Is It Supposed To Hurt This Much?

Tags

Faith, Feelings, Inspiration, Life, Truth

That was a text I got from my daughter a few hours into labour.

“Is it supposed to hurt this much?”

I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t. Because, yes. It is.

And it does.

And it will continue to.

With every challenge that comes with being a parent. Being a mother or father or husband or wife or grandparent or just being . . . living this life.

Life hurts this much. Is it supposed to? I don’t know.

I wish I could say with complete certainty that no, no it’s not supposed to, but what do I do with that when it does? What do I do when life takes an unexpected turn and everything goes off the rails and we’re suddenly facing down giants we never imagined existed? What do I do when there aren’t any answers to all my pathetic questions and all I feel is inexplicable anger and confusion and sadness and there’s no STOP button?

Is it supposed to hurt this much?

 “‘Cause you can’t jump the track,we’re like cars on a cable
And life’s like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button girl,
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe . . . ”

That soulful Anna Nalick song from years back still gets me every time.

‘Cause you can’t jump the tracks.

Cradle your head in your hands. And breathe. Just breathe.

Breathe out all the fears and all the prayers that can’t be voiced because the words won’t come. Breathe them out and hope they’re heard anyway.

As long as we still have breath, we still have life. Hope. I think this is still true. I’m trying to convince myself it is. Trying to convince myself that all this, these unforeseen challenges our family is facing, is happening for a reason. Though for the life of me I can’t make sense of it.

I wrote on my Facebook page a week or so ago that I feel like a bad Christian when life hurts too much and I just don’t get it. I feel like I’m supposed to hold my head high and slap on a smile and say something like this too shall pass, God is in control, we’ll just keep praying . . . but honest? I don’t feel the assurance I think I’m supposed to. And I get that knot in my stomach as fear rises and everything I thought I believed in is pushed beyond the limit. Faith is tested. And faltering.

Is it supposed to hurt this much? 

I’ve been in this place before, under different circumstances. And I thought that valley was bad. My lamentations then were nothing compared to this current feeling of helplessness. Desperate to fix things that you have no power over and trying to be strong because they need you to be but all you feel is small and weak most days, and nights are long and restless, filled with unpleasant thoughts and clammy, clinging fear.

And yet still I know others walk a road filled with obstacles far greater than the ones we face. Their giants loom larger and more menacing, their nightmares far more frightening. But this road, our road? It’s still hard. It’s still rough and winding and treacherous in its own way and some days feels impossible to traverse. And I guess we can own that. I guess it’s okay to want to find a detour, a short cut, a better way. But when there isn’t one?

You gotta keep going.

I learned this lesson a long time gone and now I know it’s the only way forward. One foot in front of the other. One day at a time. And if you need a hand to hold onto or another ten feet of rope because yours is frayed and that knot you tied in desperation is slowly coming unraveled?

Yell for more rope.

“And Moses, Aaron, and Hur went to the top of the hill. It turned out that whenever Moses raised his hands, Israel was winning, but whenever he lowered his hands, Amalek was winning. But Moses’ hands got tired. So they got a stone and set it under him. He sat on it and Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on each side. So his hands remained steady until the sun went down.” Exodus 17: 10-13

I love this scene, this vision of old Moses losing strength, unable to lift his hands one more time. And there come his friends alongside him, grab hold tight and lift his arms for him. This picture I get in my head kind of makes me cry a little. Because I’m so grateful for my Exodus 17 friends. The ones who hold you up when you can’t stand anymore. The ones who pray when your voice is gone, throat too tight to speak. The ones who reach out even when there’s really nothing to say, just to let you know they’re there. And they don’t mind when you ask the same question over and over again.

Is it supposed to hurt this much? 

Maybe. If only for this reason. To see the good in others, to know love and concern and realize the world isn’t so bad after all, and to be heard and seen and understood and held up in thought and prayer. And to know that when the tables turn, as they surely will, you can be there in that way for them . . . so maybe it is.

Maybe it is.

Still…Life

Tags

Blessings, Feelings, Journey, New Year, Opportunity

In the aftermath of the celebrations, all is quiet. Still. Things are tidied, relatively speaking, and I’m heading into the new year filled with anticipation. Yet, there is a restlessness within, something I can’t quite comprehend. Something perhaps I need to do, to say, to put aside. But my thoughts still scream loud.

Still.

I’m thinking about my writing. Thinking about what’s to come and how I’ll handle it.

Us creative types don’t have it easy, you know. We’re not analytical thinkers. Can’t prioritize and put things into neat little boxes ready to deal with one at a time, as suits. No. Our minds are a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings and ideas and triflings, a kaleidoscope of happy madness. And sometimes that’s too much to bear. For me at least.

Because I feel so deeply, you see, and I’d rather not. It’d be so much easier if I could nod and say, oh how tragic, and just move on, move past that pain. But I take things on. I dwell on that awfulness, that sorrow I wish I could lift. That problem I so want to fix. That broken heart I’d give anything to see mended.

Not your problem… No. I don’t suppose it is. But I feel it just the same.

When I first began to write, I didn’t understand. It was fun. I was having the time of my life creating these little stories that nobody would ever read. It wasn’t something I imagined would become a career. And then one day, that dream appeared, and changed everything. Changed the way I viewed my writing. Changed my very outlook on life.

I see the connection now. The way I’m wired. To think and feel and hurt and rage and love…on a deeper level…is necessary, because how can I possibly hope to express that which I know nothing about? If I don’t feel…I can’t know. 

It’s more now. More than fun. More than just something to while away the hours. It’s a mission, if you will. Being trusted to tell the truth through story. Terrifying. Yet…not. Because it is here, in this space of silence where I can hear my heartbeat over the turbulence inside my mind, here is where the truth lies. Here is where I must listen. Here is where I must trust. Trust myself to know what comes next. Which story should be told. And how to tell it.

There are thousands of stories in the world. Why should mine matter so much? I’m not exactly sure. But for some reason, here I am. Called to this. And it’s a little daunting. See? Those deep thoughts take over again, make me smile because I know I won’t be rid of them. However much I think I’d like to be, I need them. I need to feel another’s pain as deeply as if it were my own so I can write it down. And when we know pain, we know hope. Eventually joy.

This cycle of feeling…sure it can drive us mad, if we let it, but this…this is the stuff of life. The tears and heartache and melancholy and then a sudden burst of sun through dark rain clouds.

A hand slipping into yours, unexpected, yet a perfect fit.

The first time you made eye contact with that one who seemed to see right into your soul.

Those tears you cried late into the night when you knew nobody could hear.

That anger unleashed over something you never thought would happen. Not to you.

The numbness brought on by grief, standing graveside, saying goodbye.

A smile that says more than any words could.

Laughter that bubbles up, unbidden yet determined to take over till it rocks you, unstoppable, and the tears roll and you feel washed clean again.

Still…Life. 

Crazy, isn’t it? The challenges, the miracles, the mystery…I wouldn’t change the way I feel about things now. No. Instead, I choose to embrace it, the tumultuous blend of thoughts and feelings and experiences that shape us. All of it. It is all for me. To learn and grow and love…maybe a little more than I want to.

This new year…this new beginning…it’s ripe with promise.

And perhaps what we need most will come when we least expect it.