Love’s Role in Suffering.

Posted: January 24, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: About Family Life, About the Christian Life | Tags: , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

I’ve been struggling against a popular idea that suffering brings growth.  Last week, I wrote about my own experiences with tough times. Character building and lessons learned have only come to pass in the aftermath of difficulty when God has used others to love me.

It turns out that almost everyone disagrees with me and I’m trying to figure out if we are simply describing nuanced differences of the same idea. From my perspective, problems do not cause growth, but instead it’s the out-pouring of love and support that brings healing.

Last week I heard many renditions of this:  Had I never gone through ________________ (financial crisis, health scare, betrayal, rejection), I would never have known the depths of________________  (my own resourcefulness, God’s faithfulness, the presence of love in the world around me, the intimacy in a specific relationship)!   I agree with this idea and I have my own small lessons learned to show that this simple equation can hold true. My sweet bloggy friend Jen wrote about the suffering that comes with loss and how this opened a more intimate relationship in her life. Gayle said she knew God in a deeper way once her house was burned down.  I know friends who have lost family members to tragedy and have come to appreciate those who are still alive all the more.  So why do I fight against this concept so much?

My main problem with embracing the no pain – no gain, it’s good for him, difficulty builds character attitude is that it absolves me from reaching out and helping.

There is a snarky, sneaky little voice that whispers absolution to me: No need to lift a finger, this is one of life’s little lessons for her to learn.  Or, She made her bed, now she’ll need to lie in it.

If the hungry family is experiencing what is “good” for them, why should I offer food?   If the crying child at recess is building character, why would other kids need to be coached in how to show love?  If the betrayed wife crying into her pillow is drawing closer to God because of her pain, who am I to try to stop it?

Suffering happens:  Yes

We can grow from it: Yes

How do I grow from it? By experiencing love and support during it.

What is my responsibility when I see others suffer? Love them.

Why are there so many who seem to create a vacant space around fellow suffer-ers?  Why do women in divorce feel as if they’ve lost their husband and their best friends in one fell swoop?  Why does a mother grieving her baby’s death feel so alone in her pain?  Why do bullied helpless children see other parents and teachers awkwardly look the other way?  Why do out-of-work men feel as if they have a contagious disease?  These dark times could be lessened with a little love.

Through support during hardship, I learned about unconditional love, grace, mercy and forgiveness.  These were the lessons I needed to know.  When there was no safety net and the bottom appeared to be cold, lonely and with no outstretched hand to hold, all I learned was to expect suffering. There was never redemption in the heartache.

But each time love entered…now, that was another story ending altogether.  I guess it’s my job to look at my own difficulties and recovery to figure out what they can teach me – about God, myself and other people.  When others are suffering, my job is to extend myself and alleviate as much of it as possible.

Tough Love? None for me, thanks…

Posted: January 16, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: About Childhood, About Family Life, About the Christian Life | Tags: , , , , , | 6 Comments

I spent some time this weekend with a dear friend and mentor.  Although he’s current on all parenting and educational research and trends, sometimes he seems to come from a different era.  While the rest of us are helicoptering and s-mothering, he’s relaxed about kids and has great faith in their future.  He constantly tells me not to worry and to take the long view with my own kids.

A few years ago, he and I were at the park with a pack of kids.  Two of them went exploring and were gone too long. I was trying to play it cool with him and disguise my rising panic, but I knew we were in real trouble when he turned to me and calmly said, “Seems like it’s time to call the police.”  When the most Zen dad around is worried, fear has already entered every cell of my body.  The police did come that day and an organic search party began to help us look.  Of course, within minutes those two prepubescent girls strolled in chitchatting and gesturing with each other, engrossed in their own stories with no awareness of my alarm.

Although he reacted that day, most of the time he doesn’t.  I call him crying about this or that and with as much respect and listening as he can muster, he gently blows me off. I am not throwing him under the bus!  He is a rare gift in that he offers empathy without joining in with my neurotic fear.

Last week, I confessed to readers that listening is not my strongest gift and I prefer to fix.  Pressing the publish button on that post appears to have unleashed an intention into the universe. My listening and not fixing pledge has been tested almost every day since, and I think I failed most of the opportunities. But these chances to practice have been great.  Here is what I’ve learned:

1) I don’t like suffering. 2) I see no upside to it. 3) If we’re honest, most of us deal with a large dose of it.

When I am exposed to another’s pain, I cannot always imagine the healing that will eventually come.  I feel the hurt right in the moment and it crushes me.  As I get better at the not fixing part, I want to stay good at the emphasizing and comforting. I struggle to embrace my friend’s casual approach to heartache, struggles, and pain and see them all as part of the process of growing up, building character and becoming stronger.  Although this notion helps me gain perspective, something about it doesn’t ring absolutely true.

This week I read Renee Alston’s memoir, Stumbling toward Faith.  Although her story offers some redemption, it’s mostly a story of great pain and loss. What she faced didn’t, in fact, make her stronger.  It just broke her.

I recently discovered my new favorite blogger, Glennon, who writes mostly about parenting and sometimes about recovery.    I had a little Aha! moment when I read her bio: My best guess is that I was born a little broken, with an extra dose of sensitivity. Growing up, I felt like I was missing the armor I needed to expose myself to life’s risks – rejection, friendship, tender love.

Growing up with an extra dose of sensitivity pretty much describes me. I could be wrong, and maybe the ultimate story of my life will prove different, but I don’t believe I gained much from pain. I think back on the adults who were around and served as positive guides along my path – professors, youth pastors, parents, grandparents, neighbors, aunts.  Guess what?  Every single person on my list was someone who was gentle, nurturing and kind to me.  No dogmatic, demanding teachers or anyone who made me work for their approval make my list. Only people who provided a safe, grace-filled space for me to feel loved ever motivated me on to greater heights.

When I hear coaches yelling at kids, teachers pitting kids against each other, parents criticizing B+ grades, husbands belittling wives at cocktail parties, or girlfriends competing with or betraying each other, I just cover my aching heart.  I never think, Oh goodie, this will make them stronger.

I know there is more than one way to skin a cat, so I am guessing that others are motivated by pain. And although I can agree that I have sometimes learned lessons from tough times, I think the place where growth-during-difficulty happened for me was in the space where loving people were holding me up.

So, that’s what I am going to keep offering in the face of unfair, mind-blowing difficulty.  Come to me for some old fashioned TLC, baby!

And while I am doing all that hugging and nurturing, I will also try to emulate my friend.  I will attempt to take the long view more often with my own children, keep the panic at bay and put more faith and trust in the God who holds them in the palm of His hand.

Listening Ear…

Posted: January 9, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: About Family Life | Tags: , , , , | 1 Comment

I am thinking about the power of listening.  Last week, a friend shared a poem entitled A Prayer for a New Year.  I passed it on to the group of women who gather each Wednesday in my living room.  We read it slowly and pondered each stanza.  When we got to the May you be a respecter of fears line, I stopped and tried to figure out what it could mean for me.  When I listen to someone share her heart, I want the pain she is feeling to stop, so I usually burst in with the quickest solution I can think of.  I say things like, here’s what you should do, or this happened to me once and this is what I did.  Rather than just holding the space for her to safely open her heart and be a witness to her suffering, I try to wrap it all up in a solution.  I am very uncomfortable with pain and heartache and I don’t want my loved ones to experience it.  But suffering is a guaranteed part of life and the more honestly I embrace it, the more I can move through it and past it.

Yesterday I had a chance to practice space holding for someone I love.  My old habits kicked in and I had to willfully stifle the urge to fix, arrange, advice-give, manipulate and control.  I wanted to ask questions, clarify her statements and produce an action plan.  I am good at problem solving and not so good at being still.  Maybe the next time we speak about her struggles she’ll be ready for some of those helpful offerings, but last night all she needed was a listening presence. She needed her fears to be respected.

Being a witness to another soul is a powerful gift to offer.  I am hoping 2012 gives me opportunities to offer this gift.  I offer to be a witness.  I offer to listen. I offer to sit in discomfort while pain is shared.  I offer the gift of my presence.

Out with the old.

Posted: January 3, 2012 | Author: | Filed under: About Family Life | Tags: | Leave a comment

Today is my first day of uninterrupted time in 2012. The kids and husband are off doing what they do most days, school and work.  They’re not here asking me to help with a math problem, to help scan pictures into facebook, to help fold blankets that toppled in a linen closet, to help bleach dirty shoes, or to help seal thank you note envelopes.

Nope, they’re gone. And I miss them just a tiny bit. As I was driving home from my final drop-off this morning, I saw a typical January San Francisco sight.  Christmas trees are piled on the street corners when their owners are ready to let them go.  In a few weeks, the city will come collect them all at one time and off they will go to the dump or the compost heap.  But for now, almost every corner has two or three trees, some wreaths and even a few boughs and swags. Just a few weeks ago, these trees were all loved, adored and nurtured.  They provided atmosphere, vibe and ambiance to the holiday season and helped families or groups of friends come together.  Now they are outside in the cold and waiting to be picked up.

Our tree is out there in the mix and I had a hard time letting it go.  I loved sitting in the living room, soaking up the twinkling lights and looking at the ornaments. But the needles were dropping, it had stopped drinking water and the presents beneath had made their way to the bedrooms a week ago. Everything has a season and the tree’s time was up.

Today as I looked over the discarded piles on street corners, I wondered what else needs to be discarded?  What friendship that used to be adored and nurtured has dried up?  What activity or commitment have I been devoted to that has seen its prime and needs to be taken to the corner and left there?  I have a hard time saying goodbye and moving on.  I travel through life carrying heavy loads of the past, trying to breath new life into dead things.

It’s time to let them go and move into 2012 lighter and more nimble. So long old trees.

Newer Entries →