Grieving the (Maybe Not So Little Things) Anew

After about nine years living with focal dystonia in my right hand, you think I would have gotten used to it. In many ways, I have. I accept, or at least am used to, my hand curling. Taking medication three times a day is routine. Oversalting my food to counteract the hypotensive effects of the medication is a regular practice. I always type holding a pen and often find pens lying around the house because I forgot I was holding one in order to straighten out my hand. But then there are times like my botox injection a few weeks ago when I realize anew the relative permanency (unless God should choose to supernaturally heal me) of my condition.

I work for days, sometimes weeks, up to my botox appointment to get everything possible done so that I can rest after my injections. I learned the hard way that doing housework spreads the botox, especially cooking and cleaning that involves repetitive movement. When the botox spreads, it not only fails to treat my condition, but makes my hand weak, so weak that I can't turn the key in an ignition, unscrew the gas cap on the car, or even clip my own fingernails. No fun, so I prep. I prep and freeze food. I do chores like a crazy women. I usually rush right up to my appointment, sliding in the door just when I am due. I liken it it to the nesting pregnant women do before they give birth, only I am not giving birth. I am receiving toxins into my body to release my muscles and prevent them cramping so hard it feels like I have wires pulling my fingers back into my skin.

I experienced a few moments of mental relief after getting my botox injections this time, but when I went to schedule my next appointment, I felt grief. I grieved the fact that I will have to go through this cycle all over again. I grieved that I had to schedule this appointment around a planned visit to a friend, as that visit requires toting my luggage around, and would therefore not be appropriate after botox, when my arm was supposed to rest. I grieved that this botox treatment cycle will be my life for the rest of my life, unless God heals me.

In some respects, these are little things. Focal dystonia is not a terminal condition. It's not cancer. I shouldn't die of it. While I cannot do repetitive motions for three days after botox, I can walk. I can run. Botox doesn't make me sick or ill overall (as do chemo and other such treatments). Other than a few tiny injection pricks and ongoing muscle atrophy from the injections, my arm does not look much different. My condition is chronic, though, and that brings with it some grief. Maybe that grief is more about the little than the big things, but it's still grief, and I am still needing to work through it. Maybe this is part of my sanctification process. Maybe this is part of my journey in practicing self-acceptance and self-compassion. Whatever it is, may the Lord help me through it, because only in and through him are all things possible.

When You're Losing a Loved One (And They're Still Here)

I have lost a variety of loved ones over the course of my life. Some have been family. Some have been friends. Some have been friends that felt like family. Several I have lost before it seemed like time to lose them. Some I have lost while they were still on earth. Losing the people we love is extremely difficult, whether they are still living, or actually dead. Sometimes I lose people to relationship struggles and they cut me off. Sometimes the person loses capacity due to a physical health issue (such as a stroke that affects speech). Sometimes the person becomes a shell of their former selves due to a neurological or mental health condition (eg Alzheimer's or a mental illness). It's hard. It's still a loss.

In the midst of some of these losses, I received some wise counsel. "Who they are now does not take away from who they were," he said. Another time, he said, "You've done enough." Those words have stuck with me.

When I feel grief over "loss" of a loved one who is still here, I feel that I have lost all that they are/were. It almost feels worse that if they died, because if they died, I would still have those memories. Now, it feels like something else is replacing those good times. To the counsel I received, though, change cannot take people away from us. That includes both physical death and emotional/mental/relational death. We can choose what to hold onto. I am learning to choose to remember the good, and let the rest go.

As I learn to grieve people who are still here, I wonder if some of those people grieve, too. Maybe they grieve the decision that separated them from us, temporarily or permanently. If they realize they are losing cognitive faculties, they may grieve that loss, too. Or maybe they want to keep their mood regulated, but cannot. They may grieve the loss of their self-control, or even the personality they once had. They may grieve themselves.

Grief is a thing, whether I am grieving a person still here, gone to be with the Lord, or gone someone else. I can even grieve loss of my former self. Nothing can truly take away the past. I can choose to remember it. I can choose not to let today steal the joy of yesterday. I can choose to acknowledge the former good of a person, even if things are not good now. I can choose to see the person as good, even if they are not able to act good or be good to me now.

A Tribute to My Granddad

My granddad was a great navigator, able to read the clouds and move around and through storms, able to locate and set down a small Helio plane on tiny mountain airstrips. And now he’s home, the direction his heart has always pointed.

Granddad grew up an athlete. He wanted to run in college, but when that dream failed due to struggles with illness, he attended Bible school instead. He dreamed of becoming a pilot, but couldn’t enter the Air Force because of his susceptibility to bronchitis. He committed his life to full-time Christian service, believing that he belonged to the Lord, and that if the Lord wanted his dreams to happen, they would.

Granddad met my nana at a Wycliffe school in Norman, Oklahoma. He didn’t pursue her before first asking her age. Gentleman that he was, he wanted to make sure he was being appropriate in his pursuit. He spent further time with Nana at Jungle Camp in Mexico and there proposed to her. Nana’s mom, Sarah (my namesake) gave him her diamond for Nana’s engagement ring. God did provide for Granddad to become a pilot. Wycliffe needed jungle pilots and Granddad became the only pilot Wycliffe ever paid to train.

Granddad was circling for a while. I noticed in Thanksgiving 2022 when I called him on the phone. He kept repeating himself, but he was repeating over and over that we should thank the Lord. I could not complain. I knew he was slipping when he called my cell phone and talked to me like my mom, his daughter. He did not quite get details of my life right when he realized who he was talking to, but he remembered my husband's career, and that made me smile.

I saw him last December 28, 2023. He was sitting in a wheelchair in his nursing home room. He did not quite remember who I was, but I think he eventually got it. We spent the hour I was there looking at family photos. He got several names wrong, but still seemed to remember who went with whom. He noted that he liked pictures because it reminded him to pray. It was music to my ears when he read scriptures aloud from some of the cards on his dresser.

When I went to go, Granddad tried several times to lift himself out of his wheelchair. “I want to walk you out,” he said. I reassured him that it was not necessary, that he could rest.
As I turned to close his doors, I heard him say, “I guess I won't be seeing you again.” Tears sprung to my eyes. I was not sure if he meant on my current visit, or eternity, and to comfort him, I replied about the present moment.

“No, I have to fly home soon,” I said.

I knew that most likely that I would not see him again, though, at least this side of heaven and I didn't. He took a short flight home to glory on Saturday, May 31^st, after a rapid decline in health experienced the day before.

Granddad is now a citizen a citizen of heaven. He has landed and is finally home. Though I will see him here on earth no more, I have confidence that I will see after I, too, take my final flight. Granddad trusted Jesus as his Savior and in part because of the legacy he left his family, I do, too.

Getting Present Requires Grief.

After all the lessons I have already learned about grief, I think I learned another one: Getting present requires grief. It's not necessarily profound. It's not necessarily deep, but it's meaningful.

I think this lesson came to me after talking to my therapist about getting into a funk when things don't go my way. I don't want to be upset. I don't want to be mean to my husband. I don't want to have a bad rest of the day. I just can't seem to get over my "bad" (unwanted) feelings. That was when she said to me, "Maybe you just need to take a minute to two to grieve." It's not a big grief, but it's a grief when things don't go my way, when expectations die. Maybe they need their moment.

As I started practicing what she told me, I started to realize how often I am not in the moment because I haven't grieved. I'm holding on to what I thought would happen. I'm clinging to past memories. I'm clinging to past hurts. I'm not here because I'm there. I'm not here because there didn't happen. What if I took a moment to just grieve that and let it go?

I'm not good at grieving. I never have been. Life continues to teach me to do so, though. God continues to teach me. As the Heavenly Father, he went through the ultimate grief of losing his beloved Son, so I am sure He gets it. He is here with me, if I grieve, and if I don't He is with me too. I just might not recognize his Presence if I'm not present. 

Grief Part 2: It’s "Just" A Car

There’s the grief of true loss, the grief of giving up, and then there’s the grief of losing things that “aren’t important,” like cars.

Four years ago, I was in a three car accident and my almost brand new car required over half of what I paid for it in repairs. Fast forward to last month when I got rear-ended again* worse, and my car was totaled. I knew to expect that, but had a little hope after my insurance agent said it looked fixable. I got the estimate and though it was almost equal to Kelly Blue Book value, it still looked like they would fix it. I breathed a sigh of relief and even wrote getting the car back and wrapping up accident stuff as a goal for November. Then I got the call that the car was indeed totaled. Insurance would give us decent money for the car, but we had to sign over the title, mail off the keys, and call the body shop to tell them to send it off. I felt a sense of loss.

This was the first (almost new) car I ever bought. It was the first car I bought as a working professional. The car held lots of memories, from work trips, to doctor travels, to our honeymoon, to my daily commutes. It was a really nice car, and I worked hard to keep it that way (minus the one fender scratch I got because of my bad parking skills). I felt comfortable in that car. And now it was gone. I wouldn’t ever even drive it again.

Now we needed to look for a new car, too. That brought on new grief: grief of time that I planned to use to do other things. Buying a new car isn’t quick. Nor are licensing, tagging, emission checks, etc. Grief upon grief.

It’s just a car. It’s not a place, or a person, or even a possession that has immense value. Although a car can enable kingdom work, I know I can’t take it to heaven. Even yet, I still feel grief. May God guide me through it, because man, this grief is piling up. "Just" grief or not, it's still grief, and it's painful.

*My passenger and I are sore, but okay. This accident could have been much worse, and we praise God for his provision in and through it, even with the grief.

Three Reasons Why Happiness Is Hard

I used to think that happiness came easily, without effort. In fact, I think I defined happiness by its unwilled nature. But is that truly the case? Does happiness always come without work? I've come to believe lately that happiness is often hard. Here are three reasons why:

1) Sometimes our brains don't have what they need. Happiness requires both an activating event and a brain response. Sometimes our brains don't have what it takes to respond in a way that makes us feel happy, that is, the chemicals that happy antecedents should trigger don't come. This is why I personally believe that medication is sometimes necessary. Sometimes our brains need help to work the way that God-intended. Taking medication can have its own side effects, though. It can be hard, especially is a culture that still casts shame on mental health struggles. But the hard of medication, short- or long-term may be what is required to actually feel happy.

2) Happiness itself can bring with it feelings of guilt. In the midst of hard times, it can feel bad, even wrong to have happiness. When loved ones die, when people are in, when we are in the midst of a pandemic, happiness feels out of place. I think that's one of the reasons God gave us happiness, though, to sustain us in times of trial. It is hard to let happiness come when it feels like all we should feel is pain, but we should let it, because it may be that happiness that gets us through.

3) Fear can come in tow. It can be scary to feel happiness, because if we let ourselves have it, we acknowledge that we may soon not have it. Some of us would rather live in the expected hard than cope with the pain that comes from the ebb and flow of happiness. There isn't really a fix here, other than to acknowledge the fear and feel happy anyway. To live in fear is no way to live.

Is happiness worth it? Yes, I think it is. But happiness is also hard. I think if we acknowledged that, we might work a little more to achieve happiness, and in so doing, increase our appreciation of it.

And Then There's the Rainbow.

As I look at the April calendar and cross off each day, I note the dearth of activities. The events I've crossed out. The mind-numbing way the days have run together. And then I see the photo above the days. The rainbow over the canyon. The sign of God's promise. A sign of lessons learned. A sign of waiting. A sign of hope that there is a better tomorrow. 

The days of waiting and struggle aren't over yet, but surely some good is coming from them. There is much less traffic on the way to work. (Yes, I still go to work, because I work in an essential field.) The world is quieter. There is less pollution.

We got invited into a small group at church. Friends have made more of an effort to connect. I've had to recognize again and again how weak I am and how much I need God's grace, and then the grace of others. I've had to ask my husband for a lot more help, and he has gladly given it.

There's nothing really to do on weekends, so I've been resting more. All my races were cancelled or postponed, so I took a break from running. There aren't all the foods I want at the grocery store, so I've been forced to cook more creatively.

I wouldn't (and didn't) choose this time. I have certainly felt a lot of sadness and grief. I may feel a lot more. There are so many cancelled plans already, and maybe more to come. But then there's the rainbow. 

God is still working. God is still teaching. God is still acting. May we look in awe toward Him.

The Power of the "&"

I am a counselor. But I am a young one, and an inexperienced one at that. And that's why I appreciate supervision, and supervisors, the older, wiser women who watch what I do and point out how I can do it better. Lately, my supervisors have pointed out how often I use the word, "But."

"Yes, but."
"But have you thought of."
"But you're making progress.":

"But is a dismissive word," they say. And as I've listened, I've realized they're right. But leaves room for only one option. And many, many things in life co-exist. Like joy and grief, like happiness and sorrow, like hard and good. The more and more I think about it, the more I realize the power of the "and."

My own life presently is full of ands. The goodness of marriage and the pain of its growth. The fulfillment of my work and the sorrow it brings. The excitement of what's ahead and the sadness of what I will leave. The pleasantness of friends and the way they call me out on my weaknesses and failings. The gracious salvation of Jesus and the conviction of the Holy Spirit. The joy of this present world, and yet intense longing for the one to come.

There's power in the and, friends. There is power in letting seeming opposites co-exist. Difficulty comes with the "but," because it leaves no space for all the complexities that are life.

So here's to the "&", and using it more, in work, life, and beyond!

The Co-Existence of Joy and Grief

A lot of good things are happening in my life right now, like really good things. Things I've hoped for, prayed for, and wanted for ages. Things worth celebrating. 

Although I feel a great deal of joy, I've also feel quite a bit of sadness, however. And I don't like it. But the more I think about it, the more I think it's appropriate. Because I think growth into the person God wants me to be involves grief. Grieving my old life and looking forward to the new. Giving up good things in favor of better things. Mourning the comfortable known of the past, and moving into the discomfort of the unknown future. 

I keep waiting for a day where I feel joy exclusive of sadness, but I don't think that's an attainable goal. Rather, I think that joy coexists with grief.  With each season of life comes an accompanying sorrow:

With the joy of adulthood comes the passing of childhood.
With the joy of a steady work comes the loss of flexible time.
With the joy of moving to be close to family comes the loss of those who were like family.
With the joy of marriage comes the surrender of one's individuality.
With the joy of parenting comes the pain of childbirth.
With the joy of a child's growth comes the sorrow of lost innocence.
With the joy of retirement comes the pain of finding a new identity.
With the joy of a loved one's home going to heaven comes the pain of their earthly absence.

Joy and grief. Grief and joy. We wouldn't appreciate what we have so much if it didn't come with some pain.

As we anticipate the coming of a new year, may we all embrace the joys of life along with the grief. May we all believe that grief and joy can co-exist, because if we don't, we may miss out on enjoying the joys of life all together.