Crying on the inside

I wrote the following some time back in June. Having just re-read it, I decided now was as good a time as any to post it. It arose out of an article I read (there's a link below). You might want to read the article first...

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It seems to me that tears are a very misunderstood thing. If you look miserable, someone, somewhere will probably say “cheer up, things might be worse”; (and being of a flippant turn-of-mind – that phrase always makes me think: “so I cheered up, and they were right… things were worse.”) But you try not to be flippant, or rude; so you give them a wan smile, and agree – things could be worse. But inside you’re crying – crying for the loss you just experienced, crying for the pain you’re in, crying for the loneliness you feel, crying for any one of a million reasons of which this person knew nothing. On the other hand, if you plaster a smile onto your face, someone, somewhere, will come up and say “what have you got to be so happy about, don’t you know the world’s going to hell in a hand basket.” So you wipe away the smile, and agree that yes, the world is indeed in a bad place. But inside you’re crying – crying because you haven’t got whatever it takes to cry on the outside, crying because no-one noticed how false your smile was, and all the pain it was hiding.

I started thinking about this when I read an article that one of my friends posted on Facebook: https://nadirahangail.com/2016/05/25/mind-your-own-womb/

It speaks of the pain of three different types of women: (1) the 30-year-olds who’ve been trying for a baby for a long time, but no success; (2) the 34-year-olds with 5+ children castigated for ‘over-populating’ the world; and (3) the 40-year-olds who only have one child, an unexpected miracle… but wanted more.

It made me think of adding another section: the 60+-year-olds, with no children, and for whom the chance has gone. It might go something like this:

A 60-year-old woman, no husband, no children. “You’re so good with children. Why didn’t you ever have one of your own?” “Oh, no particular reason” she replies with a smile. But on the inside she’s crying – crying for the babies she never carried; for the husband she never met; for the illness that dried up her womb; for the God-children that never came her way; for how alone one feels without a family round you; for the lifetime connections she never made with other people; for the fiancé she lost in the war; for the man who hurt her so deeply she found it hard to trust men again; for the beating she received that damaged her womb for ever; for the rape that built a barrier between her and everyone else. She cries for the virginity she’s lost to men who don’t care. Cries most of all that it’s too late, and there will be no more chances.

These aren’t all me (well, maybe one or two). I see people around me who carry these griefs with them. I’ve never forgotten the despair in the voice of some friends, many years ago, as they said, “It’s the crashing disappointment, month after month, as you realise that once again you’re not pregnant.” In that situation all we could do was love them, and pray for them; our prayers for them were answered – not everyone gets such a happy ending.

The spectrum of how women (and men – don’t forget they too suffer some of this) cope with this situation is broad. At one end, some women learn to live with the pain of childlessness with grace and dignity; somewhere in the middle are the rest of us; and finally at the other end of the scale are the women who become so disturbed they need psychological help. Each person in this situation will fall somewhere along this coping spectrum; wherever they are, each one needs love, support and maybe healing.

We can cry out all our grief to God as we lie in bed at night, and he will bring comfort. But that comfort can soon be shattered as once again we are confronted by a friend’s new baby (or worse – new grandchild) and inside, something dies just a little. We find ourselves torn between rejoicing in the joy of our friends, and once again facing the fact that it’s too late for yourself.

I don’t have any amazing conclusions, or bright insights to offer. I don’t know how we can heal this amount of pain. But I do know that our God is a place of refuge, and a source of healing.

Never a good time to die

This coming Friday, Dad and Barbara would have celebrated their 37th wedding anniversary.

The death announcement in
the Redditch Advertiser

On Sunday, it will have been exactly 5 months since he died. There’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about him, and how much I miss him, and how much I’d like to talk to him again.

I’ve recently been thinking about all the good things that God put in place before my dad died. I want to name them here before they get forgotten in the passage of time.

A but fuzzy - but it was
blowing a gale and
we were all frozen!

The first thing that springs to mind is that the three of us had a really good holiday In November, just a few weeks earlier. I shall carry the memory of that holiday for a long time.

The day before dad died, I filled my car up with petrol. What’s so amazing about that? Well the thing I usually leave it until I’m running on the smell of it, but this time there was about a quarter of a tank left. But if I hadn’t filled up that night I wouldn’t have been able to make all the journeys over the next 3 or 4 days that I needed to; and I can imagine running out of petrol and being stranded before I’d noticed.

Auntie M usually goes home immediately after Christmas, before new year. This year, for the first time ever, she decided to stop longer, and so was still with us on the day dad died. What’s so remarkable about that? Of all our family she lives 4+ hours’ drive away… and doesn’t drive (rest of us live less than an hour apart). That meant she was involved and didn’t just get a phone call later that day.

Flowers from the grave. My cousin Chris made the cross (left),
in the colours that Dad would have liked; Ian, Gill and me
bought the one above.

Before Christmas I was reminded about a task I would have to do for the church music, in the new year. Unusually, I decided to do it there and then, instead of waiting until new year. I never do that. I always work right up to deadlines. But on this occasion, the job was already done, so I didn’t have to worry about it.

As I look back, I know there is never a good time to die; never a good time to loose people from our lives. But also, I can see the hand of God preparing me, in these simple, practical ways, to cope with all the grief that was to come. The grief is still there, but I’m learning to live with it – slowly.

God bless you.

Walking through the valley of the shadow of death

"Even when I walk through the darkest valley, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me." Psalm 23:4 (NLT)

I know it’s been a while since my last post; I’m really not good at this blogging thing… or maybe I just had nothing to say up until now. (Not quite true… because actually, I came across a draft post I wrote for this blog – but it turned out to be a complete rant against my GP, so I didn’t publish it; I’m glad I didn’t, because over these last few weeks since Dad died, she’s been amazing.)

Most of the following came from what I can only term a ‘waking dream’. Since Dad's death I’ve not been sleeping very well; I can get to sleep, but wake up after a couple of hours, and that’s it for the next 2 or 3 hours. So during these occasions, sometimes I get up and do stuff, sometimes I pray/think, and sometimes I lie there pretending to be asleep, in the hope it becomes a reality! On this occasion, I was thinking about how grief feels, and what analogy would best describe it, and God showed me the following picture.

Some valleys are wide, some are narrow; some are deep, some are shallow; some are light and bright, others are full of shadows. Psalm 23 talks about ‘the valley of the shadow of death’; I don’t think it’s a valley – I think it’s a chasm. Imagine one of those films where our hero is walking through Antarctica, when all at once, a great chasm opens beneath him, and he falls, tumbles and slides his way deep into the chasm. Once there, there’s no way back – the only way is forward. That’s how grief feels to me.

On 5 January, five weeks ago yesterday, my father died unexpectedly. I was plunged into an overwhelming grief that felt exactly like that chasm in the ice, which I just described. It’s as if I slithered into another dimension, down an ill-kept, bumpy, rocky, and steep helter-skelter (with all the pain and fear - and none of the pleasure), tumbling and sliding over and over, ending up in a bruised and bloody heap at the bottom; then looking blurrily around, wondering where I was and how I got there.

Before me lies a well-trodden, wide path, from the footprints of all those who walked this place before me, and in expectation of all those waiting to come after. From this point on, the path is a long steady uphill climb, which winds its way along a river of tears. To my left, the river; to my right the steep chasm wall is sometimes close by, and sometimes separated from the path by scrubland, where very little grows. As I walk along, there are occasional springs of sweet water rising up, or dropping down the walls, offering a small oasis to stop and rest, and stare up at the sky far above, and the sunlight, which never quite reaches down this far, but which lights the top edges as a guiding light and beacon of hope.

Occasionally I meet other people also walking the path. Some are almost sprinting along, eager to reach the end; most of us offer a helping hand to one another, to get us over a rough patch, before being separated once again. One or two tell tales of how they tried to climb out of the chasm by going straight up the walls, only to fall back even more bruised and broken. I even saw one person curled up in a little ball, caught up so deeply in their own keening grief that they were oblivious to all those who passed by, or who stopped and offered a hand.

Sometimes voices are carried on the breeze, from friends high above in the sunlight. They offer encouragement and love. Other voices whisper from the deep shadows in the cliff walls, telling me there’s no hope, or offering me a quick way out. But exceeding all this, is the invisible hand of Jesus, supporting me when I stumble, lifting me when I fall, carrying me when I’m weak, drying my tears when I cry. It’s his voice I want to hear most in my ears, offering me words of encouragement, peace, love, care, and rebuke; words of serenity, support, promise, guidance, admonishment, and healing; words of rest, refreshment, stillness, direction, and assurance.

It’s not as if I’m a stranger to losing people; I’ve walked this path before, but never so deeply or painfully. The totally surprising aspect to come out of all this, is the positive effect grief has had on my eating. For the first couple of weeks, I went through the phase that most people go through of not feeling hungry, not wanting to eat, and feeling like I was forcing down every mouthful. I sort of expected that – and it isn’t what I’m on about.

The first surprise is that I didn’t immediately revert to old patterns, and try to assuage the grief with food. Second, despite reservations, because I couldn’t concentrate long enough to cook, or even decide what I should eat, I resorted to a few ready meals. But already I’m getting back in the habit of cooking instead of using these, so that’s a major step forward (and in truth, they really don’t taste as good as I remembered!). Third, despite experiencing an extra-strong craving for chocolate, I found I was able to buy a handful of small bars, and then ration them out to one (or occasionally two) per day. Mary says that I’m moving away from many of my old habits, and making far more connections to the new habits I’m trying to develop. She feels that although this was happening before Dad died, his death has speeded up the process.

So it seems that grief can have a positive effect… who knew!

I hope these thoughts help you and bless you on your journey out of the darkness, and into His most glorious light.