On Hope

I was thinking about suffering lately… of grief and loss and pain and brokenness and sorrow and sickness. You know me, I always fall asleep thinking of daisies and sparkles! I am not a glum person, nor like Eeyore, but I don’t find it easy to ignore or move on from suffering after I experience or witness it. So I think about it and consider what it means.

Scared and hurting.

I’ve decided that suffering is inherently bad. It represents brokenness and pain, neither of which I would expect to find in heaven. My greatest hope is that heaven is where the brokenness is mended and the sorrows overcome. God catches all of our tears… He knows and tenderly responds to our troubles. Suffering is the experience of… all the things hurt by sin.

It seems logical that we ought to try to avoid suffering. And yet, in some bizarre twist, my experience is that suffering is also… good. It’s confusing. How can something awful also be beautiful, or produce beauty? Like light is brightest when beside darkness, I wonder if beauty is more striking for it’s presence in the heart of pain? I’m not sure, but I have friends who have endured deep suffering… and they have become more accepting, more gracious, kinder, gentler, and more loving. Certainly, not everybody changes for the better with suffering, but change, we do.

While I was traveling across the country (again) to do (painful and scary) treatment with my little child who has already experienced too much suffering… and as we have gone through deep waters the last five or more years as a whole family, I have been impacted by suffering really personally. I have discovered that I highly value and appreciate people who have been through suffering as well. I and too many of my friends have had to give up control of our lives. Most of us cannot say of all our children:
“But my child is healthy, so that’s what matters.” Because many of our children aren’t healthy.
“My children are doing well in school.” Because many of our children struggle with learning.
“My child is happy/sweet/loving/kind.” Because many of our children are deeply impacted by trauma/neglect/etc.
“I anticipate my child being successful.” Because many of our children have mental health diagnoses.
“I expect my child to live a long life.” Because many children go home to Jesus before we’re ready.
“We are an involved part or leaders in the church/club/community activities.” Because many of us are impacted by challenging behaviors and partially homebound.

Not an easy day.

There is a lot lost. And in a place very different than the life I anticipated, Brian and I have decided to live. We’ve decided to thrive here. Here in the land of loss and brokenness, we’ve made our home.

I realized I am so glad for the changes suffering caused in myself as an individual that I am not sure I would change the hard parts of my own story if I could. And I have begun thinking about suffering as a positive thing. Positive! I no longer consider avoiding suffering to be a worthwhile goal. Though we flinch when we see it coming and we don’t bear it particularly well, we do wade into it with familiarity. It’s cold, aching pull on our hearts and bodies means our priorities are refined. Our Christian faith has been stripped to the bones. We survive if we can and extend a hand to others in the same flood of blood and tears when we can. And it comes and it goes. Oh, and the suffering of many of my friends is much deeper and more prolonged than anything we’ve endured… but suffering is not something that one ever compares for the sake of belittling. Suffering is measured by the one enduring, not the one observing. Be generous and gracious to all you meet.

You know something that grows really well in suffering? The fruit of the Spirit. Yeah, bitterness and trauma and hate and depression live in the valley of death too. But right there also grows kindness, gentleness, self control, patience, love, faithfulness, and even peace and joy… though my own peace and joy plants are often overrun with anxiety and depression.

You know what else thrives in suffering? Grace and mercy. The kind of grace and mercy that I must extend to myself when I have failed at everything that is or was important to me. There are specific things that I identify as being important to my belief in myself… belief that I’m successful and valuable as a human being, as a mother, as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, and community member. And the last few years of suffering has broken the majority of those expectations. Goals have been demolished to the realm of the impossible and unlikely. Those kinds of expectations that are beautiful and full of hope and fullness… expectations that can’t be taken away without a tremendous personal loss.

Some simple examples: As a wife, I haven’t been able to provide food for my family reliably. My husband has had to do a lot of food preparation.
I haven’t been able to overcome my depression and anxiety or the ways it makes me unavailable to my family in different ways at different times.
I haven’t been able to develop a deep or sincere relationship with my oldest son, I often cannot comfort him or understand him or help him.
It’s a very real concern that we may not be able to keep him home and safe as he grows up.
There is so much that I just can’t fix… and I tried to, until my own health declined seriously.

Losing control over my life and being carried along by God’s grace and the kindness of friends, neighbors, and strangers has changed me. You know how trees change shape when weather and geography shapes them? The dwarfed, weak, bony cliff-hanging trees. The trees overhanging water with their roots twisted back behind them as water cuts away at the roots that used to extend below before the water washed the soil away. The giant
lightning-struck oak trees with a cracked, craggy dead trunk towering above the still-green side branches. The leaning, arched and curved trunk of a tree growing out of a mass of undergrowth, stretching to reach some light. Beautiful trees, but broken trees. Some short-lived and some of great age and long-suffering. These are the trees I identify with now.

As night gives way to morning.. as a seed dies to give rise to growth… as labor pains give birth to life… so suffering and loss give birth to something beautiful. Acceptance. Grace.Mercy. Kindness.

There is pain. Oh, have mercy Lord, there is still pain and struggle and sorrow and the battle against bitterness in my heart is not over. But I can recognize many of the people, who, like me, have experienced or who are continuing to experience things that break them. There is something of grief laid over them and a glow of… a glow of something like love that is at the genuine heart of our souls. I am drawn to it like a hot stove on a cold winter night. I love it like a hearty stew when I haven’t eaten all day. I am refreshed by it like a big glass of fresh lemonade when the sun has made me weak with heat. It’s beautiful to me, like seeing somebody I miss until I’ve ached, standing at an open door with their arms wide open. Maybe it’s the grace and acceptance they extend toward me? Maybe it’s the way their priorities and efforts reflect the refining effect of suffering. I don’t know, but it makes for sweet encounters.

This suffering has refined my hope in Christ to something razor sharp.
My faith is where I stand fast. All that’s left is usually just a little seed. But a seed it remains.
My love is where I live, pouring out what I have… both for myself and those around me.
My hope… my hope is for when things will be made whole. I long for that. I’m depending on it, really. My hope is deferred.

And that’s how I think about suffering lately. I hate suffering. But I am glad for it. And I dread it. Oh, to live is Christ… my brother and Lord in suffering. And to die is gain. I’m looking forward to the good long hug and nap room I’m sure God has been setting up for us. And peaceful gardens. And hiking trails. And relationships mended. And hearts, minds, and bodies made whole.

That’s all. Just thinking about the kind of suffering that is unendurable. And the kinds that can be borne. And what it looks like to continue to live, what it looks like to retain hope.

Spending time at a special needs family camp… beauty abounded – both campers and staff.