Grief – We are Windhams

What I really want to say when people ask “How are you doing?”

“How are you doing… really?”

That question sticks itself out there, probing and unavoidable. When you are going through a life-changing experience, people want to know how you’re doing. And not the glossed over “life is still good!” answer. They want the truth.

How am I doing, really?

Well, I’m numb. I feel like I’ve been given this huge cross to carry and no reason to carry it. I feel distant from God. I feel as though everyone around me is seeing their faith grow, their assurance increase, while I’m just waiting.

And I don’t even know what I’m waiting for.

Waiting for the feeling of faith? Waiting for some divine outcome? Waiting to see all the pieces fit together as to why I, of all people, got breast cancer?

All I really know is that I’m waiting for this to be over. I’m waiting for my doctor to say “remission”, for my life to go back to normal, and to no longer feel like I’m fumbling around in the dark.

Call it a testing of my faith. Call it the process of grief. Call it any number of psychological issues you want. All I know is this is how I’m really doing. I’m walking down uncharted territory and I don’t know what is around the next corner. I spend a lot of time praising God to others and questioning Him to myself. I’m afraid to get close to Him because being close means walking a hard walk. I’m afraid that this will get harder and not easier. I’m afraid that other people will see how this journey counted for something and I never will.

Yet, what is crazy to me is that even in the doubt I still know God is God and He is doing big things. I don’t feel it, I don’t see it. But, I believe it. I know He is here walking beside me. I know He is making this journey count. I continue to hold on to that fact. Because even in the darkness of my own emotions, even when I don’t feel Him, don’t see Him, He is still there.

I’m reminded of the man in Mark 9 who asked Jesus to heal his son. Jesus told the father that all things are possible for one who believes. The father, much like myself, cried out “I believe; help me overcome my unbelief!”

Just because I doubt, just because I wrestle doesn’t mean I don’t believe. Even when God feels distant and my path seems utterly dark, my heart still clings to Him and fights against the unbelief that bubbles up.

So, how am I really doing?

I’m struggling. I’m fighting. I’m trying my best to believe.

But I’m trusting that God will prove Himself faithful yet again.

Grace in the Grief

Y’all, cancer sucks. And frankly, it scares me. Who knows the outcome of my treatments and surgery. Who knows if the cancer will spread. Who knows if the cancer will return.

There is an immense grief that floods me. When I hold my babies, I can’t help but wonder how long I will have that gift. When Jonathan and I spend time together, I can’t help but imagine his life without me.

Then I suffer the very present grief of feeling my body waste away. Touching my bald head. The fatigue that engulfs me down to my bones. The ever present pain of a nuclear war being raged inside me.

Grief wants to break my body and my spirit with a weight too heavy for any one person to carry. Grief wants to squelch out hope. It wants to rip all joy from my hands.

I’m there y’all. I’m walking through the grief. I’m walking the dark, lonely road that C.S. Lewis told us about.

But, I’m here to say, there is grace in the grief.

God doesn’t ask us to ignore our grief. We aren’t to run from it, deny it. We are told to cry out in our grief.

In my distress I called upon the LORD; to my God I cried for help. From his temple he heard my voice, and my cry to him reached his ears. Psalm 18:6

Hear my prayer, O Lord; let my cry come to you! Psalm 102:1

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord! Psalm 130:1

In our grief, we are to cry out. We shouldn’t act like we have our lives put together. In fact, we should do the opposite. We should cry out. Wave our white flag. Beg for help.

But that’s hard. Because, help usually comes in forms we are too proud to accept. It comes in the form of friends who take your kids because you’re too sick to care for them. Or people who drive out of their way just to bring you flowers. Friends who spend their own time, their own money, to care for you. Family who schedules their lives around you.

Asking for help means admitting you are flawed. You aren’t strong enough, capable enough, to do things on your own. And that’s hard.

But inside the grief, when we call out for help, when we let go of our pride, embrace our flaws, there is a flooding of grace.

Grace in our life is a beautiful thing. It looks like forgiving a friend who betrayed your trust, like picking up the slack of a lazy co-worker, or like extending a hand to someone who doesn’t deserve your notice.

Grace looks like seeing your world crumble under the cruel hands of cancer, while those around you help to build it back up. Stronger this time.

Grace looks like facing death with an unwavering assurance that God is bigger than what my little world can realize. And while I trust that I will win this fight, I trust even more that He has already won my battle.

There is grace in the grieving. If you are in the midst of grieving right now, whether it be over a broken heart, jobloss, or a really crappy grade from that crotchety professor, know that there is grace here for you. Grace to fail. Grace to admit you aren’t perfect, you aren’t as Pinterest-y as you wish.

There is so much grace in your grieving. So, let’s be friends and doing this graceful grieving together.