One of my favourite authors is C.S. Lewis. I love his Narnia series, and I have read them out loud about five times now: once to my cousins when they were young; once as a camp counsellor; and three times to my children.
I also challenged myself a few summers ago to read through his non-fiction works, and I did. I loved Surprised by Joy (you can read my comments on it here), but I was really touched by A Grief Observed. As someone who has also gone through grief, I found it real, refreshing, and melancholy. And perhaps it was the melancholy that I liked. This wasn't one of these "Just look to God and all will be joyful again!" type of books. This was one of those "sometimes life is just awful". And isn't that closer to the truth?
Today, for Good Friday, I thought it might be good to return to this question about how the dark moments fit into our lives as Christians. I think that it’s a misnomer that Christians are always supposed to be happy and nothing is supposed to get to us. God, after all, is a God who cries. Perhaps the times that we are closest to Him, Lewis once said, are not in times of ecstasy but instead in times of grief. That is when we touch God's heart the most, and understand the tears that He shed.
I don’t think we should be ashamed of our tears, or think that it means we haven’t healed, haven’t surrendered, haven’t advanced. This world is fallen, and life is pain. God understands that. To be a Christian is not to feel no pain; it is to have God carry you when that pain comes.
I have written books about emotional healing, and I'm working on another right now. Again and again I hit a brick wall when I really dig deeply into the way the church often handles pain. We think that it is something that we need to get over, that the pain itself is somehow an aberration of life, a betrayal of faith, and something from which we must emerge.
I'm not so sure. I think joy and pain can coexist; and to think that pain must be banished is also, I believe, to banish love. Pain is simply what we feel when the object of love is taken from us. It is a loss. In that loss, we often feel God's love much more acutely, and hence that is why pain and joy often are experienced together. But to say that a grieving parent must somehow get over their grief, or that a betrayed wife must heal from her loneliness, I find harsh. I don't think God asks us to heal; I think God asks us to turn to Him in these times, and it is then that we are given strength, and mercy, and peace.
My mother does not pine over my father, who left her over 35 years ago. She has a full and rich life, though it did not turn out the way she would have hoped. But every year, at Christmas, when we sing a certain hymn at church, it all comes flooding back: the desperation she felt, realizing she would be a single mother at 29; the loneliness; the grief; the betrayal. Because she sang that song to me in the midst of her grief, it has the power to take her back, and she feels briefly sad again. It does not mean that God has not ministered to her; it is just a reminder that this life is hard, and that we do still bear the marks of a fallen world while we walk upon this world.
If you are bearing those marks more acutely today, I do understand. I have been betrayed by a father. I have lost a son. And I can tell you, too, that I also experience great joy. There were days, though, when I couldn't feel God, and when it was all I could do to breathe.
I wrote a little book about it called How Big Is Your Umbrella: Weathering the Storms of Life. If you're sick of Christian books that tell you that you should be happy, you'll appreciate this. And if you have a friend walking through sorrow, and you don't know what to say, it can help.
And today of all days, I hope that, if you are walking through sorrow, grief, or even just a funk, that you will still be able to turn to God, even in that pain. He is there, and often He feels closest when we feel the most vulnerable. May you feel God carry you.
Last week we celebrated my daughter's 12th birthday, in a post when I recounted my rather humorous birth story with her.
I want to put her birth in a bit more perspective.
She was born on July 27, and I was very grateful that she did not wait until August, because I didn't want her birthday to be too close to another one. You see, a year before she was born, her brother came into this world. I guess he was her "big" brother, although he never got to be more than 5 pounds. She entered the world at 9 1/2. He left this world at 4 1/2. But I know that right now, he is running with the angels, and laughing, and doing cartwheels, and all sorts of physically fun things his little heart would never have allowed him to do on this earth.
My Christopher lived for 29 days 13 years ago. He would've been a teenager today. (Here's a picture of me last fall out at the cemetery). I wonder if babies and children grow in heaven? I think they must, at least babies, but at the same time, if they did, would that mean that there may be a time when heaven does not contain babies or children, because they've all grown up? I guess these are questions that will only be answered later.
It was because of Christopher that I started writing. My first article was this one, detailing my pregnancy with him, his short life, and what that taught us about loving "the least of these" in a culture which wanted me to abort him. My second article was this one, about how to help a friend through grief.
And then, of course, I have written a book called How Big Is Your Umbrella about the things that we yell at God when life stinks, and what He gently whispers back. And over the years I have discovered that I would so much rather have a hug from God than an encyclopedia of answers.
Right now I'm working on a new project. A few years ago I wrote a column called "A Prayer Through Tears" to help parents who had lost babies. It received an amazing response from readers, and I want to put it into a video on YouTube to comfort other grieving parents. I've got it almost done, but I'm lacking some pictures. Do you have any you'd be willing to share? Here's what I'm looking for:
Pictures of babies (if your child is still alive, and you're willing to let me use the picture just for artistic purposes anyway, that would be great. Or if you have a picture of a child in a hospital, or one who did die, I'd love to honor your child by including him or her
Pictures of children's gravestones (I know it sounds morbid, but that's the reality for many of us parents)
Pictures of women or men reading Scripture, or sitting quietly and looking out the window
If you have any, just email me through this page. I would so appreciate it! Thank you.
Every Friday my syndicated column appears in a variety of papers, and today is no exception. What's different is that it's Good Friday today, and my current column doesn't touch on that. So I'm going to reprint a Good Friday column from a few years ago, since it more reflects my mood today. Today's column I'll post tomorrow!
As parents, we try to impress on our children important lessons about life. If you’re nice, people will tend to be nice to you. Eat well and you’ll be healthy. Listen to your teacher and you’ll learn. But there’s one lesson we learn all by ourselves. Sometimes life just isn’t fair.
I was reminded of this anew last week by a long-dreaded email. It was the invitation to a funeral for a woman I had known years ago. We were never close, though I do know her family. But her story makes me cry nonetheless. When a 31-year-old woman dies, leaving a husband and two children who are too young to even remember her, what is there to do but cry?
I know what it is to bury someone you love. I am still haunted by the memory of my husband picking up my son’s tiny casket, and carrying it to his grave. Such things are the very blackest parts of life.
When we are in mourning like this we face a crossroads. The most inviting route is often the grimmest, for in our darkness, despair is almost welcome. I believe, though, that there is another choice. As difficult as it is, we must not let death steal our life.
I will never be the same since my son died. I only had him for 29 days, but they were the most precious of my life, and I will cherish them forever. My friend Kerry only had two years to smile upon her children, but her mark is still there, for it is the mark of an undying love. And that’s what love is—undying. Death does not end a relationship. It only changes it.
My grandfather was married three times to three wonderful women. He had each wife for almost the same number of years before cancer stole all of them, until, at the age of 88, he decided maybe it was time to remain single until he was called home. In these later years his house was adorned by pictures of all the women he had loved—the grandmother I never knew, the one I had called “Nana”, and the one who had stood so proudly at my wedding. He had such sorrow in his life, but his life was also bigger for allowing room both for love and for grief. We cannot, and should not, block out our tears. They are just as much a part of love as the hugs and kisses were. But let us not shut out the smiles, too. Smiles and tears can coexist. And that is the challenge that, I think, faces all of us at that bleak crossroads.
Perhaps it is appropriate to be thinking such thoughts as Easter is upon us. After all, on Good Friday life seemed extremely unfair. The Teacher was dead. And yet, the story did not end on Good Friday. For Sunday was just around the corner, and on that day we were shown, once and for all, that the bad is not the end of the story. I do not know if you believe the Good Friday story; I do, and it’s one reason I can smile through the tears. Yet all of us, at some point, will need to decide how to deal with the grave. Dylan Thomas once wrote “Do not go gently into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light”. It’s poetic, it’s passionate, and I think it’s wrong. Death is not the dying of the light.
Changes come, even those that aren’t welcome. But with those changes often comes a greater ability to love and cherish both those we can hug, and those who are now beyond our reach. The bad is not the end of the story; the sorrow is not all that is being told. Life may not be fair, but it is still good, and there is so much more to be written. That’s a lesson no one can teach us. We must learn it ourselves as we stand at the crossroads, reject despair, and choose the road bathed in tears, but cloaked in love.
I was at a loss this month to figure out what to promote. Then I remembered this Easter column I wrote a few years ago, after a 31-year-old friend died of breast cancer. Here's a lot of it:
When we are in mourning like this we face a crossroads. The most inviting route is often the grimmest, for in our darkness, despair is almost welcome. I believe, though, that there is another choice. As difficult as it is, we must not let death steal our life.
I will never be the same since my son died. I only had him for 29 days, but they were the most precious of my life, and I will cherish them forever. My friend Kerry only had two years to smile upon her children, but her mark is still there, for it is the mark of an undying love. And that’s what love is—undying. Death does not end a relationship. It only changes it.
My grandfather was married three times to three wonderful women. He had each wife for almost the same number of years before cancer stole all of them. In his later years his house was adorned by pictures of all the women he loved. He had such sorrow in his life, but his life was also bigger for allowing room both for love and for grief. We cannot, and should not, block out our tears. They are just as much a part of love as the hugs and kisses were. But let us not shut out the smiles, too. Smiles and tears can coexist. And that is the challenge that, I think, faces all of us at that bleak crossroads.
Perhaps it is appropriate to be thinking such thoughts at Easter. After all, on Good Friday life seemed extremely unfair. The Teacher was dead. And yet, the story did not end on Good Friday. Sunday was just around the corner, and on that day we were shown, once and for all, that the bad is not the end of the story.
I do not know if you believe the Good Friday story; I do, and it’s one reason I can smile through the tears. Yet all of us, at some point, will need to decide how to deal with the grave. Dylan Thomas once wrote “Do not go gently into that good night; rage, rage against the dying of the light”. It’s poetic, it’s passionate, and I think it’s wrong. Death is not the dying of the light.
Changes come, even those that aren’t welcome. But with those changes often comes a greater ability to love and cherish both those we can hug, and those who are now beyond our reach. The bad is not the end of the story; the sorrow is not all that is being told. Life may not be fair, but it is still good, and there is so much more to be written.
Easter is both a time to reflect on suffering, and to reflect on hope. And I have a number of items that can help us do that, very inexpensively!
For books, I've put How Big Is Your Umbrella on sale! It's all about the things we yell at God when life is tough, and what he whispers back.
And here's something really neat: for only $2, you can buy a copy of my 45 minute talk, Don't Worry, Be Happy? What do you think the purpose of life is? Is it to be happy? And if so, how is happiness best achieved? The answer may just surprise you!
I hope these bless you this Easter. I know life is sometimes difficult, but I do believe that love, grief, and joy often coexist, if we can just open our eyes to see it.
I wasn't sure whether or not to post on this, but I have some thoughts on Obama's Special Olympics gaffe, and I'd like to get them out.
First, a disclaimer. I completely believe in free speech. I am completely against political correctness. I don't think we should all second guess ourselves and watch what we say for fear of offending someone. For instance, I think people are far too scared to criticize some cultures because they may be labelled racist. But some cultures are bad, if not downright evil in some respects, and if we ignore things like Islamic honor killings or child marriage, we're doing a disservice to everyone.
But the reason that I dislike political correctness is that it distorts truth. It makes people watch what they say--EVEN IF IT IS THE TRUTH--so they don't offend. The key here is to avoid offense, not to speak the truth.
I'm in favour of truth, regardless of whether it causes offense (though, of course, we should also be tactful).
But that doesn't mean I'm in favour of causing offense if there's no truth behind it. Saying racist things against African Americans just because they're African Americans is wrong and should never be done. Saying that the African American community has an issue with illegitimacy should be done, in the proper context. Do you see the difference?
By the way, I think my culture has issues, too, primarily around lack of compassion, lack of fortitude in speaking up against moral relativism, and lack of commitment to our families. So we've all got problems.
Some are saying right now that Obama's comment that he bowls as badly as the Special Olympics was stupid, but nothing to get upset about. We should just leave it.
I don't agree. Though I'm not politically correct, I hope I don't go around gratuitously taking slaps at people just to make myself look better. And what he was saying had nothing to do with truth, and everything to do with offense. To cause offense for no reason except to boost your own ego isn't just stupid. It reflects a fundamental character flaw.
Now maybe he was just making a joke and it fell flat. We all make stupid jokes sometimes. But I don't think I've ever joked about the Special Olympics.
Especially not since 1996. Here's a picture of me with someone very dear to me. This was taken the night before my son Christopher had open heart surgery. Unfortunately, the surgery wasn't successful, and he died five days later. Christopher had Down Syndrome.
When we first found out, while I was still pregnant, it seemed like everyone was pressuring us to abort, especially the doctors. (You can read the story here). But we didn't.
It wasn't that I was happy about the Down Syndrome. I was devastated. What if my son could never read? Would I have to care for him the rest of my life? Would he ever get married?
But after a few days of panic, we began to read more and more materials about Down's. We joined listservs of Down Syndrome parents. And I became excited. I was going to be the best mom he could have!
I only had that chance for a month on this side of heaven. The rest of my relationship with him will have to wait until we're reunited. But so many people plot against these little blessings. The doctors didn't want him to be born. Many in my family didn't want him born. Keith's colleagues didn't want him born. And Obama thinks he's the subject of a joke.
What are we becoming when we start making jokes about the least of these? We're becoming cruel, heartless, and proud. It seems to me I remember Someone else saying something quite different about those who are maybe a little more helpless among us. He said, "whoever does this to the least of these my brothers does it to Me." So when Obama said that about the Special Olympics, he wasn't just talking about those with Down's. I know that sounds harsh, but that's what I think.
Did Obama intend to insult those with Down's? Of course not. Did he intend to insult those with other disabilities who compete in the Special Olympics? No, I don't think he did. But the point is he made that comment without thinking. I would never do such a thing, anymore than I would make fun of Obama because he's black. Such things don't register with me, as I don't think they do with the majority of good-hearted folk.
We live in a culture which denigrates the disabled without even thinking about it. When we realize what we do, of course we apologize, but the point is that we don't realize it. It's become so commonplace that it just slips out. And what does that say about us?
That's why I don't think it really matters whether he intended it or not. I don't think it matters whether he apologized (though I'm glad he did). And I do hope that he's learned to think a little bit more about those who are disabled.
But if we truly valued the disabled, such slips wouldn't happen. Canada really doesn't have the racist history that the United States does, and so I don't hear racist jokes. I really don't. We trained ourselves not to make them, because racism just isn't acceptable. So surely we can train ourselves not to make jokes about the disabled, either.
If we truly valued those with Down's, the way Jesus does, we won't make such jokes. Perhaps I'm taking this too personally because I still miss my son, but that's just the way I see it.
By the way, at the same time as I was learning about his gaffe, I was putting together a video trailer for my book, How Big Is Your Umbrella, which relates Christopher's story. I posted it the other day, but here it is again:
About Me: I'm a Christian author of a bunch of books, and a frequent speaker to women's groups and marriage conferences. Best of all, I love homeschooling my daughters, Rebecca and Katie. And I love to knit. Preferably simultaneously.
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Stumble It!
