and me scrolling for news of friends, enjoying insights, perusing photos...

My husband and I were not expecting the old loss to surface, both left wondering at a hidden significance in the timing. For as we wade through this season of midlife, taking lingering second looks at those roads less traveled, we know an increasing desire to invest in things that last. Even the prodding of an old wound can be an awakening. Such was the vein of my thoughts in the aftermath: patiently unresolved, sent up in prayer, waiting raw... a familiar place.

Now, coffee fresh, I resumed scrolling posts and pics, when I found myself stilled by a new photo...
My beautiful daughter. Tucked in close to husband and friends, her sparkling soul of a smile grabbed my heart and squeezed more tears.

Seven years since she first left home, then hometown, to the south, then southwest -- my grown up girl was on her way to yet another coast, a new home, a new adventure. This snapshot a piece of that journey. Her deeply loved family will settle far from here, once again. And even as I trust the Lord's directing her path, I felt every mile as a slow gouge across my heart... I'm so wrung out with goodbyes.

Standing in the kitchen sometime later, I felt it keenly -- life is the long mourning.

I've known it most profoundly as my children moved away. Each visit too brief. Each time to go chaffing the wound of the first goodbye. At least their childhood milestones kept them within arms reach, though they whispered a misty-eyed prelude to all that is now.

I've known it in hopes deferred. Relationships broken. Friends moved on, passed away, or caught in all manner of devastation. So much upheaval added to a lifetime of transitions. Season upon season, loss and change coming steadily, often leaving no time to process. Lives and issues demanding attention. No time to feel. Just move. Do. Now.

And always... the goodbyes.

Everyone's journey with loss etches differently, but is no less real. And I'm realizing that I often diminish my own pain, sweeping it away as pale in comparison to your pain... or their pain...
or suffering of global proportions. In doing so, my grief is shamed into some dark corner with no arms to comfort, no outlet for tears, no truth to lead it back to life and hope. The weight of it, unresolved, a silent shackle diminishing today's joy. And by deciding it does not matter, I am in effect saying
I don't matter.

This revelation brings a grief all it's own.

There is much stirring in these midlife days that I both welcome and want to run from. Healing requires revisiting storms past and a closer look at new issues swirling. All that wind... messing my hair... and messing with my emotions. I don't like either messed, but the hurts have been in disarray for a while. Hair is an easy fix. Maybe that's why I like doing hair.

I'm rambling now...

...and trying to make light of things that need light. That need honesty. That need a level of brave that has me on my tippy toes, longing for solid footing. Stretching for faith. Sorting through distractions that include voices, within and without, "Hurry up already!" Voices that throw out white-washing platitudes... "Let's just plaster you over with a few positive-thinking posters. Here's one with a Bible verse! There, now! Stand up straight so we can read your posters. We feel so much better now.
Don't you?"

We're all so uncomfortable with pain. Covering over is what we do, to ourselves and others.

Sigh...

Somewhere in this jumble of frustration and fear is a woman who longs to be set free of griefs deferred. To take hold of everything for which Christ has taken hold of her. To press on.

I know that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. He has redeemed me and calls me His own -- deeply loved, forgiven, accepted -- I do matter. And He's gently calling me to this heart-tending, lighting up dark corners, infinitely patient in my struggle. Amidst the storm, He will bring quiet, turning gusts to refreshing breezes as the Spirit bears truth and healing.

So, despite the desire to run away, I'll lean into Jesus, then lean into the wind, and keep on walking. Sometimes pressing on feels more like being pressed, but I know I'm safe, in Him, in the mess of
this long mourning.

Because of the LORD'S great love we are not consumed,

For His compassions never fail. They are new every morning;

great is Your faithfulness.

~Lamentations 3:22, 23

To everything there is a season,

A time for every purpose under heaven...

A time to weep,

And a time to laugh;

A time to mourn, 

And a time to dance. 

~Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4

 For all that gives rise to mourning, I am so thankful there remains a time to laugh.

  

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How about you? Is your pain cast aside or covered over?

Are you running or leaning in?

I pray you'll let Jesus tend your heart.

His compassions never fail.  

The Pull of Sin: How Laughter Won The Day

At an event this Saturday night, we were reminiscing with a hometown friend about the haunted house we'd grown up attending, Hagel's House of Horrors. Seems the iconic building is finally being torn down. We all had memories, including our friend who talked of being so startled that he literally punched the ghoul that tried to scare him. Fight or flight, right?

My husband, Ty, and his dad both spent some years working there. His dad often got to be an ankle grabber.

Man, I hated the ankle grabbers! Didn't you? I hate being scared!

But I digress.

The line around that place would often stretch a block or two long and they'd stay open into the wee hours. Sometimes his dad didn't get home till 2 or 3 in the morning. He had all kinds of stories. Ty shared the most memorable with us: One night, amidst all the crowds and screams and running, his dad grabbed an ankle and instantly felt something warm and wet run down his hand.

Yes... exactly.

"Ooooh! Gross!" we all exclaimed. I've heard this story many times and it's still pretty nasty.

On to Sunday... At church we began a new series about our life in Christ. As he taught through the points of who God is, who are we in relation to God, and what our purpose is, our pastor spoke of the pull of sin. How, even with the Spirit in us, there is this type of gravitational pull toward evil. (Like wanting to go to haunted houses - when you hate being scared?) It was a great, foundational message.

(Don't worry. There's a point here.)

Fast forward to Monday morning... I drove Ty to work and as he prepared to leave the car he referred back to the sermon in regards to this pull of sin. He talked of the heaviness he sometimes feels at work. The tugging. The negativity. We're supposed to take our thoughts captive, he shared, yet it's so difficult. The tug is always there... like those hands reaching out to grab your ankles...

As his tale of frustration wound down, a thought came to mind. So I looked him right in the eye and said,

"Pee on 'em and run!"

Yes, I know. I truly am this spiritual.

Well, you know what, Ty laughed so hard as he grabbed his gear. He kept saying it over and over as he chuckled, "Pee on 'em and run!" (I love it when he laughs. He sounds just like his dad.) And off he went with a wave and a smile and a nod that said, "Good one! Really good!" (You know guys and their nods.)

A tad irreverent perhaps, but I'm thinking it'll be a great visual reminder for him to douse a few flaming arrows - with truth, and thoughts taken captive, an anything else the Spirit brings to mind. Scripture is full of strategies to stand firm and combat the enemy.

While you won't find mine in there specifically, perhaps it'll lighten up a dark moment and remind you to go to your real armor.

Resist the devil and he will flee. James 4:7

There are many ways to resist.

Laughter for the win, again.

Open Hands

It came to me in a sun-soaked moment while contemplating the pages of another's story...

Learning the posture of hands held open - ready to surrender, ready to receive - had been invaluable as I raised my little ones. Watching them grow with an eye willing to see them become who they were created to become. Willing to feed and nurture, knowing the goal was flight. A strong, joyous launching into the skies of their callings. I readied my heart for their leaving with hands held open.

They were never mine to keep.

Today I saw my own life, one that is also not mine to keep. Bought with a price. Precious blood spilled, washing me so that clean, forgiven hands can come with confidence to a throne of grace that still staggers. Grace lavished. Grace unmerited. Jesus' nail-scarred hands open, embracing, forever offered... to me. Forgiveness to all who come in repentance, trusting in His saving grace.

Yet, here I stand with one hand open, outstretched, hopeful... not seeing the other, crooked and fisted behind my back.

I gave my life, didn't I? Look upon my children. Look upon a marriage still alive and learning to thrive despite all manner of opposition. Now it's my turn to have what I want. Pursue the things I imagined doing with this half of my life. To rest from the exhausting rigors of motherhood and all that I've given myself to these past decades. Can I not grab something for my own? Of my own choosing? And hold it tightly? 

This is the cry of the crooked fist. The one hidden so that even I did not see the willfulness and lack of trust.

For all my knowledge of the peace and safety of surrendering to God who is good and able, faithful and true, sovereign, wise, and loving, nothing but oppression and frustration are born if knowing doesn't open my hands... both of them.

This is where confession began today.

Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. 

~James 1:22

Trust in the Lord with ALL your heart and lean not on your own understanding. 

In all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your path. 

~Proverbs 3:5,6

Search me, God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting.

~Psalm 139:23, 24

You have searched me, Lord, and you know me... far better than I know myself. I'm so thankful that you always lead me back to You... the way everlasting. 


Grateful for His open hands and new-mercy mornings.

Poor and Needy

Hear me, Lord, and answer me,
    for I am poor and needy. ~ Psalm 86:1

Monday:
As the birds chatter away in the midday sun, I find a place of quiet in the psalms. The plaintive cries of David - shepherd, warrior, king - never fail to resonate. Neither do his flaws. We are far from ideal, he and I.

Yet he was a man after God's own heart. This speaks to me of both God's heart for David, and David's heart for God.

Am I a woman after God's own heart? I am sure of His heart for me. Though it still mystifies, I know His love never fails.

But me? I am all of failure, left to my own. Left to my own? No, that is false. I am never left, but I do leave. I am all of failure when I strike out on my own and leave His strength behind.

*   *   *   *   *  *   *

Friday:
A friend sent a loving text earlier this week, nudging me to life and truth. Within it, "...Ps 86." So I read the whole thing, soaked in it... and, starting over, stalled on the first verse. "Hear me, Lord, and answer me, for I am poor and needy." My shoulders dropped as a sigh escaped. My body crying surrender long before my heart. My will, always the last to die.

Now here I sit on the same patio days later, with lawn mower white noise as soundtrack to the white noise in my head. I'm so tired. Tired of being strong. ... I don't want to be that strong girl anymore. I can't be.  ... This feels so selfish ... What is real, Lord? What am I to be doing?

I don't know about you, but I'm wired to serve others. If I see a need, I want to fill it. It seems as natural as breathing to me. "Here am I, send me" is a line of scripture that has resonated since I was chest high to the back of a pew. Seeing things with eyes of mercy is also God's gift. So many wonderful opportunities to bring God's grace into the everyday arise from both these Spirit-born passions.

But somewhere in this, life has piled up and I've lost sight of my Source. So busy keeping my head, and everyone else's head, above water that I'm exhausted. And so the cry comes... God, is all this really of you? Is this my portion or am I taking more than is mine to do? I am so ready to let all these spinning plates crash and run for the hills... or the beach... leave town with no forwarding address. 

I'm a mess.

How desperate and mentally spent are you when you're seriously considering moving away - new town, new deal - just to escape responsibility? Have you ever been there?

If I were physically sick, I would have an excuse to bow out, but other than the occasional far away look, there is no outward evidence of how thin this thread feels that keeps me tethered to ... what? Sanity? Reality? My own well-being?

Amidst the din of such thoughts, the prayer of David has echoed all week long. "Hear me, Lord, and answer me, for I am poor and needy." A soul cry. A heart beat. Prayer without ceasing.

It seems He's heard the echoes. Though still frayed and perplexed, I've sensed the infusing of "strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow." Forever and always, great is His faithfulness.

As I travel the life of hymn and psalm - bowing down, declaring Truth, crying out, singing praise, all while still mulling through and waiting for answers, direction, wisdom - He lives, He hears. He loves me with an everlasting love. In stark contrast to my weakness and desire to pull away from everything and everyone, His presence and power - and mercy - are steadfast.

Thank you, Father. 

We all can get buried in the issues of life. Noise abounds. Advice is everywhere. But in a world full of motivational tag lines and endless lists of the 5, 7, or 10 things that happy, successful, amazing people do to be happier, more successful, and infinitely more amazing, I am finding solace in a list of three.

1. Hear, me, Lord
2. I am poor
3. I am needy

Perhaps it's a good thing I'm too tired to remember much more.

Desperation

I was the fun girl who went through life with my happy face on, even when I was dying inside.

Sometimes I'm still that girl.

Being real is exhausting, especially when you're busy dying inside. You know what I mean?

Some of you do.

Being real is exhausting when you're already spent... physically, mentally, spiritually. When you feel that, regardless, everyone in your life is counting on you to show up with your big girl pants... everyday.

     (Note the word feel, because you haven't told anyone that your big girl pants are in shreds
      and you may need someone else to be Captain Underpants for a day or two... or more.)

Being real is frightening and your happy face is much more comfortable... for everyone.

But sometimes feelings are so big they suffocate.
And crushing, because you've let them pile up.
So here you are again, dying inside.

Despite all this, you don't want to ask for help because:

              You're the strong, dependable one.

              Weakness is embarrassing.
           
              You don't want to bother anyone.

              You don't want worn out platitudes.

              You don't want well-meaning solutions.

              You don't want to talk about it, because that might mean
              you have to own up to your pain and really feel it.

You can go through the motions of life and no one will get hurt, right?

You can just be semi-numb and disconnected, living that bare minimum if I just don't leave any glaring holes no one will notice kind of life. But you know it's a lie.

And eventually, the numbness wears off. Ouch. And that well-worn happy face won't hold back the tide anymore. Now you're just a soggy, bloody mess.

So you blog about it. Finally allowing the pain to flow. And you stand there with your heart's road rash laid bare for your ten followers to see, because you won't publicize that new blog on Facebook. Too many eyes on your truth would feel like air on a rug burn... and you're just not that brave.

Then you work on your follow up blog for days, trying to make sense of what just happened - what is happening - and wanting to reassure those who read your grief that you didn't bleed to death.

     That you're still alive.

     That beautiful sisters stood in all your gruesome mess and prayed with you as you spoke your pain.
     And they understood. They listened. They didn't try to just bandage you over.

     That a daughter sent a grace-filled email that touched your heart... comforting with the comfort
     she has received.

     That you began to see light and lightness as others held your emotions tenderly, reflecting Jesus.
     Being His presence, also real and raw.

In that place of naked, bleeding desperation, a gentle voice from heaven began, even that day, to reveal what He is doing in your mess. To show how He's wooing you back to life... real life. Bringing a balm and sweet covering for your wounds all while showing you the pride you've been hiding behind.

He reminds you that desperation is a place of strength when you're hidden in Him.

And somehow, in the midst of all that still yearns to be made right - within and without -
you know, in your soul, it is well.

For real.


*       *       *       *       *       *       *


I noticed while laboring over all of this, what began as I quickly turned to you. I'm already analyzing that to death, but I'll spare you the rabbit trails.

Though since we're here, is this you? 

Are you hurting and no one knows?

Do you hide instead of asking for help? Even from the Lord?

This is obviously still hard for me, but every time I've come to a place of surrender - of being real about my pain, my fears, my sin - I've also found the path to comfort, healing, and strength.

I pray you'll find the same.

I am bleeding

I am hemorrhaging. Not literally, but it feels that way.

Life is in the blood... and I am bleeding. So much around me is bleeding out.

How can I stand up to this onslaught of life seeping, life-sucking bleeding? Today I feel so fragile and weak in it's wake. Life leaving and lives moved on, taking away community and, ultimately, identity. Though I've watched it happen, I did not foresee identity tumbling, staggering, gasping.

Who am I in this death march?

So much transition, loss, change in five, six, seven years time... and now this.

Jesus, You are still the rock I stagger on. I know You are there, but my heart aches and bleeds with all around me. I have stood up to it so long, but I am weakening. There is only so much... too much...
I feel my legs buckling and my heart caving in. I'm so tired of being strong and steadfast. I don't even want You to be my strength. I want to curl up and close my eyes and be done.

I am weary and I can hardly see You for all the blood.

Yet You bled for all this, too.

I know.

Still, today there is grief and heaviness... and no time to stop. No time to be weak.

For every time there is a season...

This is the season of dying, but no time to die.
This is the season of weariness, but life does not care.
Of losing myself in the bleeding and not wanting to fight anymore.

Not even sure why I think I need to be strong, but I have always thought I must.

How can I care for others when life of soul and spirit are leaking out? Most days I soldier on and fake it with grief dragging like a millstone.

Oh, how I long to really rest in a spacious, life-giving place. How I long to breathe again.

I've known that life before. It seems an age away. Someone else's life.

How I long to be her again...


But, how will I stop the bleeding?


*       *       *       *       *       *       *


Sometimes life is real and my heart is raw. Most days I keep that to myself. 

Today I let it spill. 

The circumstances: too numerous, thus purposely vague. 
My heart: on my sleeve, clearly bleeding.
No pat answers. No platitudes. 
Just a snapshot in real time.

If you're here too, know that someone else is trudging along... and journaling blog-like prayers.