suffering

We Were Happy Once

bethsbarthelemy, , , Leave a comment

“Write… we were happy once.” In the Little Women BBC miniseries, Mr. March tenderly looks into Jo’s eyes, those eyes filled with pain and despair and tears. How do I go on? those eyes plead, searching her father’s face for wisdom, guidance, help of any kind.

We were happy once. These words echo in my heart. Last week, during a warm autumn evening, I carried a tray of food outside to our veranda. At the step, I paused at the scene: my family, all five of them, around the table; sounds of laugher, of teasing, of shouting with childish freedom; the lights hanging, twinkling; the dusky view of the valley below, to this city that has become home. I so desperately wanted, in that moment, to feel fully happy; and I mostly was. But even on the most joyous of days, mundane or special, there will always be a part of me that is grief.

Thirteen months after the loss of my nephew, and I cannot fathom a time when I will be truly, full of uninhibited joy this side of heaven. Could I before his death? I can’t remember. It was not that my life had been easy before, necessarily; but the difficulties and griefs that I had experienced were not of the same magnitude. The eyes of my heart were opened to a brokenness, a personal grief, deeper than I had know before. There is something about the death of a child that is so desperately, inherently wrong; there is much about this broken world that is so desperately, inherently wrong.

//

A friend recently asked me, in preparation for a meaningful time with her grandmother, “if there was something, anything you could ask your grandmother, what would it be?” There are many things I wish I could chat to her about; my mom’s mother, one of my closest friends until her death, left earth and entered heaven the year I was expecting my first child. While we had lived much of my short life together, talking about everything under the sun for those twentysome years, I had not asked her much about motherhood; some, but not all the deep questions I now have. Even more than those pressing ones, however, I want to ask her… how do you deal with the compounding brokenness of the world, both personal and cosmic, over the course of a life? How do you live joyfully to the full in the midst of so much sadness? And heaven knows she had seen sadness; more death and war and desperation than most of my American generation could imagine.

But when I imagine sitting with her, at her small apartment table in the little home she made for herself after my grandpa died, I see her shaking her head and saying, “I don’t know, Beth. We just did, one day at a time. It’s all we could do, you know?” And I imagine finding so much wisdom in those words; not a clear path forward, but a perspective of resilience, of perseverance, of faith.

//

Could there be meaning in this darkness? Is there safety in the truth of God’s sovereignty? I believe there is, but I wrestle still. Francis Fernandez wrote, “everything that happens each day in the little universe of our work and our family, in the circle of our friends and acquaintances, can and must help us find God’s providence. Fulfillment of the divine will and the knowledge that it is being done is a source of serenity and gratitude.” I remembered a dear friend who walked through the dark valley of losing her baby daughter, and her words that God’s sovereignty was her safe place. Without the theological conviction that God has willed and ordered this world and our lives, all can feel desperately meaningless. I most certainly will never know the mind of God, but I know enough of his heart to know that he is trustworthy, even in the brokenness of the world. And even in our loss, he had given my nephew the gift of heaven. It was our loss, truly, not his.

In the end, our happiness is not the goal, is it? I may never feel fully happy again on this earth, and truthfully, I am at peace with that. I have seen too much, I have known too much, I have lost too much. I can join arms with many others who have suffered, who have known deep grief, who have experienced and lived in brokenness. I can share my story of God’s faithfulness in the midst of deep waters, and my hope of heaven.

No, happiness is not the goal; faithfulness is. And faithfulness looks like this: gratitude for what God has given, contentment with what he has not; perseverance in the midst of hardship; hope in the shadows. For we know, the shadows will one day pass, and we who are in Christ will experience joy uninhibited, finally and forever.

The Beauty of Lament

Image bethsbarthelemy, , , , Leave a comment

The slanting rain pounds the window incessantly; it’s been one of those days, where it rains the whole day. We awake to rain, we school to rain, we share dinner to rain, we head to bed to rain. The rain is good, so needed after our long, dry winter here in South Africa. It cleanses the air, it waters the soil and life within, it washes the dirt and dust away. It also reflects my heart today.

Since the passing of my nephew four months ago, I have spent a lot of time processing my pain in prayer. In the earliest days, when the prayers were more like moans, all I could offer was oh God, oh God, oh God, tears mingled with desperate cries of help them, help us.

On the very long, lonely trip back to the US, I copied Psalms into my journal, having no words or emotional capacity to form prayers of my own. A liturgy sent to my by a friend from the new Every Moment Holy Vol. 2 became my prayer for the next weeks:

Be nearer, O Christ, than I have ever known… comfort us, O God, in these hard and early hours of loss. Be to us a strength and light, for we are shocked, numbed as children spilled into cold seas… how can I make sense of this? Make peace with this? Have words for this? Though I scarce have words to pray, O Spirit of God, still let my tears, my groans, and my wounded silences rise as an incense of perpetual prayer, reminding you of my need… carry me. Carry all of us who grieve…

The last few months have found me awakening in the mornings to the Psalms, for a long while Psalm 77 in particular. I have noticed in a fresh way the honesty of these psalmists – the crying out to God, the questioning and deep doubts, the remembering of God’s faithfulness, the turning toward hope again. And this structure, commonly seen in laments throughout Scripture, has given me a way to pray through my own pain.

Crying out to God // In pain, the natural temptation is to turn inward: no one understands me or I’m so alone or everyone has moved on. It is an act of courage, then, to take the first step of turning to God and acknowledging his presence, which alone can conjure more pain. God is here, and yet this happened? In Psalm 77:3, the psalmist says, “when I remember God, I moan; when I meditate, my spirit faints.” It is not easy to acknowledge God in the midst of our suffering and grief, because in his omnipotence, he did not prevent this painful circumstance. And yet, we also realize in his omnipresence that we have never been, and truly never are, alone. He has been with us through the whole of our pain. It is courageous to turn to God in the midst of pain.

Voicing of complaints // Once we have turned our attention toward God, the pattern we see in Scripture is a vocalizing of questions, of complaints to him. We do not need to jump straight to hope, but rather honestly pour out our hearts to him. All of those disappointments, all of those questions, all of that pain – he is aware of it already, but like a knowing parent who waits patiently for his child to come to him, intimacy builds through honesty. “Has his steadfast love forever ceased? Are his promises at an end for all time?” the psalmist writes in 77:8. Well, that’s not very biblical, you might be thinking. And yet, biblical laments model for us a holy complaining, a pouring out of our hearts to our Father who wants us to.

Remembering God’s faithfulness // Once we have poured out our hearts to God, we recall how he has been with us throughout our lives, through the joys and pain of the past. Has he failed in his promises to me? Some laments at this point frame a request to God; Psalm 77 turns to remembering: “I will remember the deeds of the Lord, yes I will remember your wonders of old” (77:11). It may be that the goodness of God is obscured at this present moment, but I can recall his faithfulness in the past. Never once has his love failed; never once has he left me. Rather, he has been a shield for me and the lifter of my head (Ps. 3), my refuge and my strength (Ps. 9 and 18), my rock and my fortress and my deliverer (Ps. 18), the strength of my life and a very present help in trouble (Ps. 27 and 46), the strength of my heart and my portion forever (Ps. 73). This is what I know to be true of God.

Turning toward hope // This intimate honesty and remembering leads my heart to be renewed in hope. Through the tears, through the pounding rain, the relentless pain, my eyes again can look up to Jesus in deep hope and anticipation for his restoring work in my life and in the world. Recalling Israel’s exodus and Red Sea crossing, our psalmist declares, “Your way was through the sea, your path through the great waters; yet your footprints were unseen. You led your people like a flock…” Even when God’s way seems hidden to us, we trust his hand is guiding us, as he was guiding his people then, and has for all time. We turn our eyes again to the light, and we wait in hope, for him to make all things new, as he has promised someday.

The rain is still pouring down, my heart is still heavy. And so I will turn again to God, and in so doing, reject the narratives of my aloneness or the uniqueness of my suffering. Instead, I will join with the saints of old, the writers of Scripture, who have modeled to us how to pray through our pain. Give us courage, Father, to turn to you again today.

++ a book I found helpful on this topic is Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy by Mark Vroegop.

On Shadows and Home

Image bethsbarthelemy, , , , 3 Comments

The situation in Afghanistan has been heavy on my heart these weeks, for those who must stay and for those who must leave. For the uncertainty, the danger, the chaos. Perhaps it’s heavier for those of us who live outside of our “home” countries, for those of us who have experienced some level of uncertainty, of danger, of chaos. But then, we know these things can ensue anywhere, no matter your location. The shadows of this world are powerful.

A month ago, South Africa experienced the worst violence, the worst unrest, since the fall of apartheid in 1994. The bulk of it centered in our province, in which our city is central. At the height of it, Ben and I looked at each other, and realized that even if we felt like we should try to leave, how could we? Where could we go? Our highways were closed, all COVID testing centers were closed, most gas stations were closed. We had thrown our essentials into backpacks – you know, the documents, the charging cords, the single change of clothes for each of us, one stuffy per child. We looked around our house, our home of the past five years, and imagined the real possibility of just leaving everything if we must. It was disorienting, it was chaotic, it was awful. And we did not even need to leave in the end.

And even though we did not need to leave in the end, my mind and heart began the process of grieving our life of the past five years. I took photos of every single page in our family photo albums, knowing that an emergency evacuation would mean leaving those behind. Ben and I quietly decided which stuffed animal or doll each child would need most. We looked at our cat, our Turkish rugs from his parents, the quilts and guitar from mine. Of course, these are just material things, and yet they are the things that have made up our home. We thought of our friends here, our community here, the staff and students whom we love, this place that has become home to us. The fact of our citizenship and the privilege associated with it brought guilt; we could leave, but what about those who couldn’t? It was complicated. The idea of leaving it all, of leaving everything, was so overwhelming.

It was taste enough of the anxiety, grief, and trauma that can come with suddenly leaving your home, or suddenly losing your home, with the added complication of losing your country, your work, your community. We are still processing, a bit more fragile on this side of it, more compassionate toward those who live in the midst of this kind of uncertainty regularly, and deeply moved for those who have had to leave like this.

//

A few days ago, as I sat with my children during our daily morning time, we discussed this idea of home. One said, “South Africa is my home, this is where I have mostly grown up and where my cats are,” always the animal lover. Another child replied, “but I love America, that’s where I was born. I think that is where my home is.” I explained that the answer to that question is not even straightforward for me, even though I’ve spent most of my life in one country. We ultimately agreed that home is where our family is, that even the little farmhouse we occupied for a month during our home assignment felt like home while we stayed in it. “And,” I added, “I think there is a part of us that will never feel completely at home anywhere in this world. We will always feel a bit split between the people and things we love here, and the people and things we love in America, because neither of these is our true, forever home.”

Our true forever home. We sat a minute in that thought, the glorious idea that one day we will not have this longing for one place or another, that one day all things will be made new, that tears will be no more, that death will be no more. Some days, it’s hard to reach for the hope through the fog, isn’t it? We remember what Tolkien’s loyal and wise Sam Gamgee once said, “But in the end it’s only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass.”

On some level, we all know the pain of loss and longing for home. Perhaps those of us who’ve lived in worlds unfamiliar feel it a bit more strongly, yet it’s part of our human experience. We all seek to make our place in this world, our house into a home, our acquaintances into friends, our own little communities of which to be a part. But to keep our hearts rooted and grounded in Christ, rather than in a particular place, is to be at peace wherever in this world we find ourselves.

And so today, I am opening my hands again to this life we have here, this community and this home. I am hugging my children close, snuggling under quilts and soaking up our calm, keenly aware that it is fleeting, and this is not all we have. I am asking God to give peace to those who find themselves in the shadows of the world. And as been my habit these years, I turn my face upward toward the light, to be reminded that even the darkness must pass.

This Is What I Know

Image bethsbarthelemy, , , , 2 Comments

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

John 1:5

What is light without darkness?

—

“Look at the stars, Mom!” my daughter whispered loudly, as we walked outside near our house. I had returned from the US just a few weeks before, from what was the hardest, saddest trip I had ever made. We had lost our nephew tragically; months later, I still do not have words for the depth of collective pain both felt and witnessed in those weeks following, or for these current days.

I looked up, mirroring my daughter’s face. The stars were bright tonight, the winter air dry and crisp and cold, our breath coming out in little puffs. Cause out here in the dark, underneath a canopy of stars, constellations falling from your heart, promise me I’m not alone, cause I’m feeling so very alone… these words from Ellie Holcomb’s song had filled my ears on those long flights, echoing the silent screams in my head as I was suspended over an ocean between my grieving families.

“Yes, they’re so beautiful,” I murmured back, squeezing her hand. If it weren’t for the darkness, never would we witness the glory of these bright and burning balls throughout our galaxy. Would I rather there just not be the darkness? At that moment, yes. And yet he created them both. In the darkness, he gave glorious, beautiful, billions of bodies of light. Humans of all time have looked up in the night, just as we were now, and appreciated the miracle. Did God have to create stars, these sources of lovely light in our night sky? Do they exist only for his glory and our beauty?

We know now that stars are vital for the existence of life, particularly our largest star, the sun. Without it, all life on earth would be exposed to cosmic radiation; without photosynthesis, all plants, animals, and humans would die. Life could not be sustained on earth without stars. Even in the night, God is sustaining our very lives through the physical proximity of earth to the sun.

I held my daughter’s hand as we walked slowly home, both of us quiet, in our own thoughts. The stars are essential for the continued existence of our physical lives, and a source of beauty, comfort, and direction in the darkness of night. In him was life, and this life was the light of men…the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. As long as there has been darkness, longer has there been the true Light. Has the darkness not overcome us, though? Looking at the world some days, it is hard to say. Some days, the night is thick and the outline of the constellations is faint, but the stars are constant, existing no matter the obscurity between us and them. And every morning, the sun itself rises again as the earth turns. In the earliest breaking of the world, in the history of the breaking of the world, and in my current world breaking, light is overcoming darkness, both the literal physical darkness and the deep soul darkness. Jesus has been redeeming the world since its first breaking, and will not stop until the day when all is made new.

When I felt the light of the moon on my face, the memory of sun that been shining for days, you’ve already been in this desolate place, you’ve already been here, and You’ve made a way. Jesus has always been, but he has also physically walked this material dirt under our feet, breathed this air in our lungs, looked at our night sky with its glorious stars. He was with us, and he is with us. His light is breaking in, every day and every night, and in the hearts of those who look for him. This is what I know.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

Turning to God in the Anxiety

Image bethsbarthelemy, , , , Leave a comment

One night last week, around 2:30am, I dreamt a horrible dream. No matter how hard I tried to turn over and dream of something happier, I could not. So I got up, drank some water, and sat in our living room with my Bible. “Help, God” was the only prayer I could offer in the midst of that paralyzing anxiety, prompted by an unwelcome dream. Eventually, I fell back asleep until morning, feeling nearly tangibly wrapped in the arms of the Father: “I remember you upon my bed, meditate on you in the watches of the night; for you have been my help, in the shadow of your wings I will sing for joy” (Psalm 63:6-7).

As often happens though, the morning after a dark night like that, I woke feeling fragile in mind and sore in heart. My emotions were raw, my eyes weepy. I felt almost violated, that in the peace of my sleep, such horrible thoughts can enter my mind and deeply disturb my heart at rest. It can be tempting to welcome the light of the sun, the dark night leaving; to enjoy the first cup of coffee, the sounds of our happy home, and attempt to push out of the fragile place on my own.

Trusting God isn’t about never experiencing anxiety – it’s about turning to him in the anxiety.

Though it’s easy to move straight on with our lives while anxiety lurks in the depth of our minds, the habit of addressing our anxiety can be deeply helpful. I’m learning that it is better if I take the time to sort out with God what is happening on these dark nights, with these unwelcome thoughts. I do not expect to ever completely resolve anxiety this side of heaven, but rather to learn better how to deal with it through the power of the Spirit. Trusting God isn’t about never experiencing anxiety – it’s about turning to him in the anxiety.

What does it look like to turn to him in the anxiety? Let’s look at Phil. 4:5-7 as we think on this:

“The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

+ we name our requests to God. Is this because he doesn’t know them? By no means; but in the naming of our requests, of our anxiety, we acknowledge our total dependence on him. It also usually helps me to name my anxiety to someone else I’m close to, and ask for prayer.

+ we pray, in everything. A former pastor of mine once said, from this passage, that “anxiety and prayer are opposites… instead of being anxious, pray.” From my experience, I cannot be actively engaged in grateful prayer to God and be crippled by anxiety at the same time. As I mentioned above, in acute anxiety, sometimes the prayer is as simple as “help, God.”

+ we focus on thankfulness, particularly for who he is: “to begin by praising God for the fact that in this situation, as it is, he is so mightily God—such a beginning is the end of anxiety” (Karl Barth). We can proactively address anxiety by engaging in prayers of gratitude.

+ we let peace rule in our hearts. This is easier said than done, no? I’ve found that setting good boundaries around news and social media help tremendously as I fix my eyes on Christ (Heb. 12:2) and my mind stayed on him (Is. 26:3).

We recognize that fighting anxiety requires strength from God and his Spirit in us. But just as we are spiritual beings, so too our physical habits matter.

Amy Gannett recently articulated the importance of daily disciplines to combat anxiety in a short Instagram post, and provides practical ideas to do during the day. She writes, “God has seen it fit that the choices that we make in our practical lives deeply affect our experience of the work he is doing in the world.” I recommend her list here; perhaps we each take a few minutes to articulate our own practices on days in which we are struggling with anxiety.

How have you turned to God in your anxious moments? What practices have helped you when you awake from anxious nights?

Our Suffering is not Unique

Image bethsbarthelemy, , , , , 1 Comment

We are several months into the COVID-19 pandemic. Most of us have been “staying at home,” or in some form of lockdown for over a month now, some longer. These are strange times, difficult times, and we all know people who have suffered greatly because of this pandemic. We have suffered too: there are many losses, financial strain, anxiety and fear.

But our suffering is not unique.

We hear that these are unprecedented times, that our world will change forever, that things will never be the same. We read an over-abundance of information about our present day circumstances. We struggle to understand whom to trust, what information is accurate and unbiased, whose agenda we agreed with most. We deliberate over many judgment calls.

My point is not to undermine our suffering; my aim is to remind us that we join arms with many before us who have suffered greatly too. We would do well to think on the suffering of others throughout the course of history, to find encouragement in their stories of faithfulness; to limit our media intake, which promotes negativity and an obsession with our current time and crisis; and to continue pursuing Christian community in a time when it’s especially challenging.

My point is not to undermine our suffering; my aim is to remind us that we join arms with many before us who have suffered greatly too.

If we are consumed with our current day suffering, we cannot fix our eyes on Christ. If we are convinced that our suffering is unique, we are collectively self-centered. There are many reasons why we should choose to focus our minds on faith in Christ, on the faithfulness of God as he fulfills his promises, and not on the fear that we are tempted to experience during a worldwide pandemic. If we are to remain faithful as believers, and if our witness as a church is to proclaim peace and hope in a mighty God, we must actively live in faith rather than fear.

But… how?

Practically speaking, how do we choose faith over fear? How to we reject the narrative that our suffering is unique? Here are some suggestions that have been helping me lately.

+ take a spiritual, emotional, mental assessment

Let’s slow down, turn off all the “noise” and ask God to reveal to us what we are battling with. Why are you afraid? What is it that is making me fearful? Is it my health, or the health of my loved ones? Is it the financial strain that has hit, or is inevitably coming? Is it that people have said “life will never be the same” and the unknown is scary? Is it that I’m not sure I can do one more day with my kids at home running crazy, and yet I have a whole summer in front of me?

I encourage you to dust off the journal, and pour out your heart before God. Ask him to make plain your fears, your anxieties, your disappointments, your griefs. Jesus is our friend in grief, a lesson I have been learning for a few years. Pour out your heart to him, sit at his feet and rest in his love. It will do wonders for your weary, fearful soul.

+ reflect on history, and God’s faithfulness over the course of time

I’m sure many of you have seen this article reminding us of C.S. Lewis’ wise words written during a time when the threat of an atomic bomb was emerging. While the COVID-19 pandemic is a unique trial of our time, it is certainly not the first, nor likely the last, of it’s kind. Whether it be past pandemics, wars, economic or social strife, natural disasters, or any other crisis, our faith in an eternal God transcends the current event of 2020. Christians throughout history have sought to be faithful through hardships to a faithful God.

There are so many examples. Reread the stories of Noah, of Moses, of Joseph, of David, of the prophets. Many biblical characters experienced nationwide suffering on account of famine, war, persecution, enslavement. Many others experienced very difficult personal circumstances, and their stories have much to teach us too. Read Corrie ten Boom and her story of living as Christian during the Holocaust. Or read Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxes, or something by Dietrich Bonhoeffer (The Cost of Discipleship is a classic). Choose a Puritan writer. There are many over the course of history who’ve written honestly and brutally about suffering and faithfulness. These stories would encourage us again now.

+ limit media

I’m not the only one saying this, but there’s an overwhelming amount of media, mostly relatively negative, on the current state of our world. While it is important to keep up on a basic level so that we are informed, know how to behave and pray, we would do well to limit our time reading the news and engaging in social media. When we are reading constantly about predictions based upon worst case scenarios or data, we fail to take into account that we serve a God who is greater than this pandemic. His power and authority are not factored into the major news sources and so we are tempted to think the results are left to human experts. It’s worth saying again: God is greater than this pandemic!

We have the ability to choose the amount of media we consume, and this choice will directly affect our overall mindset.

We have the ability to choose the amount of media we consume, and this choice will directly affect our overall mindset. Check in once a day, or less, to keep updated. Then turn off the “noise” and use your time toward more holistic pursuits.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is brett-wisdom_pyramid-freebies-white-full.png
source: https://www.brettmccracken.com/blog/2017/8/3/the-wisdom-pyramid

Brett McCracken developed this pyramid three years ago: in this time “where we are bombarded by a glut of content and information but have so little wisdom, I think we need guidance on healthier habits of knowledge intake. We need a wisdom pyramid. We need to think about what sorts of “knowledge groups,” and in what proportion, feed a healthy life of true wisdom and true joy” (read full article here). His whole article is worth a read, and it is a worthwhile use of our time to ask these questions of our knowledge sources.

+ do not neglect community

Churches have been amazingly resourceful on the fly during this pandemic, and have provided all sorts of virtual support through online services, opportunities for counseling, Zoom (or WhatsApp in our case) small group meetings, etc. Meeting together online at the same time on Sunday does not, however, replace real life fellowship with believers – the body of Christ. In this time when we cannot or do not often see people in our communities, we still need to be intentional about pursuing community.

What does that look like during a pandemic? Checking in on each other. Making real phone calls. Sending cards, or ecards. Dropping off a bag of groceries or a meal. Sending emails. Reaching out particularly to the lonely. Not just to say “hi,” but to ask the deeper questions of:

  • how are you coping?
  • are you sleeping at night?
  • are you in the Word?
  • how can I support you?

The body of Christ needs each other, and all the more during a worldwide crisis. We are purposed to “bear each other’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2), and it just so happens that we collectively share a huge burden currently. If we neglect the fellowship of believers now, we will emerge from this weary, broken, and beaten down.

Look to Christ…and rejoice.

So, we reject that our suffering is unique, but look to the past, to the throngs of other faithful believers, and ultimately to Christ who experienced humanity’s deepest suffering on account of us. We choose to live in faith that God has got this, and not in fear. We are actively “fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart” (Hebrews 12:2-3).

And we cling to hope: “…we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance,  and endurance produces character, and character produces hope,  and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us” (Romans 5:3-5).