The truth

I just finished watching Good Night and Good Luck, which is an excellent movie. On the companion piece on the DVD is a quote by Edward R. Murrow that I loved. In the spirit of this quote, I will refrain from embellishing with my own thoughts, and just let it stand on it's own.

"Most truths are so naked that people feel sorry for them and cover them up, at least a little bit."

Dark Nights of the Soul

I began reading the book Dark Nights of the Soul by Thomas Moore for my CPE class. Although I've only read about 70 pages, it has already gripped me and helped me. The second sentence of the introduction really jumped out at me.

"If your main interest in life is health, you may quickly try to overcome the darkness. But if you are looking for meaning, character, and personal substance, you may discover that a dark night has many important gifts for you. "

It made me reevaluate my treatment of trials and pain. With my divorce, as well as other difficult times in my life, I have wanted to get over it and through it as quickly as I can so I can return to "life as normal" (whatever that is). But should that really be my goal, to simply be in health and in peace? Isn't meaning, character, and personal substance far better of a goal? There is nothing wrong with wanting to be in health and be happy and at peace. But that should not be viewed as simply the absence of trials. If it is, then this "dark night of the soul" is an interruption, an enemy to be defeated to get back where I was. But when I look at the more important things like meaning and character, I realize that those things are most often found in the dark nights. Therefore the dark nights should be fully embraced. I should not fear it or run from it. For it is only through the dark nights that I can get that which I ultimately desire.

Healing grief

"Grief is ugly. The journey through it is excruciating. When people have worked through it, they will bear scars. But they will feel cleansed, unburdened and full of hope. For strange as it may seem, people who travel this jagged road are almost always enriched. They are more realistic, more compassionate, more profoundly human. In short, they are nearly always more beautiful than they ever could have been before traveling through grief."
-Judith Tate Learning to Live Again: The Journey Through Grief for the Widowed or Divorced

This is an excellent quote, that I feel really captures my journey for the last nine months. A journey I am still in the middle of. It expresses the pain and healing that I have experienced. A scar is a very accurate description. I will never look the same as I did before. The scar is a part of who I am. I will never forget the wound. It reminds me never to make the same mistake again. It reminds me of the pain that may seem so long ago. But the great thing about a scar is that while it may remind me of the pain, it doesn't still hurt.

Someday this divorce will be just a scar. It's no longer a gaping wound, bleeding and infected. But it's also not completely healed. Sometimes the initial scab opens back up. It still hurts. It still bleeds. It's still tender. But it's healing. The pain isn't as bad or constant. And it's getting better. And someday, it will just be a scar. A beautiful scar that makes me who I am.

I would never wish this experience on anyone. But I would never go back to who I was before. I have learned things about myself and about life that I probably would not have learned otherwise. I believe it has made me "more realistic, more compassionate, more profoundly human". And I will be a more beautiful person because of the scars.

Grace for God

I read something last week that I've been chewing on quite a bit. I'm still not sure how I feel about it, but I do think there is something valuable in it. I was reading a pamphlet on being angry with God. It mentioned something from the Jewish tradition where a rabbi prayed that God would forgive him for the things he has done, and in turn he would forgive God for the things He has done. It raised an interesting thought: if we expect God to grant us grace and forgiveness for all the ways we mess up, can we offer the same to God?

The initial problem I have with this concept is that I believe God is perfect, and to say that he needs grace or forgiveness seems to contradict that. But it's not that God needs our grace (after all, who are we to forgive God), it's that we need to grant grace. I may know in my head that God is perfect, but there are still times that I wonder why He did or did not do something. Let's be honest: there is a reason that the question of theodicy is still debated. Theodicy is the theological term for the age-old question of why an all-powerful and good God would allow evil things to happen to good people. If God has the cure for cancer, is He responsible for keeping it from us? Tons of books have been written about the issue, and yet the question persists. We may answer the question in our heads, but when a situation hits our heart with the question, all those answers don't seem to matter. I believe it's one of those things that will never be fully understood until we get to heaven.

So can we offer God grace for the things He does that don't make sense and seem to betray His character? My CPE supervisor commented this week that our relationship with God tends to be so drastically different from any other relationship we have. She said she will never forget the day she realized that her earthly father couldn't protect her from everything. And she will never forget the day she realized her Heavenly Father couldn't protect her from everything either. But she knows He wants to. And He hurts just as much as she does. Why He protects some people from some things, and not others, I may never completely understand. But I am not called to understand everything completely. Faith has to play some role.

If God is truly our friend, and we treat Him that way, should we not offer to Him the same grace we expect from Him? My head may know that He is perfect and does nothing wrong. But my heart wonders sometimes.

Don't write me off as a heretic who's gone off the deep end. I'm not trying to convince you of anything. These are just my theological questionings. It's something I'm chewing on.

Yea though I walk

I was thinking today about another comment my counselor made awhile back. We were again talking about this sense of urgency I had to get things "solved" or "fixed". He said to me, "It sounds like you want to rewrite the 23rd Psalm to say 'Yea though I run through the valley of the shadow of death.'". It really struck me, and has been a source of contemplation for me. Why shouldn't we run through the pain? What is the purpose of walking? Naturally I want to rush through the painful times to get to the point where I feel better. And yet, it seems that there is value in walking. Perhaps the experience is more important than the end result. Perhaps there is something we miss when we run.

And what am I running from? Pain seems to be the obvious answer. But can I ever escape pain? Is it not a part of life? Is it not what makes me stronger? I view pain as an enemy to be conquered. When something happens that causes me pain, I see what can be done to avoid that pain again. This results in growth. And because of that growth, I am a much better person. So in some ways, that pain that I hate so much is also my ally.

My divorce is a great example of this. It has caused me more pain than I have ever had before. It's something that I would not wish on anyone, and hope I never endure again. And yet, if given the option, I wouldn't go back to the person I was before. I have grown and changed so much because of this divorce, and I wouldn't trade that for anything.

But I find myself just wanting it to be over. I am sick of the pain. I know that I am on the upward part of the valley. Sometimes I can see the light at the top so clearly that I forget I'm still in the valley. Until I trip on something and am reminded that I am not there yet. The valley is still here, and so is the pain. I suppose that means growth is still here as well, but that's only a mild encouragement. I wish I could run. I wish I could get it all over with. I want to move on. And yet this divorce will probably never be completely over. It will impact me for the rest of my life, and hit me when I least expect it. For such are the characteristics of grief. The wound may heal, but there will always be a scar. A scar to remind me of the pain so that I won't go through it again. But until that time, I will try to walk.

Puzzle

This is a puzzle that I have hanging in my living room. It is an expression of my life, and a reminder to me as well.

I have been meeting with a counselor to help me deal with my divorce. One day we were discussing my preoccupation of having others think I am perfect. I know that I’m not perfect, but I like to portray that picture to others. That has been one of the most difficult implications of this divorce for me, it shatters that picture. I had this drive to get everything figured out and have everything be “right”. And I wanted it done quickly, before people saw that I didn’t have it all together. He asked me, “If you are putting together a puzzle, and are missing several pieces, if you put together all the pieces you have, is the puzzle perfect?” It was something I hadn’t really thought about before. If you don’t have all the pieces, it’s impossible to have the entire thing together. I don’t have to have all the pieces in place. In fact, I never will. But that’s OK. I can be happy with having done my best with what I have been given so far. I started a puzzle to illustrate and remind me of this concept. Some of the pieces I have lost (or should I say my cat lost for me). Some places I looked and looked for the right piece, and could never find it. Some pieces I have, I just haven’t gotten them in place right now.

Like any metaphor, it’s not perfect. In retrospect, if this is an expression of my life, I should have a lot more pieces missing! But I got caught up with putting the puzzle together, and didn’t want to stop. When you’re working with a puzzle, after you’ve put a piece in place, you can be pretty sure that it’s in the right place. In life, it’s not that easy. I have often discovered pieces that I thought were in the right place were not. There are also times that pieces I had in place fall out. In life, it’s rarely a continually steady progression. But despite these differences, this puzzle has been a powerful reminder to me that I am “a work in progress”, and that’s OK. I can hang my incompleteness proudly on my wall for others to see. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.

By the way, the puzzle is of Thomas Kinkade’s painting Courage.