Two new baby boys were born into my circles today.
One was born with grandmas and grandpas, aunties and uncles nearby and at the ready. Joy is sprinkled everywhere in that hospital room, I can assure you. I wouldn’t doubt that the only fisticuffs, and by that I mean petty comments and cross looks, come from greedy relatives waiting for their turn to rock a newborn.
The other baby came as a momentary break in grief. After the parents left for the hospital, this family’s toddler wondered into a pond and drowned. This day of tragedy will share a space on the calendar with another boy’s birthday. The marking of one life welcomed, another lost.
We live in such a dichotomous world. Dark and light, evil and good, life and death. The most profound of all joy in stark contrast to the depths sorrow. Honestly, I’ve been wrestling all day to reconcile how our human nature can withstand such extremes. My mind stretches to comprehend the experience of this young mother and father today, but my heart won’t let it go there. It hurts too much.
What can one say in response to such a day? I’ve got nothing. God’s promise wasn’t perfection, but presence. And so, may the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, guard our hearts and minds in Jesus Christ tonight.
Most of my friends are a lot like myself. White, middle class, mothers of young children, living in smallish towns. Generally we all work, some of us not so much in the traditional work structure. We mostly have useful – if not empowering – partners in this gig. Often conversations with these friends revolve around the trials of young childhood, with a peppering of conversation focused on the bigger picture, the future, the better world. I need this solidarity and familiarity. It brings me so much peace to know I’m not alone in struggling at times.
Then I sit out outside next to my neighbors who will graduate their youngest child in less than a week. Their oldest, living in the prime of responsibility-less life, embarks today on a trip to South America for an undetermined amount of time. My neighbor, the father of the family, told me no less than three times last night – just after H boy came running down the street in his skivvies – how quickly this time flies past us.
I believe him.
Throughout my journey we’ve been given gifts of these people, ones not so much like us. We’ve sat at the table with couples in a different season of marriage. I’ve listened to the struggles of parenting teenagers long before I nodded along to Honest Toddler. And now, as we’re on the brink of sending our two oldest into the unknown realms of school, I’m watching parents at the far end send their babies off into the unknown territory of life as an adult. It gives me the simultaneous sense of realizing that what I’m doing right now matters very much in building a foundation for my children while also understanding that what I’m doing right now matters very little in the scheme of the bigger picture of life.
My other-season-of-life friends offer me the pull toward reality. Of course, my reality is my reality. The challenges of bedtime and temper tantrums are a real and valid thing. To dismiss them because “at least you’re not sending them off to college” is completely unfair. I’m not looking to put different stages in competition with each other; rather they offer a gentle harmony to my current situation.
Graduation season, weddings and even funerals temper my life in a way that reminds me that, as I like to say, life will look different in 5 years. Perspective gives me opportunity to enjoy what is without a sense of guilt when I don’t always enjoy what is.
In many ways, when given the gift of perspective, I realize that I don’t have to enjoy certain parts of my life, but I do so with a sense that I won’t get another chance to enjoy them. I won’t keep repeating this stage until it’s fun or I get it right – life will march along no matter what. This is not all that there is. Which is both a frightening and a beautiful thing.
1. I’m not a good listener. I am fantastic at hearing and absorbing and synthesizing information. However, if simple listening is what you need, I’m not your gal. Recently, I’ve tried to ask friends about their needs in this regard. Do you want advice right now or do you want me to just listen? At least then we’re both understanding the same expectations. Because….
2. I’m an ideas person. I’m a believer that we are not so firmly planted in our ways of life that we cannot change the things we do not like. We can’t change all of the things, but we can change our approach or our response to them. So I all-to-often share what I’ve done, read, heard, or thought about. I’m one of “those people” who will recommend a great book for an extremely difficult season in your life. I know this about myself and I’m trying to pull on the reigns, but it remains a life pattern which is not easily rectified.
So do you know how God has dealt with me, continually throughout my life? He gives me people in grief. I’m completely awful with it. I’m not good at talking about it because there is no book or lecture I can recite to alleviate the pain. I hate the pain, it’s so incredibly hard to sit with and hold their pain, so I wash dishes and bake cinnamon rolls and try to pretend it’s an illness that will someday find healing.
I must be a failure at these grief “growth opportunities” because they have appeared throughout my life. Particularly with friends whose mother is named Deb. Those friends’ mothers tend to die of cancer. I feel as if I should offer this as a warning to potential new friends. I should write it on my name tag at socials and meetings.Hi, my name is Michele. If your mother’s name is Deb, we cannot be friends. I’m sure you’re fantastic!
Grief seems to be the extreme side of general “hard times” in life, of which all people move in and out. It seems the eternal question as a decent human being is: How do I help those I love during those hard times? What does love and support look like? Is it just listening? Getting a glass of wine? Bringing a pot of soup?
About four years ago, I was walking through an incredibly dark time. So many unknowns sat in front of us and it simply hurt to think, and to not-think, about it. I needed something from others but I couldn’t put words to it. One day I was singing to Crowder, as I often do, when I realized I was singing:
Shine Your light so I can see You Pull me up, I need to be near You Hold me, I need to feel loved Can You overcome this heart that’s overcome?
I realized that light was exactly what I needed. But here’s the thing: I didn’t need someone to shine a light at me. I needed them to shine the light for me. I needed them to walk just ahead, beside or even behind me and point that light forward so that I could see the next step. They may need even to drag me to the next step. Of course, daylight would be nice. But my friends have no control over daylight. They can, however, shine the light of a small candle in the immediate space around us.
Right now I’m not walking in a season of darkness. Actually, colors are quite vibrant in my world. I’m living in a spring day in which I see so much beauty – the grass is greener, the sun is brighter and I have a sense of where we’re headed. Even though many unknowns lie ahead, I’m not living in fear of constantly stumbling around in the dark.
But my friend is not. She’s living in the darkness. She remarked, “I just wish we could see some sort of light in all of this.” And I knew so well what she meant. My heart aches that there’s nothing I can do in the situation. I’ve delivered multiple pots of soup, so she’s probably a tad tired of my efforts to help.
Last weekend at church, the topic was something around “faith during hard times”. We sang a song very much related to that topic. I enjoy the song, but my initial thought was, “this isn’t exactly what I’m experiencing right now.” It felt a little untrue. But I remembered my friend and how true it is for her right now. I thought about the times that songs have been so true that I couldn’t mutter the words out loud because the trueness almost hurt. Or I would start crying. Yeah, mostly that.
These songs would make grand promises about God actually being good and seeing us through to the end and I wouldn’t sing because I didn’t know if I could or would believe that again. In my darkness, that part didn’t feel true. I didn’t sing those parts because I wondered if I believed it.
A teacher once taught about singing and gave reasons “why we sing.” It was a great lesson but the only one that stuck with me is that we might “sing until it’s true.” We might not believe something to be true, but we sing it anyway. The words and melody shape us and push us onward toward belief. They can carry us toward belief.
Last weekend I decided that we can also sing until someone else believes it’s true. Those parts of songs that are simply too true to utter out loud still need sang. Those of us living in light times simply must sing them on behalf of those walking in darkness. We must supply the melody and hum the rhythm so that, eventually, others can join in the song.
We shine the light. We sing the song. Not at, but for, beside, behind and around those who need it.
