Love grows everywhere and anywhere it is planted and tended. What does that mean? It means we have endless numbers of ways to plant love—to value our belief that connection to each other is worth more than any other single things we do in this lifetime. And it means we have to provide the conditions for those seeds to grow. We choose what we value...and then we have to value seeds we have planted and make sure they get nourished...with time, attention, protection, consideration and care. If you care about someone (value them) and they don't feel cared for, they need MORE of the conditions that will grow the seeds of love. You may think you have done enough...but that isn't the standard of care that works. Care means the other person feels your care. You may think you are protecting them, but they need to feel safe. When they feel safe and cared for, you have provided the conditions for love to grow. Love grows in the peaks and valleys—the ups and downs—both. When you get that life is rocky and hard and has surprises that are sometimes good and sometimes challenging...and when you determine that through those valleys you will be reliable in this one thing—connection— then love grows. Make that commitment to this day: love grows here. Whether it is a great day or a day of obstacles, choose the pathway of connection—see the people you love with eyes that acknowledge and delight in them. Be a protector, be a safe place. And provide conditions that offer comfort and safety in answer to their fears and frustrations. And love will grow.
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A month ago a beloved father and husband of a family from my childhood community took his last breath with his children and wife all surrounding him. It was such a relief to me (an answer to many prayers) that the pandemic didn't rob them of that last moment alone and together. The gift of staying alongside til the end—if you have the strength to face it—is one of the best things you can do.
I woke up the next morning and my first thought was this: "I must pray for "Vern" and his family." And then I remembered. Vern is no longer with us on this side of the eternal divide. He has moved on—his body has been left empty and useless. He still lives but not here. And my second thought which followed: So I must now pray for the family as they mourn. This is just as crucial as the prayers I have been offering over the weeks leading to this day. It dawned on me— this morning they all woke up with a little (or with a rather large) shocked awareness. "Dad is gone." It is a thought that feels like it will swallow you, each time you wake up. Sometimes even months after someone has gone—sleep has offered respite, and then with the morning sun the shock of loss returns. My understanding of this shock is not something I am sure of, but it is something I have considered...here is how it maybe works: Our world is a strong, solid composite of bits of land that form the crust we live on. The geography of our home planet. But the essence of our home, the reality of belonging to this cluster of humanity is that we live in a world that is mysteriously and invisibly made up of souls. We form one whole unit—a world of unseen but equally real space, filled up with one soul at a time. And each time a soul leaves, a hole the size of a crater is left where they created the same solid, strong composite in the unseen world. This departure leaves a gaping, taunting hole that threatens to never be filled. Because if there is one thing that is a mystery and yet a sure truth that we all agree on, there is no such thing as a human soul that is not unique. One of a kind. Exactly every time a soul leaves the world, there is a hole. An actual hole. A hole that cannot and will never be filled. And those standing next to the hole, nearest to the soul, connected by love—those who shared daily bread with him (or her) feel the darkness of a hole punched through the planet. A crater that reaches out into eternity and sucks the breath from our chest with a longing for the one we love. And yet, the physical earth continues to spin on a tilt as it circles the sun, and we have to find a way to face the morning. There is no answer to this. It can't be fixed. It can't be repaired—there is no "soul patch" that can change the crater and make it well. There is no platitude that will lessen the pain or make it feel less precarious to stand next to the empty space where a soul was, and now is not. But to stand there alone—because friends or family are afraid of coming near. To stand there alone—this is what we cannot allow. We cannot leave our friends to face their grief and re-encounter the shock of waking up to an empty-soul-crater on their own. We don't know what to say for a good reason. Saying is not the way of grief. Silence is the way of sharing the pain. Being willing to encounter the discomfort and the anguish, being unhurried in the moments of sitting and watching the dark hole—this is the work of true friendship on the days when that hole is still shocking and startling. And your breathing is shallow in case you might lose the very air you gained from being loved. Don't let the ones who stand at the crater's rim lose sight of the love that holds onto them in these unspeakable days. Stand near and keep still and offer the simplest gifts—a glass of water, a hand to hold, a reminder that you loved the soul they've lost. Loved enough to come near and stand in witness to the un-fillable hole. Being disconnected even from one side is more than we can bear. So keep the connection—see the hole and share the moment. And if tears come in lashings to fill the crater, know that mourning is the gift that allows the memories to come back and also fill the hole and hold the meaning. Each soul is precious beyond what we measure in words. When someone goes to war and loses a limb (or two) and comes home with burn marks running from an ugly stump up their torso and around the back of their body...
When someone who has faced such a radical shift of capacity—the loss of a leg upon which to walk—returns to the place where they engage with the life they had before their traumatic loss... When anyone of us becomes a fraction less of who we were at any one time, no matter what that fraction of loss may be-- Those who witness this do not expect life to go back to normal, to return to what it was-- do they? Life without a foot, a leg, an arm or even an eye is not ever going to be "normal" again. It is a permanent loss. Losing a beating heart, a warm hand that reaches toward us when we are alone, a familiar voice that calls our name, or a place to rest our head on top of someone else's, or next to or even under their chin...losing such a person is not something you ever "bounce back" from. The change is permanent. What is missing cannot be replaced. We can learn to live again, to adapt and make some changes. We can find ways to walk on, move forward. But if we walk with a limp? If we hobble and stumble and never again break into a jog, let alone a sprint? If our brokenness does not let us do the tango....Is that not one of the acceptable ways of being? There is a way of being that is incomplete. Not what I was and not what I would choose to be. But don't pretend I can get over the loss of someone who was and always will be a part of me. A hollow unfilled space inside that echos with a capacity for innocent joy that I no longer have. Do I live more intentionally as a result? Yes. But don't expect that I will ever fully heal. And don't ask me to pretend. (You can't pretend to tango.) We live in our own brokenness—it's true. Whatever is broken inside us is there to stay—probably forever. If that is a scary thought to you, let me reframe it into something you might have the courage to embrace.
None of us get through childhood without a few moments of futility, vulnerability, loss and sorrow. If we know we are broken, we have seen those moments for what they are: human imperfection (either our own or someone else's or circumstances beyond our control). If we don't have sorrow for those moments of loss (brokenness), we maybe don't have the full access to our emotions that we need for healing. People who have shut down their emotions live with a deficit—of self-awareness, of compassion, of empathy...and because they don't have those feelings, it is very hard to embrace justice. (Think about it—so much sense to this.) So if you are feeling broken and perhaps are even in pain in this day, what I'd love to give you is a big word-hug and sit beside you and let you know you are not alone in your sorrow. But I'm going to give you something else instead. A big word-kick-into-clarity. Here it is. The place of brokenness and hurt that you are in is also the place of opportunity. If you can embrace the sorrow and cry for the losses you have endured, you will find a way through it. That is the design and purpose for tears—they wash away toxins in your brain and they help you find the pathway forward. What these same tears leave you with, however, is a pathway of beauty. Beauty for ashes, almost literally. There is a sea of compassion and kindness that comes with the act of grieving. When we have faced the sadness inside ourselves, when we have been honest with the brokenness, we come out as people who make room for the hard time that someone else is facing. We have empathy, we have capacity for compassion, we carry ourselves with patience and kindness. The work you are doing today to care for yourself is the gift you will give to someone else tomorrow or next week. It is not selfish or even self-centred to face your brokenness and grieve the losses. It is hard work and you are a magnificent human being making the world a bigger, better place by nurturing compassion in your own life. We are More than Our Self.
When we reflect on who we are as a person, we so often think in terms of our own self—our gifts, our values, our preferences, our skills. But we are very much who we are as a result of the memories made within the relationships of our lives. We are shaped by what gave us joy, contentment and safety in our early life. Or by what was missing and left us feeling uncomfortable or unstable—anxious, unable to find joy and inner peace. As life goes on, the memories stack up, like walls of a lego house punctuated with the colours we love as well as a few that feel unhappy. That is a huge topic. I have no wish to tackle the whole thing today—but here is a tiny slice taken from the meaning of the bigger picture of how memories "make us" who we are. When someone dies, you lose the option and opportunity to continue life with them. You no longer have the "looking forward to" part of life with them. You stop the making of memories and only have what was behind you. And that is a major hole. But in our grief, sometimes we forget—I absolutely forgot and lost site of this in my loss—that the memories you hold with value are yours forever. Some of those memories happened before you had the capacity for remembering (preverbal memories). Yet they formed you. No one can take away those times, or the way they impacted you. The joy they created within you. You—the you of today—is still connected to the lost person by the memories you created together. The person who has left may feel "gone"—but the relationship is not gone. It is preserved (only in part, but at least in part) by the memories you carry. Grieve the loss—yes. But also be aware that some things can never be lost. They are a part of who you are, and always will be. A friend of mine fell down a deep hole on a black night—no moon to light his path or warn of danger ahead. This is not a parable, it really happened. He went out to find a place to relieve himself while visiting friends in an un-serviced region in North Africa. They were digging a new latrine and he fell into the hole they had diligently excavated. So deep he could not get out. He needed help.
He was surprised at his findings. Besides feeling great gratitude that no bones were broken or that he was even alive, he was genuinely astonished at the discovery that in a few seconds (or less) "your whole life flashes before your eyes," His mind flipped through a long sequence of memories from his life as he tumbled to the bottom of the hole. Another friend described how her journey as a companion to a loved one facing death was one of great healing for him as he reflected on his past. His slow journey was filled with grace and he was ready and at peace in his last days. Her comments left me with a completely revised option for how I could view end-of-life reconciliation of past, present and future. That journey toward the horizon where our time on this planet ends is where we find out what is really beyond—because no matter how much we think we know, we are facing a great unknown. It is helpful to face that with hope and faith. But it is still a first and last for most of us. This final passage is above all a singularly "alone" journey. Something we navigate without the actual companionship of anyone who goes through the same "porthole" as we do. We may go at exactly the same time, but it is still a journey we cannot share. But we will all face it. By surprise, some of us. Or with a slow waning of breath and strength for many of us. What we have in common is that the journey will invite us to reflect on our lives. As it did for the sudden fall of a friend into a black hole and for a friend who walked through cancer with her fiance in her mid twenties. It is a journey that will invite us to ask what was of most value to us and what we perhaps regret. It will invite us to think back as we are pushed forward into a whole new dimension. And if we are lucky, or blessed, or both...we will have someone to talk with who is interested in hearing those stories or reciting them back to us—"Remember the time...." We will have the option to share our values and memories, like the friend who told me that in facing death and preparing for departure, her beloved partner found healing for his soul's wounds. "It was beautiful," she said. If you have a chance to share time with someone who knows they are facing death, I encourage you to embrace the opportunity for reflection. Tell the stories of events that gave you joy and meaning together. And then end with a short observation—"You know, what I love best about that story/time/memory is that we shared......" Or, "I love that you were able to ..... in that story/at that time. That will always mean so much to me." Because no matter how hard it is to watch a loved one die—and it is hard, it really is. No matter how alone it feels to you and you know it is an alone journey for them—there are some deep roots that you share. And even in silence, when the time for words has passed, those roots, I believe, are felt by the soul and give comfort to those we love who are facing what is beyond that great horizon that has been so hard to look at, but now looms as the main view. The quiet presence of love and delight—yes, your delight in the joy you have shared that is now feeling torn and splintered by death—that quiet presence has to now be the comfort that you both need. And there is grace, immense grace and love, coming from over that horizon to embrace you. When I first read the following quote from the author of Uncle Tom's Cabin (Harriet Beecher Stowe) it was a revelation. The implications of what she was saying rolled over and over in my mind. Here is the quote in somewhat quaint old English--
"When the heart strings are suddenly cut, it is, I believe, a physical impossibility to feel faith or resignation. There is a revolt of the instinctive and animal system and though we may submit to God, it is rather by constant painful effort than sweet attraction." Harriet Beecher Stowe Stowe is describing what is now commonly understood as a trauma response— your brain enters a fog and your feelings and thoughts are dulled by the impact of what has happened. She talks about not being able to feel faith. I translate this to the difficulty I have in tough times. I find it hard to feel the presence of God around me even though I have walked in Faith that He is real and personally interested in my life (which is what Jesus taught). I think what Stowe is describing is that our instincts are designed to kick in with the fog to protect us from the potential harm of feelings too big for us to process. In those moments we still get to choose. I choose to say "Yes, welcome" to God's presence. I choose to give room to the tears that brim. I choose to share with a friend even though I sound like a bit of a babbler. I choose to stop trying to keep up with some things in life that are options and give myself space and time to be silent. Sometimes I even choose to say to God, "I know with my head that you are good but I don't feel it right now and I find my faith falling short of that goal. I can't actually say "you are good" right now. And I can't fix that. Go ahead and change that if you want to—or can." Harriet Beecher Stowe tells us that it is painful to make this choice. She acknowledges that there is a world of discomfort or frustration or disappointment inside the fog we find ourselves in. If you are in a crisis or the wake of a crisis and you feel like the fog has closed in around you...maybe there is another way to see that. Maybe the fog is a gift. And maybe in the fog there is MORE of God's presence, even though it feels the other way around. And maybe you choose to just say "yes" and trust that God can do everything else. Even though it is a stretch—it's a simple yes, but maybe the hardest yes you've ever said. Because this "yes" is what grace is all about. We say "yes" to what we believe is the ultimate power of love—our Creator. And God, who is still a mystery to us at the best of times, does what God does best. God cannot help but hold us with love. We are his beloved children. "For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling; he will hide me in the shelter of his sacred tent and set me high upon a rock." Psalm 27:5 |
Author/Elaine
I write on how humans develop and grow through challenges we face. I've divided this into three categories--Growing Love is about relationships and how we create conditions for growth despite the inevitable challenges. Cloudburst is about grief, specifically—which is a tricky topic. We need to keep growing but pushing is the opposite of helpful. And in Dancing on Hot Sand I talk about personal inner growth in hard places—spiritual growth, without sounding religious, I hope. Archives
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