pain

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

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. 

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.

Discomposing

2019 came with vicissitudes for every aspect of my life, from a new apartment to a new job to a new haircut to a new community, and it’s been wonderful. I’m incredibly thankful for where I am, however, a pessimistic demeanor copiously subverts everything around me.

Discomposing: the days swarm past me as life becomes a conundrum. I am weary from the weight of life’s general plights, heightened through unanticipated catastrophes that stifle me as I attempt to keep going. I’ve woken up every day this week pleading: “just get up. Just make it into work. You can make it another day,” and by 10 o’clock I’m convincing myself: “just make it to lunch. If you make it to lunch, you can make it through the rest of today.”

You can make it through.

We weren’t meant to “just make it through.”  Christ said, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly” (John 10:10).

Lately, it’s been “one thing after another,” mounting each day and piercing each night.  I should be sleeping right now.  I should be.  I wonder if life will always be like this?  After all, it has been for so long. 

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” I know.  But it is like this. “What did I do to deserve this?” I ponder restlessly.

Where is the abundance of life?  Nothing lasts forever, I know that, but this season feels unending and I am growing wearier and wearier.  Yet He is strong, and He is strong when my strength dissipates.

Everything aches.  My mind, my back, my heart. 

Father, please restore to me the joy of my salvation (Psalm 51:12).  I believe, help my unbelief (Mark 9:24).