“I finally reminded myself that there is simply no way to truly comprehend the struggles of another.”
—Kirsten Mickelwait, The Ashtrays are Full and the Glasses are Empty
I fell mute.
After Joey died, stringing together a few words felt impossible. As of today, it’s been thirty-one months, and my ability to hold a conversation has improved, but I don’t have many topics at my disposal. My range isn’t wide. You may know that. Recently, I found a literal broken record on the street and wondered if that was a metaphor for me. Had I become that? Had it just fallen from the heavens as a subtle hint? That I can speak at all for any length of time is one of the few things that has “gotten better” since the *death of my son, but Joey and grief are often my go-to genres. And that doesn’t feel very optional. So I might be a broken record for some time.
I listened to a podcast today about the loss of actor Gary Sinise’s son, Mac. Early on, Sinise used a word that stuck in my ear: “Manage.” He said that grief doesn’t go away, but you learn to manage it. My initial reaction was no, grief is unmanageable; it’s like a bull in a china shop. It’s untamable. I decided that a word I prefer to use is “carry.” Over time, you might learn to carry grief, even if it often feels unwieldy. I don’t know, maybe they mean the same thing.
Days ago, I watched a twelve-minute interview with a mother whose eight-year-old daughter died this past 4th of July. The funeral was scheduled for later that day, following this interview. The mom had lost her husband—her daughter’s daddy—this past March, and her brother in June, which she said prepared her for the loss of her daughter, and that she was “coping very well.” I didn’t like the feelings I had as I watched, and I hesitate to admit that. The two terrible J’s: I felt jealous and judgmental of how composed she was, even though I know I would never want someone to judge how I process grief. I kept reminding myself that she was in shock, and shock manifests differently in those grieving. Plus, I don’t know her biochemistry, her history, her circumstances, or anything other than these twelve minutes, which I viewed through the filter of my own biochemistry, history, traumas, and so on. I can’t know how many tears she cries in private. Like me, this mother only deserves empathy and the freedom to grieve in whatever way she can manage or carry. Someone might watch the video of Joey’s service online and see that I was able to stand at the lectern and speak (read), and judge me. I was in a state of wordless devastation, shock, and autopilot.
I am still in shock, but that feeling has lessened over time, replaced by a sharper sense of reality and pain. I hesitate to say this, too, because the pain was so intense at first; if someone had told me it would get worse (before it “got better”), I wonder how much that would have helped me. Maybe it would have. I know, for me, shallow, trite encouragements do not lift me. I’ve always preferred hard truths over soft lies. Still, I would always want to hold onto hope for a better tomorrow and share that with someone else who is hurting. It might just be a bit of a tightrope.
I’m reading Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy by Mark Vroegop, and it’s what I wish I’d have found thirty-one months ago. For someone like me—with customized biochemistry, history, hurts—this is the very thing that helps me not feel so alone or judged for how I’m navigating grief. It’s profoundly refreshing—dare I say, revolutionary—and unlike any other Christian book I’ve read. It may just turn the tables.
When I am told to “be strong,” whether it’s on a page or from someone’s lips, what I hear is, “You really ought to aspire to be strong because right now? You are weak. And weak is bad. Weak is definitely not spiritual or faithful or good. You’re really not repping Jesus well.” So. Much. Pressure.
However, upon closer examination of the phrase “Be strong” (in scripture), I wonder if I’ve misinterpreted it. It’s not putting a fake smile on, playing a part, or attempting to flex sagging triceps on my broken arm to impress or prove. I think it might be God’s strength infusing us like at an IV hydration spa: filling us, doing for us what we can’t do for ourselves. It’s an alchemy. When I am weak, He is strong, it says. It’s a little like that quote hanging on my bathroom wall that says, “Not to spoil the ending, but everything is going to be OK.” For a long time after Joey died, seeing that quote felt like a slap in the face. I considered taking it down. I now realize that ‘OK’ can have different meanings, and I read it as a comfort. The same is true for “be strong,” spoken or read.
What does strong look like? It can look like weakness. Just like me.
If I’m a broken record, please bear with me, I’m turning as fast as I can.
*I believe he lives.
Click here for my beautiful, brilliant friend’s newly released novel, The Ashtrays are Full and the Glasses are Empty by Kirsten Mickelwait