The "hard" in life.

We all have our "hard".  The thorn in our side.  It may be a person in our family who drives us around the twist, but we cannot avoid them because they are part of the family.  It may be a chronic illness, limiting our mobility, giving us pain, stopping us from doing the things we most love with the people we most love.  It may be a child from whom we are estranged, and long to be reconciled with.

Some people like complaining about their hard.  A lot!  Some people allow themselves to be defined by their hard.  Others are able to keep it in perspective.  Even the most positive people have a hard of some sort.

I've been following a blog by Kara Tippetts called Mundane Faithfulness
(http://www.mundanefaithfulness.com/).   This blog is about Kara's hard, but also about being in community with others and allowing them to share in your hard, and serving you in it.  It's about lots of things.  I discovered Kara and her story via another blog that I follow called A Holy Experience (http://www.aholyexperience.com/) Both of these blogs have some gems of encouragement.  Kara calls her cancer her hard.  And various aspects of it "today's hard", or "the new hard".   While I cannot imagine living with Kara's hard, we all have a hard.  Some of us more than one.  The hard may change over the years.  A couple of years ago, the death of my third born was my hard.  Before that it was something else.  In the last few months, the death of Sophie has become integrated into who I am.  It's no longer front and centre.  Some days I don't even think about her.  That hard has been replaced by another.  Maybe that hard was there all along, and it was simply eclipsed by the Sophie hard for a time.

In the early weeks after Sophie's death, I read one particular book over and over again.  It's called " A grace disguised - how the soul grows through loss"  by Jerry Sittser. (find more info about his book here) What Jerry wrote about catastrophic loss made such sense to me in those early days.  He pointed out that it was not very helpful to compare one person's loss with another, since all loss is catastrophic to the person who is experiencing it.  I don't know if one person's hard is more difficult than another.  They are all hard.  Many people in my community are experiencing hards at the moment.  Terminal cancer.  Divorce.  Miscarriage.  Children and grandchildren moving far away.  A child with a brain tumor.   Chronic debilitating back pain.  Our hearts ache for these pains, whether they are felt by ourselves, or by a family member or friend.

Sometimes in order to try to make ourselves or someone else feel better, we are tempted to compare their troubles to something in the news of late, such as well at least you aren't in Nepal, or on that boat, or getting shot in "insert country here".  I know that the intention behind these comments are good, but they aren't actually helpful, are they.  If our basic human needs of food/shelter/love and belonging are not currently being met, I'm sure all the other needs would vanish into insignificance as we battled for survival.  But once our survival needs are met, does it mean that life is easy, and no more pain will ever be experienced?  Nope.

It's my understanding from the bible and from my own life experience that the soul does indeed grow through loss, as Jerry Sittser describes.  I believe that one of the reasons God allows suffering in our lives because it will produce changes in us that no other process will.  And of course if we had a choice, that fork in the road where one side was bliss, happy life, and the other was suffering and hard times, do you think we would willingly choose the suffering?  Heck, no.

Loss can unite communities.  It can lead to forgiveness where previously there was none.  It can lead to loving others in a better way, in the way which they need to be loved, rather than just the way that we feel like giving.  Bizarrely, loss can lead to wholeness.  A knowledge of how utterly dependent we are, as human creatures, on God the Father, for every breath we take.

A glorious sunset

Written in March or April 2015

I met with 2 dear friends yesterday.  One is living with authenticity and bravery in what will likely be the last year of her life.  The other is living with authenticity and bravery in the years she might not have had - a little over a decade go she had a severe illness and came close to death.  Very close.  For one, death this year is almost certain, unless God intervenes to write her story differently.  For the other, her story on this earth continues.  Both are living in the busyness of young children.

I admire both of these women greatly, as wives, as mothers, as friends, as daughters, as daughters-in-law.  I feel like they have such a great balance and perspective on life, even in the midst of their respective struggles.  They both have a great sense of humour and it's a joy to be near them when they are laughing.  Their joy is infectious.  All 3 of us struggle in one particular domain of life, but it's rare for all of us to be struggling at the same time, so we are able to encourage each other, and reach out for help with a text message at any time of the day.  This is the beauty and joy of living in community, as God designed us to.

Once a month, the 3 of us hang out at one of our homes for a few hours.  We talk.  We laugh.  We cry.  We pray.  We encourage each other in our areas of struggle and celebrate the areas of joy and fun.  I cannot remember who came up with the name Loungeroom Ministries, but I think it was Cath.  I like it because it reinforces that when women are sitting around having coffee and chatting and laughing, that is only a small part of what is really going on.  They are building community.  I know I've got on my soapbox about this before so I won't say it all again today. 
Women are ministering to each other in this sort of community.  Cath also had another term for what attracted our group of 3 to each other - she called it the fellowship of suffering.  When a person has been through a traumatic experience, it provides a connection with others who've also been through trauma, even if the details of that trauma are vastly different.
 
I'm so grateful for this community of women that God has brought into my life for a season, a season which I know will change when one of us is promoted to her heavenly home sometime this year.  There's something about the sisterhood that's unlike any other connection.  I'm not sure I can even define it right now.  But I'm confident that any women reading this blog will know exactly what I mean.

Written on May 31st 2015

Yesterday there was a glorious sunset in front of us as we traveled down Shepherd’s Hill Road.  This immediately made me think of my friend Cath, who is in the sunset of her life here on earth.  She was diagnosed with breast cancer just after her most recent child was born, 3.5 years ago, and is now in hospice.  It’s not just the last couple of weeks in hospice that have been her glorious sunset though, it’s the last 3.5 years of her life, since the diagnosis.  I knew of her at the time of diagnosis, through working at the preschool which one of her children attended, but had not yet met her.  I was rather distracted at the time.  Her most recent child was born one week after Sophie.  Just yesterday I realized God’s sovereignty in not allowing us to get to know each until the last couple of years, because if I had known her back when Sophie was born, I don’t think I would have coped with a friendship with a woman whose baby was the same age as Sophie.  Her baby was alive, and mine was not.  I would have resisted that friendship very strongly I think.

We began to get to know each other just before her stage IV diagnosis, and the basis of our connection is our faith in God.  A kindred spirit.  A love for God’s Word.  Respect for His sovereignty.  I felt driven to pray for her and encourage her, but as is often the case with “God” things, it was in no way one-sided.  I gained as much as I gave.  I encouraged her, she encouraged me.  She spoke truth and love into my areas of vulnerability in a way that no other person ever has.  A few months ago I introduced her to my other lovely friend Ali.  Ali is also a kindred spirit in the common faith we share.  I was certain that they would connect well, and so they have.  We are able to be completely vulnerable with each other, knowing that we will not be ridiculed or rejected by the others.  It’s a rare gift.  The last time the 3 of us met together was about a month ago, and when I heard that Cath had moved into hospice I wasn’t sure if we would see her again, but she’s invited us to come and hang out with her tomorrow morning.  She told us that she is "ridiculously excited" about us coming to visit tomorrow.  I am so glad to be able to have a goodbye visit.  It’s a wonderful gift that she is giving to us by working us into her schedule with her limited energy and time.  I’ve cleared the schedule for tomorrow so that I can hold space for myself to grieve for the rest of the day if I need to.  I am both scared and excited about the visit.  Scared of saying “the wrong thing”.  Scared of being shocked about her physical appearance (she told us last week that she is not really eating, so it’s likely she’s lost a lot of weight).  Excited at being worthy of granted some of her precious time.  Excited at having one last chance to talk and laugh and cry together before we lose contact for a while.  Until Ali and I also are promoted to glory.

Written on June 7th

The morning that Ali and I spent with Cath was wonderful. We talked, we laughed, we cried, we prayed.  Cath said her Doctor had told her she either had days or weeks left to live.  She replied “Well, which is it, days or weeks?  I need to know!  Because if I knew I still had weeks, I’d plan my time very differently than if I knew I’ve only got a few days.”  He couldn’t be more specific.  I guess there’s so much going on in the body.  He said she would likely die in her sleep, as her body gets more and more tired, one time when she goes to sleep her body will be too tired to wake up again.  I like that idea.  It seems like a peaceful way to die.  Although I think it would make me afraid of going to sleep, if I knew that I might not wake up again.  Her doctor stressed to her and her husband and kids that every time they say goodbye, they need to make it special, in case it’s the last time they speak.

It’s been a week since that visit, and I still text her a prayer most days, and get a reply most days.  We took a photo with each of our phones of the 3 of us together, and it is lovely to have – strange that we have never taken one before.  It's the only photographic memory we have of the 3 of us together.

Promoted to Glory

Cath was promoted to her heavenly home on June 18th.  The last visit, we joked that she would have letters after her name - Catherine xxxxxx, P.T.G.  She liked that.  I feel a certain peace about it because I respect God as being the author of her story, but I miss her desperately at the same time.  This sounds like a contradiction, but it isn't.  These feelings can co-exist.  The bible tells us in 1 Corinthians 15 that Christ has conquered death, and because of that, death has lost its sting, but death still burns.  It's deeply offensive, and I don't believe that indicates any deficiency of my faith.  I think we're meant to find it offensive.  Randy Alcorn, in his book "Heaven", says that when someone dies, we don't actually "lose" them, we simply lose contact for a while.  It's the loss of contact that hurts so much though, isn't it.  It's the loss of contact that is a pretty big source of the offensiveness of death.  I think that the offensiveness of death has other purposes too.  I think it drives us closer to God the Father, and makes us yearn for our eternal home.  Because then we will be back in contact with those loved ones who we have lost contact with for a while.  And we will fully know God, just as He fully knows us know (1 Corinthians 13).   It will be so good.

Cath has written a beautiful blog about her journey and you can find the blog here.