Lean In

Two weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about Arturo.  I was in a panic.  Something wasn't right.  As I lay in the darkness I searched for my Father to give me peace, to bring me understanding as to why I felt the way I did.  In silence, I heard a voice telling me to let him go.  That he would be leaving this Earth soon.  I resisted, I rebelled and told Him no.  I gave all the reasons why he needed to stay.  "My love," He said, "you need to let him come to Me."  I began praying to my little Arturo's spirit.  I don't even know if that's how it works but it's what I did.

"Sweet boy, stop fighting.  Stop struggling.  Stop suffering.  Baby boy it's ok.  Don't be afraid.  Jesus is waiting for you.  He has a place prepared for you."

I stayed up crying for hours.  Not the kind of crying that brings more pain but the kind of crying that brings peace and washes over your fears.  I fell asleep at some point faintly begging my Jesus to let him stay if it was possible.

Two days later I was on my way to the hospital and I felt a pit in my stomach.  I felt nauseous.  I had no idea what I was going to walk into - whether this baby boy I loved would still be with us.  To my surprise he was still there and the doctors said he was doing better.  He didn't have any tubes or wires hooked up to him.  He wasn't uncomfortable or crying.  He was just calm and peaceful.  I fed him a little of his bottle and I walked him over to the hospital window.  It was sunny and there was a warm breeze blowing.  He laid on my chest watching the sway of the trees with the rays of the sun cast on his face.  He fell asleep.

I now know just how good my Father is.  He gave me that day.  He let me see this baby boy pain-free, wire-free, tube-free, peaceful - because that's how he is now.

I have experienced loss before but not like this.  His death would be sad no matter what but the events surrounding his death are not only unjust, but tragic.  I have never felt so helpless in my life.  My mind replays the events every moment I have alone.  How lonely he must have felt.  How confused he must have felt.  How helpless he must have felt.  It's something I don't know I will ever get over - and I hope I never do.

Something important I have learned over the last two years can be summed up in two simple words: lean in.  When it hurts, lean in.  When you are suffering, lean in.  When you don't understand, lean in.  When the pain is unbearable, lean in.  So many times in my life when something has happened that I can't explain and that doesn't make any sense, I just ran from it.  I ran from the sadness and the confusion and the difficulty only to be knocked over by it years later.  I pushed anger and unforgiveness to the back corners of my heart instead of bringing it to the surface and letting myself feel it and be freed of it.

Our Father wrote us love letters in His Scripture preparing us for the trials we will face.  "In this world you will have trouble..." It's inevitable.  We can't avoid pain - it will always find us.  And if we don't prepare ourselves for it and lean into it and let ourselves feel it, one of two things will happen; we will either be knocked over by it when we least expect it or we will harden our hearts to it in order to protect ourselves.  Both scenarios have serious consequences.

For many of us, God has been working tirelessly to give us "hearts of flesh" - a heart like His.  A heart that breaks for this world's injustices.  A heart that longs to be part of His perfect plan for redemption.  That means feeling things the way His heart feels them.  A heart that experiences great joy is also one that knows deep pain.

I've been tempted this week, since losing Arturo, to keep myself busy.  To not talk about him.  To lose myself in distractions.  But God keeps whispering to me, "Lean in..."  Because he is not just God.  He is also a Father who knows deep pain.  A Father who watched His son suffer on a cross for people who didn't even know He was doing it for them.

So instead of busy and instead of avoidance and instead of distractions - I stop in the middle of my bedroom, a worship song blaring, my hands in the air and tears falling.  I talk about him with people who ask how I'm doing.  I scroll through his pictures on my phone.  I imagine him in the arms of Jesus, with a perfectly whole body.

Even when it hurts, I lean in.

(This is the song that will forever remind me of my little Arturo)

Grief in Comparison

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine the other day.  She has been going through a few rough things in the last couple of months and it all seemingly has just finally taken its toll on her.  After the last event, the final straw, she mentioned that she had sat in bed trying to coax herself by saying, "be tough," and "suck it up," and "stop feeling this way."  After she gave me the list of things that have been tipping her over the edge, she says something along the lines of, "I know that people are starving and horrible things are happening all over the world, but today, I just can't take all of this."  I, too, have gone through many of the same things she is going through and felt genuine sympathy for her feelings.  But what if I hadn't?  What if I couldn't sympathize because I had no idea what she was going through?

Almost three years ago, I lost a baby to miscarriage.  Up until that point, I had many friends who had experienced miscarriage.  In fact,  some had experienced many miscarriages.  I foolishly thought to myself on a number of occasions, "the baby was hardly developed, at least the baby didn't die during birth or something when they could actually see it and hold it."  Don't judge me please, it makes cringe to think that I actually had that mindset.

But until I lost my baby, I just couldn't understand completely the agony one goes through and the hope and expectation that is lost.  Which, I guess, was the beginning of a transformation of thought that I have come to adopt as a personal belief.

We often throw expressions around like, "I'm sorry you lost your job but there are starving children in Africa right now!"  Or maybe, "Your Uncle died...well at least it wasn't your Mom or something."  (Yes, I actually had someone say that)  Or how about something a little more difficult to swallow; "I'm so sorry your husband died...but at least he's going to heaven!"  Maybe that last one makes you question my sanity, but hear me out.

The Bible is not riddled with passages telling us NOT to compare our own experiences with others' but it does give us someone to compare to.

³³ When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in spirit and troubled.  ³⁴ “Where have you laid him?” he asked.   “Come and see, Lord,” they replied.

³⁵ Jesus wept.

In John 11, a friend of Jesus, Lazarus, had just died.  Jesus knew he was going to die.  He also knew that he was going to bring him back to life.  Yet, he cried.  Why?  Why would the Savior, who already knew the outcome, cry over a dead man who was about to be raised back to life? 

I think it was because Jesus allowed himself to grieve with others.  He allowed Himself to be "deeply moved in spirit and troubled" by what others were going through.  Notice that Jesus didn't say, "At least he wasn't your own son," or "thank goodness he's not suffering from illness anymore."  And you know what Jesus also didn't say?  "At least he's going to heaven."  No.  He wept.  He cried for Lazarus because he felt deeply for him but he wept because he ALSO felt deeply for those who were grieving for Lazarus, too.

Jesus knew that if Lazarus was going to die, he was going to Heaven.  Just like most of us know that there are other people who have it worse in the world than we do.  We have to start realizing that it doesn't do anyone any good to remind them that their situation could be worse.  Even if theoretically it could be, it's not how I think Jesus handles people who are grieving.  And I don't think that's how we should either.

Yes, there is sometimes a need for some perspective, but grief is funny in that it isn't logical.  Perspective will eventually come back, but not in the middle of grief.  And guess what?  It's really ok.  It's ok that we grieve.  It's ok that we cry.  It's ok that we question.  It's ok that we lose sight of reality for a little while.  Because one of the things that God does care about is that we have a softened heart, a heart of flesh.

"I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh." -Ezekiel 36:26

When we tell ourselves, or others, "Be tough!" "Suck it up!" "Stop Feeling this way!" or "It could be worse!" we change our hearts of flesh, and others' hearts, little by little back to stone.  Those same hearts that God has worked so hard to make more flesh-like and soft.  Our world is full of hard-hearted people who have "sucked it up" - do we really want to be that way too?

I, for one, want to feel deeply for others.  I don't ever want to encourage someone to get over "something" when I have no idea how God plans to use that "something" to work in them.  I want to meet them in their pain and disappointment and struggle because that's exactly what Jesus did for me.  I may not understand it, or have been through it myself, but I know what it's like to lose someone I love or worry about paying a bill or wonder what the blood test will reveal.  If you've experienced any kind of grief in your life, you already have the capability to grieve deeply with someone who really just needs you to be there for them.  We don't need grief in comparison; with its wise words of perspective and promise of a better tomorrow (even though we know that to be true).  We need to find a place where grief is acceptable, struggle is a reality and disappointment is a place for us to connect and be in communion with one another and Christ.