“When you are lost
in your own life.
When the landscape
you have known
falls away.
When your familiar path
becomes foreign
and you find yourself
a stranger
in the story you had held
most dear.
Then let yourself be lost.”
This is the beginning of a poem by Jan Richardson * that I read a few months ago. These words have been resonating in my mind and soul ever since. They spoke to what I knew was true in my life since Bob died, but that I had failed to fully recognize and process.
I have struggled to express in my journal all the confusion and emotions that I’ve been experiencing since moving to Minnesota at the beginning of my second year as a widow. Not long before reading this poem, I wrote this in my journal....
" My life feels like a coat that doesn’t quite fit. A little too snug in the middle, a little too short in the sleeves, a little too long in length—not absolutely terrible, not completely miserable, not unwearable, just uncomfortable enough that I seem to be constantly pulling and tugging, unable to feel at ease."
Moving to Minnesota has disrupted my life in a way that has taken me by surprise. It has uncovered emotions that were buried. It has left me feeling out of step and out of place, a wayfarer stranded between destinations who is uncertain how to proceed to get home again.
My life was profoundly disrupted, of course, by the loss of Bob in my life. But,it was a further disruption to leave the dearly loved home in Virginia, that lovely, light infused home that God so graciously provided for us to spend the last months of Bobs life here on earth, where I could still ”see” him in his recliner, on the deck, in the swing under the trees. It was a disruption to leave precious friends who cushioned my fresh grief with their presence and prayers, softening my landing in the new life of widowhood. I felt I was coping fairly well with my grief and loss, that first year of living without Bob.
It was a disruption to find myself in a land of bitter cold like I have never known before, more snow than I'd previously seen in my entire life, and a culture that is unexpectedly quite different from my ingrained southern way of life and speaking and thinking.
I did not fully realize how much I had not processed in this journey of grief and loneliness until my familiar landscape fell away.
It was a disruption to find myself an outsider in those aspects of my life that I had expected would quickly become a familiar haven and place of belonging...in the Bible study organization that had nurtured my faith for so many years previously, in the church community that still doesn't feel like home after all these months, in the apartment building where I live among people who smile and briefly greet me on the stairs while remaining strangers.
It was a disruption to feel not just alone, but profoundly lonely in a way more deeply than even in the first year of Bob's absence. It has profoundly shaken me...the raw, fresh welling up of sorrow and loneliness and aching for the presence of the one who was by my side for almost half a century and who now is so deeply absent in my life.
I almost didn't write this.
I almost decided not to publish this.
I hesitated to expose my sadness, my lostness, the vulnerability of being a stranger in my own life.
And yet...
Lament is present in the Bible.
Our God is not threatened, offended or diminished by our honest experiences of loss, grief, or disappointment. But, I'm afraid we have too often received the message that He is. Or that we are failing to be victorious, to trust God, or to have faith if we give voice to the sadness of the dark places in our lives.
Sometimes in Christian circles, if we are brave enough to share where we are at a dark moment, the response from others is to unconsciously minimize our feelings by too quickly quoting a verse, or pointing out our blessings, or making an "at least" statement, such as, "at least you had a good marriage for a long time"...."at least you have good memories..."at least you have...(fill in the blank,)"or any of the other responses that try to help us move past the expressed hurt. But these responses only make us feel unheard, unacknowledged, and somehow diminished for our feelings.
The intent is to be helpful. The reality is to make us lonelier in our grief.
I confess that I have been guilty of doing this to others also.
But by trying to move too quickly out of the hard places, the real losses of our stories and the accompanying grief, we are losing some truth about ourselves and about life here on this side of eternity. Because life is hard. And sometimes, life is grief. And it is not a denial of faith or trust or hope to acknowledge that. How can we help one another without being authentic about our own story?
I am learning that it is important to lean in to the hard because that is when I most truly lean in to Jesus.
I am learning that there is a time to "be still and know that I am God", without needing to do anything or accomplish anything or perform in any way. I am learning that there is a time to let myself be lost in my life and not to be too quick to shut that door, for God has a purpose even in this.
I read these words recently in an online retreat, "What if the very thing our soul needs to grow and flourish is a shock to its system? Could pausing and allowing life to come to a screeching halt enable us to articulate how God is moving in our lives? ... Transformation doesn't happen without a disruption. Christ making his home in our heart serves as a disruption to the old way: old patterns of thinking, old patterns of responding, old ways of dealing with bad habits.
Newness requires adjustment and reflection."
When a plant is disrupted by transplantation, it often goes into shock at first. It may droop and wilt, appear to stop growing, drop leaves and even turn yellow or brown on the edges. But, outward appearances are not the entire truth. With time and patience and not demanding too much of the plant at first, this disruption, if done with care in expert hands, will result in a plant that is healthier and more vigorous than before, one that thrives and flourishes. Without the disruption, the plant would not send out deeper roots and would become less than it was designed to be.
I take courage from the lessons God has put before us in His created world. I know that He is the Master Gardener and there is a skilled and loving hand working in and through my disrupted life, even when I feel lost in it, even when I am a stranger in my own story, struggling to make this life fit.
So, in these past months I have let myself be lost. I have opened the grief door and allowed myself to feel what I feel, pouring out my heart while embraced in the arms of my Heavenly Father, the One who knows me best and loves me most. I have both cried and sat tearless in my loneliness.
I have taken time for reflection. I have dug deep, I have examined my life, I have prayed and sought the face of God, I have asked questions about His purpose and plans for me in this season.
I have practiced opening my hands before the Lord, to both release and to receive.
I have given thanks for what was and I have mourned for what is not and will never be.
I have written verses on post it notes, I have made lists of spiritual aspirations, I have revised my bucket list, I have thought extensively about this last season of my life and what it should look like and how then I should live. I have become aware of long standing bad habits, broken-record reactions, places of unforgiveness and deeply ingrained false thinking about myself and have realized anew how desperately I need God's grace every moment of every day.
I have not been blooming, but I pray that I have been growing. And I trust that eventually I will grow into this new life of mine, that it will not feel so ill-fitting and strange. But a little discomfort, a little lostness, a little feeling of being a stranger is a part of living on this side of Heaven. Because only when I am aware of being not quite at home in my story do I turn my eyes on the Storymaker and ask Him for His presence and provision and promises to guide me and comfort me and call me daily to find my home only in Him.
And even in this season of feeling lost, disrupted, a stranger, there is so much for which to be thankful and so many moments of pure joy and delight. There are flashes of glory, vistas of beauty, heart warming hugs and cries of delight from my grandchildren, soul stirring praise, sweet phone calls and texts from true friends, and always, always, always the anchor holds, the foundation is secure, and my Savior holds me fast. I may feel lost, but I know I am not ever truly lost.
I am beginning to see and feel signs of newness again, of finding my way again, of new roots pushing down and new growth breaking forth. It is subtle, but it is there. God is still writing new chapters in my story. I am closer to the finale, but He is still developing the plot, introducing new characters, new conflicts, new resolutions before He closes the book. I will never stop missing Bob's presence, but I choose to embrace the entire story, knowing that He writes it with love for my good and His glory.
I pray that my sharing this with you will give you some encouragement, some comfort, some hope for your own story in the hard times, and courage to share it with others for their comfort.
"He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us." 2 Corinthians 1:4
*the poem at the beginning is from the book The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief by Jan Richardson
One of the many songs God has used to assure me during this disrupted year...He Will Hold Me Fast by Keith and Kristen Getty....listen here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=936BapRFHaQ
