faith

Behind the Canvas

Behind the canvased sky,

I see a river flowing free.

The rugged tapestry once concealed all that’s real,

But Time tore the Romantic landscape

And began to reveal the mysteries hidden behind.

Through holes, I glimpse the world that inspired its painter.

— — —

A few months ago, I scoffed as I read “I was twenty-seven when I learned that my days were numbered… I had been given the opportunity not many twenty-seven-year-olds could claim: the opportunity to count each of my days as precious.”  Anger and jealousy panged my heart: anger, because  I never wanted this “opportunity”, and  jealousy because I was younger when I was granted this “opportunity.”  I’m incredibly stubborn sometimes, and, in that moment, I did not want to think about the loss of my brother as an “opportunity.”  In that moment, I just wanted my brother back.  Jen Wilkin, author of None Like Him, continues, writing: “Any illusions I might have had that this life would last forever were effectively removed.  I learned a perspective that many don’t grasp until the aging process begins its faithful instruction in universal human frailty.” [1]

I mulled over those statements for weeks before I could finally adopt the author’s same sense of calm appreciation for having to face harsh realities at a young age.  Reflecting on the new perspective growing within me, I described it to a dear friend who lost his brother years before I lost mine:

Growing up, it’s like you’ve been painting a picture for your entire life.  Each joy or heartache you experience as a child adds light and darkness to your canvas, and, through the canvas, you see the world.  It’s beautiful but imperfect—it is not without its own sadness and glory.  The painting’s our framework—we create it and we focus so intensely that we forget it’s a mere painting.  Then, one day, Death happens, and he severs our paintings.  Our canvases cracks, our mind quivers and retreats in confusion.  It’s torn us, and it’s painful to be torn.  When we get past the hurt we feel at the breaking, we finally see it—there appears to be a light from behind the gashes.  Peaking in, there it is—the real world.  Our minds only painted them with what we thought we knew, but now, after the tear, we see it.  It’s beautiful and it’s sunny.  Of course, there are dark shadows and tumultuous areas, just like the ones in our paintings, but there exists a clarity and a depth that our paintings could never capture.  We finally see what’s real, and our pieces seem suddenly insignificant; our painting cannot be mended—the damage cannot be undone—but we see the Truth beyond our created canvases.  

My friend listened and calmly smiled at me, “It’s not just death, but I think that’s just a part of growing up,” reminding me of the universality of the human condition.

He’s right—we all have moments where everything that made our frameworks shatters and we’re left feeling vulnerable and shattered.  At first, it’s hard to see anything, but, in time, we begin to realize how our perspectives have altered.  We learn truths about God, about the world, and about ourselves that we never would have known.

Like Wilkin, I have been blessed to learn life’s brevity before my parents even appear old and frail.  Sometimes I envy those who get to enjoy their twenties free of the intense emotional toll that bereavement promises, but God is faithful to give me reminders that he’s redeeming the times.  He’s gently taking me by the hand and walking me down a path He knows I didn’t want to be on—a path He didn’t want me and my family to have to walk;  “The Lord is not slow to fulfill his promises as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish, but that all should reach repentance” II Peter 3:9.  Christ did not wish Patrick’s death upon us.  Knowing that doesn’t make this any less painful, but it does remind me that God is trustworthy even in the darkest circumstances. 

— — —

So, I press on—uncovering more mysteries beyond the canvas I created.  Pursuing God as he bestows me with “a crown of beauty instead of ashes” (Isaiah 61:3). 

For now, life is calm.  It’s been a much-needed respite.  I continue to wrestle spiritually and emotionally with Patrick’s death.  Psalm 126:5 sings, “Those who sow in tears shall weep with shouts of joy.” I’m still very much in the first stage of that verse, but I am able to experience joy as well.  I’m not quite shouting about it, but there’s a calm gratefulness and happiness that permeates everything these days. 

I realized about two-weeks ago that life had calmed.  The storms have ceased for a time.  Now I’m living in the recovery—still afraid of aftershocks, still hesitant and cautious, still mourning deep losses—now, God helps me pick up my broken pieces and carries me beyond the waves into still waters (Isaiah 43, Psalm 23).  He’s my refuge and my hiding place when I’m too afraid of the world around me (Psalm 119:114).  He renews my strength.  In Him I trust, and I will not be shaken (Psalm 62:6). 

[1] Wilkin, None Like Him, p. 78

Grays, Blues, and Splatters of Red

Apprehension gathers around my temples and sends shakes into my hands. 

I feel calm: I smile to myself as I peer into my rear-view mirror, fighting the duplicity of my inner turmoil.  We’re nearing the end of the year, the end of the decade.  So many endings. 2020 looms menacingly behind a two-week’s notice, and its emanate arrival bubbles conflict within me. 

bubbling… boiling… overflowing… overwhelming… apprehending.

I don’t feel calm: tears kiss my quivering lip, fear desires to relinquish the skirmish in my mind.

Am I going to believe what I know to be true?

I know God is good.  I know 2020 will hold good things.  I know I’ve had a lot of joyous moments in 2019.  I know the progression of time is natural.  I know ending the year numerically/measurably separates me from pretty terrible experiences from 2019.

This year feels like finishing a chapter of a Stephen King novel; the horror is over, but the adrenaline from terrors pulsates through one’s veins and makes him aware that the books is not finished and that more trepidation awaits.  With apprehension, the reader begins the next chapter. 

I know I’m not living-out a horror novel, however, Jesus literally promised “In this world you will have trouble” (John 16:33).  I know that, and that’s easy [for me] to believe.  He also declared, “I have come so that they may have life and have it in abundance” (John 10:10) and compared, “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him” (Matthew 7:11). Somehow, those two facts are a bit harder for me to believe. 

These truths I know, but I battle each day to believe them.  I echo a millennia-old cry: “I believe!  Help my unbelief” (Mark 9:24).

I exhale, imagining the year altogether.  An overwhelming year amplified by increased stressors from the past few weeks.  I’m tired of fighting.  I reminisce on the past year in color: grays, blues, and splatters of red.

Gray.  The color of endings—colors fade into a vortex of grays.  From dust we came and to dust we return (Genesis 3:10).  It’s the color of loss, of hopelessness, of abandonment, of absence.  A sky convulsing with beating rains.

Blue.  The color of sadness—shades of somberness in waves of emotion.  As deep as the ocean, as expansive as the sky. 

Red.  The color of passion—drops from the hands, the feet, and the head of Christ.  It indicates hurt.  Likewise, it’s the color of life, of love, of anger, of danger, and of longing. 

Apprehension gnawing at my soul and shivering in my hands, I petition myself again: Am I going to believe what I know to be true? 

I know James was earnest when writing “the testing of your faith produces endurance,” (James 1:4).  I know that God works all things together for good (Romans 8:28).  I know that it is God who works within me (Philippians 2:13).

But oh, how hard it is for me to believe that my pain will not be wasted.  How easy it is for me to believe that all of this is for nothing.  That my pain is meaningless, that my words are meaningless, that I am a failure because I do not always believe the truth that I know, and that my pain will be wasted because it’s not easy for me to believe in goodness.  

It’s hard to see the world around you when you’re filtered through gray, blue, and red.  I am of little faith.  I cling to the truths I know—I see God’s mercy, provision, and grace all around me—even while I shudder at thoughts of the future. 

Yes, I’m happy to leave 2019.  But 2020 will be the first year of my life without Patrick, and that’s never something I wanted to write.  I will no longer live in the year of his death.  The closer we get to the date, the more apprehensive I become.

It’s not that I don’t trust God with the future.  I do.  It’s simply hard to look forward to an unknown that currently holds little tangible hope–yet, my hope is in Christ and I know that my hope will not be put to shame (Romans 5:5). 

Hebrews 11, a chapter exemplifying people of great faith, begins with “Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not yet seen,” Hebrews 11:1.  I have faith that God will bring good things from the dark year I’ve endured, but I also know the reality of their lives: “These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth” (verse 13).

“Remember the promises of God,” many tell me.  I remember them, I acknowledge them, and I cling to them, but I know that I might not live to see his promises fulfilled.

I—we, my friends—may never witness one drop of goodness to come from the tragedies in our lives, but we will experience God’s faithfulness.  While not tangibly measurable, if we surrender ourselves to Christ, we are guaranteed to see some promises fulfilled. We will experience sanctification.  We will experience knowledge and growth.  My broken perspective doesn’t make God’s workmanship any less true.

We might not see the goodness amidst the darkness of today, but we can see God’s faithfulness.  We can see God’s mercy, and we can trust God even when we cannot seem to believe. 

Yay! Now, Let’s Be Sad!

“I am attracted to the dramatic side of life, even if it is dark and painful,” Aunt Beth, laughing, reads a question from an Enneagram personality quiz. 

“No!  Who would ever mark that one??” She and a few others laugh while my eyebrows furrow and my lips instinctively respond, “Well I would.  Sorrow is so beautiful.”

— — —

I was reminded of this conversation, which took place in November of 2018, twice this week. Once from my Mom,* and then again yesterday when some coworkers and I began discussing Pixar’s Inside Out.

“Hope, which character would you be?”  To those who know me well, it’s no secret that I’m predisposed to melancholy; however, I am paradoxically an encouraging and upbeat person the majority of the time.

“Oh,” a smile dashes across my face, “I’m definitely Sadness.” 

“You?  Sadness? Why?” His cross expression detailed his surprise at my quick and seemingly unfit answer.

“Because I appreciate sorrow—that’s why I like Inside Out so much.  Yes, everyone wants to be happy.  Happiness is great, but it is sorrow that teaches us when something is wrong.  Sorrow demands a response—it makes us pause and question and reevaluate our priorities.  In a sense, sadness is the foundation of happiness.” **

— — —

We live in a society of avoiders: sorrow, pain, fear, loneliness, empty-time, noiselessness, and the like are wildly neglected emotions. Of course, no one likes these feelings, but everyone certainly experiences them. So what do we do? We’re taught to ignore our sorrow—do something that will lift your spirit. We numb the pain with alcohol and addictions. We counter loneliness with a busy schedule, fearing that we—God forbid—think and work through our issues during our spare time. For, in that spare time, we cannot avoid our feelings forever. But, when we finally have a free moment, we disassociate with music to drown out our thoughts. One nation, united in our separateness and enslaved to whatever we think takes our pain away.

Like Joy and Fear and Anger and Disgust do all that they can to keep Sadness from tainting Riley’s memories, we too do everything we can to avoid Sadness.  But what do we learn at the end of the Pixar film?  Ah yes, that we need Sadness.

Sorrow is beautiful.  She indicates our humanity.  She notifies us that a problem has entered into our lives.  She tells us that life has been better and reminds us that it should be better.  If we respect and respond to sorrow in an appropriate manner, she teaches us to hope again.

Sorrow appears with disappointment—no, we didn’t think it’d be like this.  We’re disappointed in what we’ve lost.  We set out with expectations, knowing what happiness feels like, and we were crushed by an event or a person who severed those expectations.  We lost our expectations and we lost our hopes and we lost our dreams.  Sorrow tells us that something is missing, but we cannot treat sorrow with the dignity she deserves if we simply choose to avoid her.

We have to stop teaching people that it’s bad to experience sorrow.  No one simply “gets over” disappointments.  When we teach people that they aught not be sorrowful, we’re teaching them that they need a quick solution to a deep emotional wound. 

You didn’t get over it.  You still remember the pain.  You may have healed with time and dedication, but you will not forget the sorrow you experienced along the way.

Sorrow profoundly reveals the depths of our love for one another.  When you lose someone you love—whether through death, separation, or heartbreak—you experience the fullness of love.  You experience all the intricacies of love, and it is very painful, but it teaches you to love.  It teaches you of what you have loved and it reveals to you the incredible capacity you have to love. 

My dear friend, do not squander your sorrow simply because you don’t want to feel the sadness anymore.   Can you not see the beauty of your own heart?  Can you not see that your ability to love grows yet greater?  Can you not see how beautiful that is?  How beautiful you are?

Brokenness is not a place to stay, and sorrow is not an emotion that we should become addicted to.  Like any healthy relationship, we must guard against codependency.  We cannot be over dependent on any emotion, but, rather, we must allow interdependency.  Each emotion deserves its autonomy—do not allow yourself to become trapped in an unhealthy sorrow, and yet do not refuse to feel only happiness. 

Sadness will come.  Welcome her and nurture her.  Sadness isn’t there to hurt you.  She’s appeared to help you heal, and you must heal. 

Open your eyes to the sorrow of your heart and seek God to pursue healing.  Diligently process your sorrow to understand it.  Sorrow can be scary but understanding helps to calm our fears. 

It’s okay to be sad.  It’s okay to feel all the emotions other than happiness.  We call them “negative emotions,” but, realistically, they are the emotions that teach us how to live in abundance.

— — —

Above all, love each other deeply, for love covers over a multitude of sins

I Peter 4:8

God’s love.

God loves us.

We broken people.

Lord, teach me to love like you.

I cause God sorrow again and again and again. I am toxic to him. I fail him again and again, and yet He chooses to love me.

He chose to send his Son to cover us with his love.

Listen, friend, it’s painful when someone we care about ignores or abandons or hurts us, but may we not grow cynical. May we remember to love them and may we continue to love after we’ve lost them.

May we not forget those times when we ignore God and when we fail those around us. May we always remember to love one another, for, in love, we heal and we grow from the sorrows endured.

*With Mom, the conversation went:
“Mom, I’m just sad today and I hate it,” and Mom responded “I thought you loved sorrow.”
“No, I don’t love it. I just appreciate it. It’s just so profound. Okay, you’re right. Maybe I do love it”

**Today that coworker asked me if I was “feeling better.”  Confused, I asked whether he thought I was sick, and he clarified that he was wondering if I was still sad.  His words inspired me with a soft smile and meager laugh, “Oh, I’m not sad all the time.  I just appreciate sorrow.”

For Further Reading:

Ecclesiastes 7:3

Matthew 5:1-3

John 14:1

Isaiah 53:4-6

Ephesians 4:32

Colossians 3:13

Pain’s Assault

Just when I think I’m going to be okay, the Pain materializes, reeling me backwards.  He grips me by the waist and drags me back, viciously ripping through the cavern between my lungs.   I attempt to remain calm, strong, and steady, but the horror engulfs my helpless body, robbing my mind of the ability to fight;  so I let Pain do what he must until I’m numb and lifeless.  Sometimes there are tears, more often it’s a silent defeat.  The ambush renders me vulnerable and knocked down: my fears and my weakness keep me pinned to the floor.  He hijacks me of all breath, and I halt:  If I process enough now, maybe he won’t attack me for a little while longer.  If I stay here long enough, maybe I’ll learn how to get up again.  With new crevices carved into the cavern between my lungs, I’m weak, I’m alone, and it it’s dark.  Oh so very dark.

I’m weary.  My eyes year to rest and the gloom tempts me to surrender.  Alone, this Pain attacked me.  Pain contends to conquer as tears swallow my widening pupils, and, for a moment, he does win.

He comes haphazardly, begging for me to release him—Pain reminds me to feel.  He reminds me to heal.  He reminds me to rest.  He humiliates me.

When I’m hapless in his grasp and I think that all is lost, Pain flees.  My pupils dilate to a soothing light—the Father.  As suddenly as Pain assaulted, Christ enters, picking me up and tenderly drawing me into him.  He pierces through my shame, in my sorrow, and amidst my pain and becomes my strength.  While I am oh so weak, he carries my burden in exchange for his own.  He liberates me from my despair, calming all my fears, and restores me in his presence and with his community.  He reminds me of his faithfulness amidst a world prone to abandonment.

While I lie bruised and bleeding, he cleanses me of the wounds and addresses each trauma as it arises, assault after assault, revealing the the stripes he paid for my ransom.

I crumble before him, grateful, humble, and in awe of this loving Father.  He dresses my wounds and sends me back to my safe community—his church, his nurses—who see my lacerations and come along my side to help me heal.

No, they weren’t assaulted by Pain this time, but their pasts preserve the stories of their own scars.  This time, they’re stronger and they’re waiting to help change my wounds.  They don’t have my PTSD, they don’t live with my the memories, and they don’t know my horrors, but they see the manifestations of my fresh injuies.

With God guiding us all, they come along my side and teach me how to walk again.  I’m nimble and uncoordinated, requiring tenderness and patience.  I’m more sensitive than before.  I’m afraid, but I don’t want to be paralyzed forever, so I continue learning to walk by pressing into God and into his church.

I’m a survivor.  I survived the initial assault.  I live in the aftershock.  The horror has ceased, but its affects linger on.

— — —

I am healing—slowly, messily, gracefully, and dutifully—healing.

The days fluctuate: some are easier than others, some I cannot seem to concentrate and conceal the tears.  Others follow the pattern detailed above; sometimes the emotions surprise me and I feel like I should be “over it” by now, holding myself to a nearly impossible standard that, in turn, prompts me to feel failure, inadequacy, and guilt.  Grief is love that has lost its object of affection, and one cannot simply terminate one’s love, even if that love has been stripped from him or her.

So, I take “one step forward, and five steps behind,” and my healing progresses.

In the first three months after Patrick died, absolutely nothing made sense anymore.  All of my hopes and dreams and understandings collapsed within those months, and I was terribly afraid to live and to breathe and to know and to be known by others.  I was angry with God and angry with myself.  Disillusioned and then disappointed, I thwarted any intrusive thoughts of hope and of goodness.  Life couldn’t be good, I thought.  But, realistically, I was [am?] afraid to hope that life could be good again.  My hopes had been so violently stolen from me that I dreaded the thought of hoping again.  How can one continue to hope when someone else continuously takes everything she’s hoped for?  No, I won’t reduce myself to hoping again, I bitterly resolved.

Hope is a terrifying thing.  While alive, she helps us receive joy and cherish moments of mundanity, but if she perishes, we’re left behind with the trauma and disappointment of “hope deferred” (Proverbs 13:12).

 Nothing made sense anymore, and I did not want to make sense of anything my family and I were left behind with.  I harbored so much pain that I became too terrified to face it alone.  Most people I live near hardly knew Patrick—I cannot emphasize how isolated that can make one feel—and yet those nearest to me continue to graciously love, support, and encourage me despite my inability to pour myself out at this time.  God’s kindness and mercy broke through my “shelter” of self-preservation and He’s teaching me how to breathe in this new rhythm of life.

Perhaps we search for depth in others because it helps us process the depth of ourselves; we need one another and speaking helps more than I can explain.  At first, I was so afraid to voice my pain.  I was afraid that those around me would not be able to “handle” the truth of where my heart resides and would invalidate my feelings and my questionings, but, nonetheless, those in my life persisted to investigate my heart despite my protests.  God has opened my eyes and continuously opens them to see his mercy, and my dear friends continuously pursue me to show me how much they care about me. 

In this season, I don’t have much to give.  I’m overflowing with questions and slowly coming to a new understanding of life itself.  I am inquisitive and I am learning. 

I have to remind myself that the worst has already passed, and now I can enjoy a season of disciplined healing: one cannot heal if he or she lacks the willingness to do so.  Every day is new, every moment is precious. I see and feel new growth and new life all around me as I rest in God and I pursue healing in the shelter of his love.  God has been so kind to remove my fears and to reveal new truths to me. 

I am hurting, and this will always hurt, but I am happy and I am abiding in peace. 

To The Sufferer:

We do many things when we operate out of fear instead of love: we kick and we scream, we beg and we plead, we ache and we cry, and we break and we bleed, until we shatter into tiny pieces and crumble gently to the cold and unforgiving floor.

“This is tragedy,” we internalize as we attempt to grasp our broken pieces scattered about us. We trace the ceiling with our eyes as the chill from the floor sends ice down our backs.

But how can we feel that which is no longer connected to us? In shambles, we attempt to hold ourselves together. In truth, we’ve already fallen quite apart entirely.

No, our dust cannot be pieced back together.

— — —

On of my favorite quotes looms in Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, awaiting an eager reader’s interpretation.

“I could tell you my adventures–beginning from this morning,” said Alice a little timidly: “But it’s no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then”

Too often “yesterday” prompts me to silently fear the plights of tomorrow and disregard the joys of today. It’s astounding how much a single day can alter one’s perception for the remainder of his or her life.

May 11, 2019: 3 Days before Patrick’s Funeral

Broken is a scary place to be–it’s vulnerable and alone, exposing and frightening–but, perhaps it’s the safest place to be. In David Platt’s Radical, Platt ponders: “What if the center of God’s will is in reality the most unsafe place for us to be?” Platt proposes that following God often leads us into perilous and/or painful circumstances that strengthen our faith and build the kingdom of God beyond the pain that we can see.

In Faith in the Fog, Jeff Lucas’s exploration of the interaction between Christ and Peter when Christ inquires, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” Lucas describes the dangerous draw to complacent avoidance:

Sometimes I’m lured by the thought of a safe, predictable, even dull existence. I don’t want a purpose-driven life. I don’t want purpose, and I certainly don’t want driven–I just want life.

Longing for consistency, we can foolishly allow fear to ransack our thoughts and carry us to places we know we shouldn’t go and prompt us to do things we regret–we’ll run from the goodness we fear into the clutches of a deceptive “safe place,” where we find comfort in the familiar. Unfortunately, familiarity does not equate to safety.

Tranquility is monotony’s gift. It’s the security one feels in the comfortability of a changeless season, but it can be precariously complacent. Succumbing to temptation to live a life dedicated to ease causes us to miss the opportunity to indulge with those who suffer and to build one another up from places of deep depravity and heartache.

Believe me, I crave “normal,” “easy,” and “safe,” now more than ever, but surrendering to “I don’t care” and embracing a simple life dedicated to fear steals any opportunity to glorify God with my gift of suffering.

Numbing one’s pain never helps–instead numbness creates a welcoming environment for sin to manifest through disbelief. When we choose to numb ourselves to the desires of God–desires for life and abundance and suffering–we reject the of goodness in His plan.

I don’t want to care anymore–life is easier when we don’t care about what’s happening around us, right?? That’s the illusion of denial. Denial deceives us into believing that all is well when the world is on fire, and, in the end, we burn along with the rest of the world because we weren’t discerning enough to escape the flames.

— — —

When I dreamed of the future, I never imagined that my brother would not be in it.

That day and the following two months changed [and continue to change] me more than I was willing to admit to myself and to others; I fear my emotional response to his death, I fear my past, and I fear healing from the events that mar me. Healing seems like letting go of someone who was supposed to be with me forever.

I’ve been reduced to dust, as Lysa TerKeurst defines these kinds of seasons in her book, It’s Not Supposed to Be This Way. Dust moments–they’re the moments that forever change your existence and shatter who you once were. I liked what my life was like back then. I liked how my family looked back then. I liked who I was back then. But, like Alice, I am not who I was yesterday, my circumstances today are not like they were, and I will never return to the woman that I was at that time.

-- -- --

Do I love God more than I love what I had hoped for Patrick?

I spent months in fear of that question–I spent months in fear of how his death will affect my perception of life itself. Months.

This time, I was broken beyond repair. My family was broken beyond repair. It feels like I died on that day, but I kept living. I kept breathing. I kept moving. But I was reduced to dust, and life mollified me.

I have so much to fear, but I also have so much to live.

I have changed. I’ve changed so much since May 7, 2019. My entire outlook on life and death is dramatically different than what it once was, and I am so incredibly thankful for that.

— — —

A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

Proverbs 17:17

My sweet friend, Jocelyn, came to visit me this past weekend. Jocelyn’s been an endearing blessing for my entire life–she’s safe, she’s welcoming, and she’s encouraging. She loves Jesus and she loves me and my family, and she came along my side and gladly stayed in the messy room I’ve neglected since May. She told me it’s okay, and she told me I was strong. She went on a crazy adventure with me and smiled and laughed the whole time.

Virginia Beach, August 2019

Jocelyn helped me get back on my feet–it’s truly amazing how life-giving a lifelong friend can be. It’s so sweet how Jesus uses those around us to build us up.

— — —

Yes, I have changed, and yes, I have broken entirely. I have been reduced to unrecognizable dust. God brings life from the dust, and He’s given me another chance at life. He rejuvenated my perspective and has lifted my spirit. I am not who I was, and I am okay with that. I am healing, I am being made new, and I am living.

— — —

When love compels us, any fear we have becomes worth the risk. Love emboldens and strengthens. Love is what picks us up from the floor:

For the love of Christ controls us, because we have concluded this: that one has died for all, therefore all have died; and he died for all, that those who live might no longer live for themselves but for him who for their sake died and was raised.

II Corinthians 5:14-15

It’s the warmth of a loving Father, welcoming his cold and tired prodigal home with open arms. Our refuge and our rock–our God and our redeemer. He takes the dust that we are and renews us entirely.

Okay?

April 21, 2019

“You never give up on me”, the amazement flowed from the tears in Patrick’s eyes.

But, I thought, the truth is that I gave up on you years ago.

Yet I’m still here.

Maybe I tricked myself into believing that I gave up on you. Maybe it’s because I was well acquainted with the pain you cause[d], but I’m thankful that you realized I hadn’t given up on you even when I thought I had.

No, I never gave up on you. I believed in every single breath you gave.

— — —

I spent the last two months two months pretending that the most horrific events of my past did not happen. I went on eight different trips and visited 13 different cities; it’s funny how you can trick your mind into believing false narratives simply because you long for something greater. I want to believe that earnestness exists, that redemption persists, and that goodness triumphs.

But I don’t.

Or, at least, I didn’t.

Eight trips filled with laughter and memories, yet the plane rides or car drives confronted me with the realities I so desperately wished to ignore. On the plane and in the car–that’s where I fell apart.

You can only smile for so long before tears force their way out, leaving you exposed to an onlooking world. And on airplanes?? Lord bless those sitting next to me… they didn’t ask for this mess. Though, neither did I.

Thoughts on my final plane ride brutally scorned me: “If I love God, how could I _____?” “If you love someone, why do you purposefully act malignant?” “If I had done _____ would he still be here?”

One’s mind and heart quickly betray him in times of immense tragedy, rendering him confused and pained. Mine convinced me to ignore reality again and again and again, until reality assaulted my mind into submission. You cannot outrun the truth, no matter how bleak it is.

— — —

It’s was Tuesday night, three months and one day since we found out about my Patrick’s demise.

I’m in church and it’s dark. Unable to hold anything back, I release emotions I do not deserve to have–no one should endure circumstances like this.

My roommate Lauren reaches over:

“I’m proud of you, Hope. You’re finally grieving.”

Aaaaand I’ve cried everyday since. Moments so full of anguish that I stop breathing and have to literally remind myself how to function. WELCOME TO GRIEF, HOPE. It’s about time…

— — —

April 24, 2019

“I feel like we are a team specifically you and me to beat this. It means alot,” Patrick texts me.

“That’s right we are. You are going to beat this. Absolutely.”

“Every time I see you, you say we got this and i actually believe it for once”

I believed it too, Patrick. I believed it too. I still cannot believe that you are gone.

— — —

When you lose someone you love, it is as though all light has departed. Reality dims. Hope fades. Confusion suffocates.

Recklessness ensues when you stop believing in redemption: Satan tempts you to believe that actions are meaningless. You grew weary in doing good works. Look where they got you? I questioned as the tears soaked my sweatshirt.

The truth is, there are some things we will never let go of; we must live through the emptiness and press on because of Christ’s mercy. Sometimes the most disheartening circumstances are the manifolds of God’s mercy. While it’s laborious to perceive, there is much glory in earth’s eternal despondency.

I tried to stop hoping. I attempted to “give up” on those that I love dearly as a coping mechanism, but I cannot.

Even after the tragedies I’ve witnessed first-hand–no matter how “safe” disassociation and pessimism may make me feel–I cannot stop believing in redemption.

I don’t recognize much “light” these days. Engulfed in darkness, wrestling through disappointment and heartache: nonetheless, I still believe in redemption.

I see hurting people all around me, the heartbroken who respond by attempting to break themselves and to break those around them, but somehow I still believe in redemption. Side note: Please, seek help and guidance when you need it, friends. No one is past redemption’s threshold–if he would only focus on what he knows to be true. Not all is lost.

In The Fellowship of the Rings, Tolkien exemplifies the relationship between hope and heartache: “The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”

I cannot see the goodness in this situation, and I feel far more broken than I can express, but I trust and I hope in what I know is True.