The dirty work of feeling
I recently finished reading Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies. A provocative and authentic account of one woman's relationship with God. Often after spending several hours reading, I would put the book down feeling as though I had just spent the afternoon with a dear kindred friend. I found deeply satisfying validation, healing, and encouragement in those pages and in the truth I found therein.
There are many stories and thoughts that I pondered; here I will share one of them.
Lamott writes of a woman in her church:
"She was always cheerful--until she turned eighty and started going blind. She had a great deal of religious faith and everyone assumed that she would adjust and find meaning in her loss--meaning and then acceptance and then joy--and we all wanted this because, let's face it, it's so inspiring and such a relief when people find a way to bear the unbearable, when you can organize things in such a way that a tiny miracle appears to have taken place and that love once again turned out to be bigger than fear and death and blindness. But this woman would have none of it...she went into a deep depression and left the church. The elders took communion to her...but she wouldn't be part of our community anymore. It must have been too annoying for everyone to be trying to manipulate her into being a better sport than she was capable of being. I always thought that it was heroic of her, that it spoke of such integrity to refuse to pretend that you're doing well just to help other people deal with the fact that sometimes we face impossible loss."
When I read this story, I felt such a sense of pride and admiration for Lamott's attitude toward this elder woman. Both in my professional work as a therapist and in my personal observations of the people in my life, I am continually struck by how often we downplay our soul's pain--whether acute or chronic. Many times friends will share with me about a difficult or sad situation in their lives and when I offer an empathic response, all too often their reply is, "Oh it's okay," or, "I just need to move on," or, "I'll be fine," or, "Yeah its hard but there is all this other good stuff so I really shouldn't be upset..." Sometimes in my efforts to encourage authentic feeling of one's true feeling I think I sound like some champion of misery yelling at my hurting friends, "No, you're not okay! You just spent the last hour telling me how not okay you are so don't pretend you are!" Yeah, because that is a totally comforting response!
I wonder what has made us so uncomfortable with pain, with sorrow, with grief, with anguish, with emptiness, with silence, with not having answers, with despair? I think this is especially a problem within the Christian church. Somehow we have decided that it is somehow ungodly to suffer--or at least show others we are suffering. But I wonder where we got this idea?
When I look through scripture I see a God who, "was despised and rejected of men...and acquainted with grief," (Isaiah 53:3) and who pleads, "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death...if it is possible take this cup from me..." (Matthew 26-:38-39), and who feels things so keenly: "being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground," (Luke 22:44).
So if this is the example we have for how to approach our personal grief and suffering, I wonder why we work so hard to tidy things up, to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps and trick ourselves into not actually feeling?
Now, please do not misunderstand me. I am not at all discounting the power of hope for Hope herself is the very reason I am able to get up and face each new day. But Hope does not teach us to deny the reality of sorrow either. Hope challenges us not to camp out in our grief to the point of wallowing and setting up permanent shelter there. But Hope also sits beside us on our mourning bench quietly joining with us in our pain unafraid of how dirty, or messy or uncomfortable our grief may be. As surely as Hope abides with us through the long dark night of our suffering, she is at the ready to lead us into the shimmering light of dawn, yet, never does she lead us on with haste or exasperation. And in the end, while we may still know the pain of our sorrows, Hope--with grace and compassion--has removed the sting so we won't always hurt.
If you need it today, I give you permission to feel your grief and sorrow and anguish. For you were fashioned by and you are loved by One who is acquainted with grief and who understands with the utmost empathy the pain you endure. And in the midst of your ache, may Hope tend your wounds with gentleness and infinite patience.