July 2016 – Good Grief God

Held

Do you remember holding your parents hands when you were young? Do you remember how it made you feel? I was thinking about it the other day. For a number of reasons I was struggling. I was worried about money, scared about the future, and was desperately missing my mum. I was walking from my lounge to the kitchen, when the weight of the things on my mind suddenly hit me. It caused a physical weakness in my body, and I reached out a hand to steady myself.

It made me think back to being a little girl, and all those times when my mum or dad would take my hand. Why? Because part of their responsibility as parents was to keep me safe and to give comfort and security.

Children reach out their hands to their parents, they have an inbuilt desire to be held. If you were fortunate enough to have good parents, then perhaps you’ll remember how that felt. As children we have confidence that our parents will be there for us, that they will provide for us. If we fall, they will pick us up, if we’re unwell they’ll make us better, if we’re sad they will comfort us. We trust them, and we don’t have to try to trust them, it is a trust that automatically comes, because our parents have always been there for us.

As we grow older, those roles are sometimes reversed. We are the ones to hold our parents hands, we are the ones to keep them safe, we are the ones to bring comfort.

I took this photo when mum was dying. I remember feeling so afraid that I would forget what her hands looked like, I remember not ever wanting to let go. Those last days with mum were so precious, holding her hand, lifting it up to my face and pressing it against my cheek. I would sleep with my head on her pillow, holding her close. I had become the one to comfort her, I so desperately wanted to make everything better.

My mum held me when I was born, and I held her as she died. They were precious times, but were also a terrible blessing. Those memories are treasured, and yet also heartbreakingly painful.

After mum died, I suffered with terrible anxiety and fear. I felt like I had lost my security, I couldn’t seem to find solid ground to stand on. I didn’t feel safe anymore. I found it hard to get out of the house and do normal everyday life. The outside world was overwhelming, but there was an element of safety within my own home. I guess I could pretty much control what happened there, I wasn’t going to be faced with a situation that I couldn’t cope with. Sometimes I would text my friend, and she would simply tell me ‘you’re safe’. I needed that reassurance.

Fear is a terrible feeling, it can control and paralyse you. With mum gone, my future had become terrifying, and I was desperately looking for a safe place to land. I’m 46 and single, marriage is a gift I have yet to receive. I am facing a future alone, with no one to share the ups and downs of life with. I have no financial security, I don’t own my own home, and I am exhausted from having to figure out everything on my own. I am afraid.

It’s easy to trust God when we don’t really need to trust Him. (I know, that doesn’t make much sense) What I mean is, that it’s easy to trust God when everything is going ok. It’s not so easy to trust God when things are tough. Trusting God for food is easy when your fridge is full. Not so easy when it’s empty!

Remember back to holding hands with your parents. We intrinsically trusted them to provide for our needs. We trusted that we’d be fed, and have a bed to sleep in. Trusting them was not hard, but it’s so much more difficult to trust God. It is for me anyway. I’m talking to myself as I write this, I certainly do not have the whole thing figured out. I swing between trusting God, and freaking out.

I often read these words:
I (God) hold you by the hand, and I say, ‘Don’t be afraid. I am here to help you’. Isaiah 41:13

I read them, and I believe them, but I don’t always trust them.

I was listening to a song the other day. I’ll post a link below. It’s called ‘Held’ by Natalie Grant. It speaks of grief, loss, and comfort. It really touched my heart.
You know, nobody gave us a guarantee that life would all work out. Yes, some people seem to have it easier than others, but we only know what we see, who knows what’s really going on behind their closed doors? Life can be unfair. I’ve stopped asking why, and I try not be angry or lay blame anywhere. That serves no purpose, and the answers never really come.

After mum died, one of the hardest things to face, was the fact that I had to continue to live without her. I don’t say this for dramatic effect, but I honestly wished I had died with her. I would lay in bed every night asking God to just let me die, living on was and sometimes is, just too painful. It’s a prayer He has yet to answer, obviously! Perhaps there is still life left for me to live! 🙂

That’s the rub, my mum had been torn from my life, and I was left here to survive. Torn brings a picture of a wound to mind. That’s how grief is, we are severely wounded, but we are still alive. It’s indescribably painful.

We may not have the lives we expected or wanted. We may be desperately unhappy, but Gods promise to us, is that when everything falls, when life collapses around us, we will be held. We may not feel held, we may still feel that we are lost at sea, struggling to stay above water, but……………..we are held. I firmly believe that if it were not for Gods hand on my life, and the support from my friends, that I would not be here to write this.

I love this verse….

He (God) takes care of his flock like a shepherd. He gathers the lambs in His arms. He holds them close to His heart. Isaiah 40:11.

They are such kind and gentle words. I love that we are so precious to God, that He wants to hold us close, and keep us safe.

So my friend, whatever your circumstances, know this…………….no matter how afraid you are, no matter how unsafe or alone you feel, you are held.
Your life has purpose (even if it is currently unclear) You are so very precious to Jesus, He loves you, and His arms are big enough to carry you.

We are safe, we are loved, we are held.

You are held.

Once Upon a Time

Our lives are full of stories, some long, short, happy, sad, and many that we simply don’t understand. I’ve loved books and stories since I was a little girl. I loved the wonder and the feeling of expectation and hope that came with reading a story. Of course, most of the books I read as a child would eventually have a good ending, and be wrapped up with some kind of a ‘happily ever after’. Some of our own life stories have that same happy ending, but others have endings that are messy, complicated, and can be impossibly hard to understand. Life does not always turn out as we expected or hoped. It can be a hard lesson to learn.

‘You never know what’s round the corner’, that’s what my mum would say. She was always one to look for the positive, to make the best of life no matter how bleak it appeared. Her life had not been easy, but she was ever hopeful for better things to come. I recall one Christmas when everyone was leaving to go home. I said goodbye to mum with tears in my eyes. She didn’t need to ask why, she knew, and she gently said ‘you never know what’s round the corner, things can change in a moment’. So true, but sometimes so hard to believe.

During the last year, those words, along with ‘things can only get better’, have been said to me numerous times. I must confess, that I have not always received those phrases very graciously. Why? Because they can come across as trite, and at times like a blatant lie. I don’t say this because I’m a pessimist or wallowing in self pity. I say it because the facts are, no matter how bad life gets, no matter how low you sink, things can always get worse!

My latest story has been an especially difficult one. Over the last 20 months it feels like I’ve faced enough trauma to last me a lifetime! I had a serious accident and needed major orthopaedic surgery, which left me unable to work for the best part of a year. My mum had a massive haemorrhagic stroke and died 4 weeks later. My business collapsed, I had massive financial stress. My hair all fell out, 3 times. (Excuse me while I pause for breath) I’ve had severe anxiety and clinical depression, and suffered a nervous breakdown. A close friend betrayed me and I had a serious cancer scare. I had major gynaecological surgery, with complications, which, along with my age, put the kibosh on any hope of having children. I’m not looking for pity, I’m just saying that sometimes life can be really really shit, and just when it can’t get worse, it does!

Now at this point, you might be expecting me to say that even though I’ve been through a crap time, God is faithful, and He has created something beautiful out of the mess (or some other kind of annoying Christian/spiritual phrase) I’m not anti Christian, I’m anti ‘patronising spiritual Christian’isms’, I’m anti slapping a scripture on a weeping wound like a plaster. It is ineffective and insulting. I may sound annoyed, I guess I am a little. It’s just that I’m only interested in Christianity that is real, and brutally honest. Christianity that means something, Christianity that is a true example of Gods love in action.

There is no doubt, this year has been the toughest I’ve ever experienced. I’ve questioned God, been angry, hurt and utterly utterly broken. But amid the awfulness, there has been hope, and reasons to be thankful. I’ve been held up by a small group of precious friends, both near and far. Friends that have not only supported me emotionally, but in practical ways. I’ve had financial gifts, been taken out for many coffees, and probably a bit too much cake! I’ve had help walking my dog. A dear friend with a young family and a new baby included me in family life. She invited me to help with the children, and feeding the baby. Things that made me feel wanted and useful. Another friends husband sorted my car out when it needed an MOT. None of these things are particularly ‘holy’, but I think they are Gods love in action. Yes there is place for prayer, teaching and encouragement, but without action they can be empty words.

At my church they sometimes have what they call ‘God Stories’, in essence, stories of what God has done in people’s lives. It’s good, and can be a real encouragement to others. The thing is, it’s easy to thank God when we can see what he’s done, it’s easy to look back over situations and see Gods hand. I recall a couple who had been trying to get pregnant, they told their story of how tough it was, and how disappointed they were every time a pregnancy failed. They ended their story with the fantastic news that they were now 5 months into a healthy pregnancy. Their story ended in good news. So often we hear the end of people’s stories, when everything has worked out, when all is well. When babies have arrived, jobs have been found, money has been provided, and life has been wrapped up in a big pink bow. We don’t very often hear from people in the middle of their stories when everything still looks really crap.

I think we should have less focus on the final outcome of our stories, and more openness in the middle of them. That’s when we need the encouragement, when we might need a helping hand to keep going. When we need a friend to cry with. It’s ok to recognise and be sad about tough situations that we face. It doesn’t mean we don’t have faith, it doesn’t mean we don’t trust God, it is simply an indication of our humanity. For too long, some churches have been so focused on ‘having faith’, that they have swept ‘feelings’ under the rug. Should we be ashamed of how we feel? Should we be afraid to say we are disappointed. What’s the point in putting on a brave face, if underneath we are broken. Why keep up the facade, who are we fooling? Certainly not ourselves, and I’m pretty sure Gods not fooled either. If we cannot be completely open and honest with each other, then we simply perpetuate the lie. The lie that we have it all together.

This particular story of mine is not over yet, on the face of it, things still appear pretty rubbish. I don’t have the answers, and I don’t know how things are going to end. A happy ending seems far off, but, I am convinced that not one part of this story has been for nothing. Tough? Yes very, but difficult circumstances often become the greatest lessons, and produce deep rooted change, and profound growth.

If you’re in the middle of a tough or sad story, please don’t despair. Things may not be turning out as you expected or hoped, but you’re not at the end of your story yet. I pray that you have faithful, loving, and kind friends to support you. Most of all though, know this, the ultimate storyteller knows the beginning from the end. You are precious, loved, and never alone, and as my lovely mum would say, ‘you never know what’s round the corner’. Hold on.

The Crying Bench

I love that moment upon waking up, the moment when you are neither awake or asleep. That brief moment when, for a split second, all is well. I love it, and also dread it, because I know what follows.

It hits with a violent and crushing blow, assaulting my soul, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

It is a pattern that happened most mornings since May 25th 2015, the day mum died. In those early days, the words ‘my mum died’ used to play over and over in my mind, as if the subconscious chanting of those words would at some point become my reality, and I would accept that she had died.

It makes no sense, I knew she had died. I was stroking her hair when she breathed that last whisper of breath. But the magnitude of her death, and the complete devastation it left in its wake was almost unbearable. I say ‘almost’, because I am still here, somehow I have managed to bear the unbearable. How do you cope without someone who has been in your life for 46 years? How do you accept that they are gone forever? How do you live with the utter despair, sorrow, and gut wrenching pain? There are no words to describe how it feels, if you have lost a parent perhaps you understand.

I wish I could tell you that I have all the answers. I do not. All I have is my own story, my own messy journey through the complexities of grief.

The day after mums funeral, I recall someone asking me ‘have you cried yet?’ In fact, in the three weeks between mums death and her funeral, I had hardly cried at all. Naively, I thought I was coping quite well with the whole grief thing. In reality, I wasn’t coping at all. I was numb. Most of the time I felt as if I was watching a movie, like I was an outsider looking at myself from afar. As if it wasn’t really my life. I think it’s because the reality was just too horrific to grasp.

Although I’m sure it hadn’t been their intention, the question ‘have you cried yet?’ felt flippant, as if the monumental circumstances that I found myself in, could be fixed with ‘a bit of a cry’. Oh if only that were so.
Yes, tears are part of grieving, but they are only one outlet. One weepy outburst does not fix the unfixable.

There had been many tears in the 4 years prior to her death. The grief began long before she died. Such was the damage in her brain, that bit by bit, the mum that I knew started to leave. Each time a little more distant. It was 4 years of utter heartbreak, 4 years of silent tears, 4 years of grieving alone. I thought I had done much of my grieving before she died, I was wrong.

Somehow, after mum died, the preceding years melted away, and I found myself grieving for the mum I had before she ever got sick. The question ‘have you cried yet’, was jarring to my soul. It was simply a reminder of all those tears I had cried alone, when mum was sick, all the pain that had gone unnoticed by most, all the sheer agony of seeing mum so very poorly, but holding back my emotions because mum just wasn’t capable of understanding anymore. It was a desperately lonely time.

In the months following her death, I would often walk my dog with a dear friend of mine. A friend who had become like a sister. She was not afraid of my grief, neither did she try to fix me. She simply walked with me. We would often rest on a bench at the top of a hill. That bench became the crying bench. On numerous occasions the flood gates of my heart would open on that bench, and my lovely friend would listen as my grief poured out, over and over again. You see, grief doesn’t happen neatly, you don’t work through each part until you get to the end. It’s a bit like a washing
machine, you go round and round over the same thing, until finally, at some point, you reach acceptance. But only acceptance for that one area, then it happens again, and again, and again, on each area of grief. There is no easy route out of it, you have to just stay on the road, and endure. I wish everyone could have a friend like mine. A friend who would listen over and over to the same conversation, a friend to walk with me through the horror of my grief, a friend who like Jesus, wept with me.

Yes, even Jesus wept, such was His compassion for His friends. He knew how it felt to grieve.

Now, one year on, mums death can still deliver a crippling blow. It is the sudden realisation that I can’t call her for a chat, or after major surgery recently, I simply wanted to hear her voice. The child in me wanted my mum to make everything better. The one who could always wipe away my tears is not here, and my heart longs for her. Where do you turn when the person who wiped those tears, is the person for whom you grieve?

I love that verse in Psalms that says, ‘You (God) keep track of all my sadness. You have collected all my tears in a bottle, you have recorded every one of them’. Ps 56:8.

I love that our tears are precious to God, even in our darkest moments, not one tear falls unseen.

It’s reassuring knowing that even in the loneliest of times, none of our tears go unnoticed, not one of them is wasted.
There is healing in your tears, and there is no hurry, or time limit on the amount of tears you need to weep for your loss. Again, weeping is only one part of grieving.

I still visit the crying bench. Sometimes I walk there with my dog, sometimes I visit the bench within the confines of my mind and the safety of my home. The tears still come, sometimes as a flood, sometimes with a gentleness. The tears will always be there, because I will always grieve for my mum. I am not stuck in my grief, it’s just that I will love her forever, and miss her forever, and because of that I will grieve forever. Perhaps not with the same rawness, but it will always be there.

As Washington Irving said.
There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.