Confession #5...Hold my hair, then tell me that verse
I seriously think I have some sort of strange addiction to coming up with odd and creepy titles for each blog post. Like I could be on that weird show where people lick cats or eat paper...that would be awesome. "Stay tuned! Up next...late-night mom who sits for hours naming and renaming her blog posts." Oddly enough, I am once again struck by my need for therapy. Ok...guess that's not an "oddly enough" moment.
Today's confession has been a long time coming, but I've been thinking a great deal whether to share this one or not...primarily because of the high potential for misunderstandings and hurt feelings. Yet in talking with other people who've suffered through great trials, I've heard this countless times. Therefore, since the crux of the matter in sharing these confessions is so that we may all minister in a much more effective way to those who are deeply grieving, I wanted to include this for your reading "pleasure." Just to be clear, I think growing up in a pastor's home with the church nursery as my NICU, softened the blow in this area for me...others may struggle to an even greater degree having a different family background...but this was still pretty difficult for this PK-PW Christ-follower.
Confession #5: Quoting Scripture or serving up glossy platitudes about the sovereignty, faithfulness, and goodness of God to the grieving heart is usually not the best FIRST step. It makes us feel guilty for not being able to suck it up...like God is not pleased with those who grieve under the umbrella of His sovereignty...as if a good kick in the pants or slap on the back is all we need to kick back into gear.
Please understand that I hold these truths and promises as foundational to my every waking breath. Losing Zoe would have no redemptive value or hope if I didn't...nor would anything I've based my life upon...what would be the point of living a life dedicated to following and serving Christ when I cannot, in fact, live that life when something goes wrong? So...on this issue, I think we're cool.
However, when someone comes up to me and says, "God's got a good reason for Zoe's death" or "This really is happening for your good, ya know!"...well, then we have a crossroads. Solid ground has turned to quick sand.
"It's so awesome to see what God's doing with your tragedy!" You wanna know what would've been awesome?!? Zoe not dying. There I said it. It's what every grieving parent (or insert your sorrow-filled blank here) is thinking but is too ashamed to say. I'm sure their intention was not to add guilt to my grief, but that's what just happened.
Like I said, I know these things to be true...and truthfully, I'm banking on the faithfulness of the Father to put the nail in that "His glory/my good" coffin one day...but, right now, it stings so deeply that you wonder if the offending party could possibly even feel the physical backlash.
Then there's my favorite [insert dripping sarcasm]..."God doesn't give you more than you can handle so He must have a lot a faith in you to give you this trial!" Scripture totally taken out of context and even twisted to fit some sort of warped Hallmark moment. While the temptation for bitterness and anger might fit into that slot, the circumstance itself was never implied. As a matter of fact, I think we are given FAR more than we can handle to drive us to our knees faster. And where, oh where, are we told that God has faith in US?!? Different version, maybe? Nah. (Phil Robertson's best line besides "Happy happy happy!")
Now I want to quickly add that I'm confident that the people that come strolling over to encourage you in your time of grief are truly trying to do just that...genuinely encourage. But what I'm submitting to you tonight is that, once again, this is an ugly process that might not be able to get wrapped up in a pretty "There's a reason for everything" bow just yet.
It's like putting lipstick on a pig. (Shout out to the pops for that little nugget!) But why do we grin at that? Because it's still a PIG...a smelly, wallow-in-the-mud, eating-every-piece-of-garbage-in-sight pig. (Of course now I've offended every person still chin-deep in the grieving process but hopefully they'll appreciate that I'm trying to throw them a bone here...or a scrap...whatever.)
When did the church become the place where grief doesn't hurt, and pain doesn't take time to heal? Jesus wept over the loss of His friend even knowing he would soon revive him. Death is an ugly creature...it has no ultimate sting for the believer but, trust me, it stings here on earth.
We need to be people who hug it out with the hurting more than toughen 'em up. When I feel more compassion in my grief from a doctor that couldn't fix my daughter's illness than from a group of people who know the Ultimate Physician, something's off.
So friends, let's circle the wagons, shall we? Back to my strange compulsion for titles...betcha thought I forgot...no such luck.
As I began to organize my thoughts about how to best illustrate this point, I decided to comb my brain for the times in my life when I felt the most cared for...when someone served my needs with no benefit to themselves...because after all, that's really what the grieving person truly needs. And guess what I came up with?!?
Puke.
Sorry Mom...but it's true. Puke.
I remember when I was little and would be throwing up in the bathroom...with my head leaned over as I clutched the sides of the toilet, my mom or dad would come in and hold my hair so it wouldn't get messy. It was so horrifying for me to be puking...hated it worse than anything...and then I'd be crying as I tried to keep my long locks free from projectile vomit. There was something so comforting about them pulling my hair back and holding it for me until I was done. I'll never forget the first time my sweet hubby did the same.
They couldn't take my pain away. There was nothing they could do to make it go quicker or lessen the impact. There were no words that made me feel less sick. But the comfort of their presence and the touch of their compassionate hand...even if they got dirty in the process...meant the world to me. Still does. That's what I remember...that's what made a lasting impact.
Hopefully, it's obvious where I'm going with this. There are, without a doubt, times when people need to hear the truth of God's Word to uplift and encourage them to continue to fight the good fight and continue to run the race.
But there are other times when we just need to go hold their hair while they puke their guts out. This is being Jesus to the broken...where they will feel uplifted and not condemned, loved and not rebuked.
I stink at this whole puke thing, but I really do wish you'd hold my hair...so that I can hold yours someday. Underneath it all, I'm confident that God is using all this for His glory and our ultimate good. Let's do this thing.
Today's confession has been a long time coming, but I've been thinking a great deal whether to share this one or not...primarily because of the high potential for misunderstandings and hurt feelings. Yet in talking with other people who've suffered through great trials, I've heard this countless times. Therefore, since the crux of the matter in sharing these confessions is so that we may all minister in a much more effective way to those who are deeply grieving, I wanted to include this for your reading "pleasure." Just to be clear, I think growing up in a pastor's home with the church nursery as my NICU, softened the blow in this area for me...others may struggle to an even greater degree having a different family background...but this was still pretty difficult for this PK-PW Christ-follower.
Confession #5: Quoting Scripture or serving up glossy platitudes about the sovereignty, faithfulness, and goodness of God to the grieving heart is usually not the best FIRST step. It makes us feel guilty for not being able to suck it up...like God is not pleased with those who grieve under the umbrella of His sovereignty...as if a good kick in the pants or slap on the back is all we need to kick back into gear.
Please understand that I hold these truths and promises as foundational to my every waking breath. Losing Zoe would have no redemptive value or hope if I didn't...nor would anything I've based my life upon...what would be the point of living a life dedicated to following and serving Christ when I cannot, in fact, live that life when something goes wrong? So...on this issue, I think we're cool.
However, when someone comes up to me and says, "God's got a good reason for Zoe's death" or "This really is happening for your good, ya know!"...well, then we have a crossroads. Solid ground has turned to quick sand.
"It's so awesome to see what God's doing with your tragedy!" You wanna know what would've been awesome?!? Zoe not dying. There I said it. It's what every grieving parent (or insert your sorrow-filled blank here) is thinking but is too ashamed to say. I'm sure their intention was not to add guilt to my grief, but that's what just happened.
Like I said, I know these things to be true...and truthfully, I'm banking on the faithfulness of the Father to put the nail in that "His glory/my good" coffin one day...but, right now, it stings so deeply that you wonder if the offending party could possibly even feel the physical backlash.
Then there's my favorite [insert dripping sarcasm]..."God doesn't give you more than you can handle so He must have a lot a faith in you to give you this trial!" Scripture totally taken out of context and even twisted to fit some sort of warped Hallmark moment. While the temptation for bitterness and anger might fit into that slot, the circumstance itself was never implied. As a matter of fact, I think we are given FAR more than we can handle to drive us to our knees faster. And where, oh where, are we told that God has faith in US?!? Different version, maybe? Nah. (Phil Robertson's best line besides "Happy happy happy!")
Now I want to quickly add that I'm confident that the people that come strolling over to encourage you in your time of grief are truly trying to do just that...genuinely encourage. But what I'm submitting to you tonight is that, once again, this is an ugly process that might not be able to get wrapped up in a pretty "There's a reason for everything" bow just yet.
It's like putting lipstick on a pig. (Shout out to the pops for that little nugget!) But why do we grin at that? Because it's still a PIG...a smelly, wallow-in-the-mud, eating-every-piece-of-garbage-in-sight pig. (Of course now I've offended every person still chin-deep in the grieving process but hopefully they'll appreciate that I'm trying to throw them a bone here...or a scrap...whatever.)
When did the church become the place where grief doesn't hurt, and pain doesn't take time to heal? Jesus wept over the loss of His friend even knowing he would soon revive him. Death is an ugly creature...it has no ultimate sting for the believer but, trust me, it stings here on earth.
We need to be people who hug it out with the hurting more than toughen 'em up. When I feel more compassion in my grief from a doctor that couldn't fix my daughter's illness than from a group of people who know the Ultimate Physician, something's off.
So friends, let's circle the wagons, shall we? Back to my strange compulsion for titles...betcha thought I forgot...no such luck.
As I began to organize my thoughts about how to best illustrate this point, I decided to comb my brain for the times in my life when I felt the most cared for...when someone served my needs with no benefit to themselves...because after all, that's really what the grieving person truly needs. And guess what I came up with?!?
Puke.
Sorry Mom...but it's true. Puke.
I remember when I was little and would be throwing up in the bathroom...with my head leaned over as I clutched the sides of the toilet, my mom or dad would come in and hold my hair so it wouldn't get messy. It was so horrifying for me to be puking...hated it worse than anything...and then I'd be crying as I tried to keep my long locks free from projectile vomit. There was something so comforting about them pulling my hair back and holding it for me until I was done. I'll never forget the first time my sweet hubby did the same.
They couldn't take my pain away. There was nothing they could do to make it go quicker or lessen the impact. There were no words that made me feel less sick. But the comfort of their presence and the touch of their compassionate hand...even if they got dirty in the process...meant the world to me. Still does. That's what I remember...that's what made a lasting impact.
Hopefully, it's obvious where I'm going with this. There are, without a doubt, times when people need to hear the truth of God's Word to uplift and encourage them to continue to fight the good fight and continue to run the race.
But there are other times when we just need to go hold their hair while they puke their guts out. This is being Jesus to the broken...where they will feel uplifted and not condemned, loved and not rebuked.
I stink at this whole puke thing, but I really do wish you'd hold my hair...so that I can hold yours someday. Underneath it all, I'm confident that God is using all this for His glory and our ultimate good. Let's do this thing.
