I’m thinking tonight about the mom who can’t handle one more surprise or disappointment or reminder of the life she’s trying to leave behind.
Of the desire to walk away that lurks behind “just go to bed and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
Of the overwhelming love for this person and wanting better for them than they can see.
Of wanting better for yourself.
I’m thinking tonight of the sense of aloneness that comes from being unknown by those around you. Not just misunderstood. Understanding and misunderstanding is about facts. Knowing and being known is about relationships and investment and choosing and staying.
Of not knowing who you can turn to and say “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Of knowing you’ve gotten through it before.
Of being afraid that this time you actually can’t.
I’m thinking tonight of the compounded losses we’ve faced. How 2015 me might not speak to 2023 me. I mean, yes she would, she would be polite to my face, but she would probably turn around and write a scathing, judgmental Facebook post about me.
Of the ways we’ve had to continue to grow up too fast.
Of the ways we wish we could unlearn what we know.
Of how we can be wise and innocent and cynical and naive.
I’m thinking tonight of the unspeakable pains that we try to form into words or paragraphs.
Of longing to reach out and let ourselves be known this time.
Of feeling the immensity of the chasm between the rocky cliffside we stand on, knowing what we know and experiencing what we’ve experienced, and the gentle slope where we see those standing who want to help us but really truly don’t know how.
Of how not knowing how and trying anyway is beautiful and also harmful, sometimes at the same time.
And as I type these words I have this western-evangelical-urge to pop in a Bible verse and say “but good news, friend!” because that’s what I was trained to do. Gloss over the hard parts of life and move forward as quickly as possible to the happy.
And I’m not going to do that.
Instead, on this slightly stormy Wednesday night in early September, when you’re facing a school calendar and fundraisers and equipment fees and the “real” school supply list and the sign ups for activities and juggling birthday party invites and setting up homework schedules and trying to get everyone to just sit down and eat a nice dinner, and that unwelcome surprise joins you in what should be your safe place…
…I’ll pull up a chair and sit with you
…I’ll look across the table at you and see you and the panic in your eyes
…and I won’t look away.
I can’t know all that you know, but I will believe what you’re able to tell me.
I haven’t experienced the thing that has shattered your heart. Just my own “things.” And they can never be the same as yours. But I will wait with you to find the words to express it. Even if you never quite find the words.
What you’re facing may be too much, but you aren’t. And okay, maybe you are “too much” today, but even your too much is just right. When you’re facing something awful, you are allowed to have an awful reaction. Somehow we’ve conditioned ourselves to believe and behave as if “keeping everything together” is a virtue. But it’s okay to fall apart when everything is falling apart.
Even if you don’t know if things will be alright.
Even if you feel like the feelings will take over and you’ll never recover.
Some things change us forever. And some things change us for a moment. And most things fall somewhere in between.
I hope that you will have people who believe you and sit with you and shoo away the well-meaning people with platitudes.
I hope that you will have compassion for yourself and your reactions.
I hope that you will believe that the night doesn’t last forever. I hope the light of sunrise and joy finds you and surprises you as much as the circumstances that left you reeling.
I hope. For you.
Just some pretty potent, knowing, emotionally generous thoughts from you on this Thursday morning.