Silver Lining

There is great humility in this season. This season of grief and pain when others who care about me in varying degrees are asking of me, pursuing me, considering my feelings.  I'm so very appreciative of this, the fact that these people even care to ask, because the alternative is worse: ignoring the obvious recent devastating loss of such an important figure in my life.  But, I'm finding that these interactions with others who do brave the unknown of my tumultuous emotions are tricky, at best, as people are kind enough to not ignore, yet uncomfortable enough that they cannot fully listen, either.

I usually hear something along these lines, quite clean and silver they are: "well, we can at least be thankful she isn't suffering any longer."  Or, "You can find comfort in the promise that you will see her again."  Or, "You have to just remember the good memories, and reflect on those when you are feeling sad."  Oh, and my favorite so far, "It's okay to to take a moment to cry, as long as you are alone and away from the kids."


Why is it that people cannot simply ask, then listen?  Why do so many feel the need to wrap up my sadness and grief in pretty paper and tie it with a suffocatingly perfect bow?   If you care about me enough to ask how I'm doing, then please, allow me to at least be and feel the way I am actually being and feeling.  

Truthfully, I know the answer to why people have such a hard time sitting with me quietly in my pain. Because, before this season, before I knew how awful and awkward it felt to be asked then gently patted and turned away from my true feelings, I responded the same way to my own friends and family.  Listening to them recount their painful hurts, well, it was too painful for me.  It hurt my heart to see them struggling or mourning.  So, I guess I wanted to take that pain away from them, to talk them out of their feelings so that the soreness of suffering could be lifted.  I made it my duty to help them see how quickly they could feel better, simply by hearing my encouraging words of comfort and letting me wipe away their tears with my ultra-absorbent tissue.  I thought it was my job to help them see the bright side!  Wasn't that why they had called me? To cheer them up, to encourage them and turn them towards a brighter tomorrow?

No.  I know now, it wasn't.  They called to vent. They needed to have a friend validate their confused, hurt feelings.  They called simply to be allowed to be where they were, while they were there.  Now I see my error.  Now I know that I didn't give them the grace they deserved, but instead, in my selfishness, I tried to force them out of their pain prematurely simply so I wouldn't be in pain watching them suffer.  What kind of friend was I?

I'm learning.  Not just to give grace to these wonderful people who care enough to ask a hard, emotionally loaded question.  But, to give others the freedom to feel their pain and know that I will sit in it with them until they are ready to look for a silver lining.  Most importantly, I'm learning to allow my children the space to let their hearts embrace whatever feelings they may have, joyful or sad.  Angry or hurt, appropriate or not.  Because, what happens if I rush my children out of feeling their pain, try to convince them that it isn't "worth crying about?" They will grow up thinking that no one will ever want to hear them struggle or wrestle with things that can't be tied up nice and tidy.  They will start believing that they have to be strong all the time, for everyone. They will think they are expected to stuff the bad, confusing and messy emotions and only express only the good, positive and hopeful ones.  I don't want that for them,  I don't want that for me, and I don't want that for anyone who trusts me to confide in, either.

Let's stop trying to convince others to rush out of their pain, grief and suffering!  Instead, let's shut our mouths, open are hearts and listen fully.  Let's be the person who will make her feel less lonely and among many.  Let's recognize those special times to share truthful hope, and embrace the times when it is more loving to sit quietly and simply mourn together.