Just Keep Swimming

This is the inaugural article I wrote for our newsletter at the Amelia Center:

Just Keep Swimming – Jennifer Baker 8-26-09
It has been six weeks since I dove into the world of grief counseling at the Amelia center. In this short time I have learned a great deal, and have been touched by so many people and their personal stories of hope and healing. I have seen people who have just been hit with the hardest news they have ever faced, the death of someone close to them, and I have seen people who are a little further down the path on the road of hope and healing. I think about their grief and their loss, and while they are unique in their stories and circumstance, their pain seems universal. There seems to be one underlying theme in the counseling room, they want to be better, to work their way out of the intense pain and to feel better. One mom stated it something like this, she didn’t want to forget her child, she said, “I just don’t want to cry every time I remember him.” So the key is that grieving people want to be able to hold on and yet, somehow let go of the pain of the loss.

Hearing this mom, and many others parents speak of their grief, I have come to a conclusion about the process of grief. In many ways I see grief as very similar to the ocean. When people are at the beginning they feel like they are alone, floating in a deep dark, ocean, and there is no land around to cling to… nothing stable. They are using every bit of their energy to survive. They weather storms and waves of overwhelming grief. Sometimes it is so hard, they feel like they can not hold themselves up and occasionally they do sink, but they survive. It takes all of their energy, all of their will and focus, but they survive. Eventually, after much struggle, they become really strong swimmers and they find themselves moving closer to the shore. They can’t stand yet, but they have hope that soon they will able to put their feet on solid ground again, because off in the distance they can see the shore. This is where a grieving person has some hint of that new normality that comes in after time has passed and they begin to adjust to life without their loved one. After much time, they look down into the water and it becomes clearer. They can see through it. It isn’t dark anymore. They can see the bottom of the ocean. They are closer to feeling good than they have been before. Occasionally, a storm will come and knock them further out into the ocean again, but they survive and keep swimming toward the shore. The closer to shore you get the better you feel. This is the work of grief. It is a continual process of swimming toward the shore. One father who lost his son a few decades ago said it like this, “I know I am getting better when the tears turn into smiles. I know I’ll never be the same again, but I know I am better.”

Eventually, they make it to the shore. They are able to step out of the water, and feel the stability of the sand beneath their feet. They can turn and look out into the ocean and maybe they even see the beauty of it. They are different than they were when they were dropped in the middle of the water into that ocean of grief. They are strong and have confidence that they will survive. They will not lose hope, and even though the ocean is still there with its deep and treacherous water, they are not consumed by it, they are not drowning… they know they can swim. And so they will continue to swim, and to survive My heart goes out to all of those families in our care who are working so very hard to swim.

Feel free to watch this really well done video on our services here at the Amelia Center...
http://video.chsys.org/videos/miracle_stories/Amelia_Center_Impact_Video_2008.wmv

Restless Heart

I was cleaning out one of my many cluttered bags today and found a pretty painful poem I had written. It was tucked inside one of my church bulletins. There was a quote inside the bulletin that I thought was profoundly simple and an obvious answer to my hearts cry. God is so lovingly subtle and yet so obvious sometimes. All I was doing was cleaning out a bag.

Restless Heart

Oh heart, I hate you.

How you betray me.

Why do you abandon me?

How do you escape me?

I can not control you.

You can not be contained.

Even when I fight

To hold on to innocence,

You corrupt my attempts.

The sin that is buried underneath

Is a shadow that clouds my soul.

When will I be free,

Of this intense hypocrisy?

Oh heart you are restless…

When will I find rest

If there is not rest in me?

“Our hearts are restless, until we find rest in Thee”... Augustine

The Crippled Man

Today I was feeling particularly low. I had to run by Tarjet' (Target) to pick up a wedding gift, baby gift, and birthday gift. I was so down. I have some issues in my life that are constantly on the edge of my heart. I was all inside myself, and then I saw him. There was this man who looked to be in his fifties... in a wheelchair. He was next to his car, all alone. He was attempting to open his back door but the door kept closing on him. He was trying to get his cane out of the backseat. After three tries, he had his cane. Then he had to roll backwards, unlock and open his trunk. I was just sitting there watching him, the traffic was jammed up in front of Best Buy. I kept thinking that one of the passers by that was headed to the parking lot was on their way to help him, but no one even seemed to acknowledge him, no one even saw him. He was not weak looking. He did not look out of control or helpless. I would have assumed he was helpless, but then he stood with his cane, and leaned on his car. With one hand propped himself up and then with the other hand he folded and threw his wheelchair into the back of the trunk. I was shocked. For so many reasons. No one helped him. That was the first thing that struck me as wrong. His whole situation would have been less difficult if someone had taken the time to stop and look at him, but, they truly did not notice. I was angry at those people. Then he was in his car, and looked just like every other person driving around in the parkinglot. He was crippled but now you couldn't even tell.

I thought, now that is just ironic. That man is me. Here I am in my car...all alone and sad, and feeling crippled in so many ways. I am riding around and look just like everyone else. Like the crippled man, I looked strong and in control (or at least I tried to). No one noticed me. I looked the same. I was just another shopper presumed to be doing the same thing, and on the same mission. I wanted to blend in and not look sad or like I was different, I did not want anyone to know I was hurting. But I also was needing someone so badly to see me. I needed some compassion. I had just come from a gathering, and for the most part I looked the same there too. But under my skin and in my heart I was aching. Only one person noticed, but I didn't really want them to. I wanted to look like I did not need a wheelchair. I wanted to prop myself up and get my own self to the car and drive away and look just like everyone else.

We need people to care for us and to minister to us, to be the hands and feet of Christ. to us... but we don't really want them to. .. there is a power struggle in that. If you care for me then you must be more stable, more healthy, more together, more on top of things.... more mature, more Christ-like. I don't like that. That is my pride. I truly don't feel like I am those things when I am helping others, but I am seriously suspicious of anyone who is ready to help me. I can do it on my own. I can prop myself up, I can put my own chair in the car, I can drive. I don't need your help. But, I know, getting in my car would go so much faster if someone would stop and help. Being helped, being loved or cared for, that requires humility. I have to let you in, and let my guard down. Humility is a word I use often. It is the opposite of pride. Those two things are at war within me. Self verses spirit, pride verses humility. It leaves me crippled and in need of help sometimes. But is anyone really ready... Does anyone even see me? If no one sees me, then do I have to ask, because that is humiliating. I would rather do it all myself than ask.

So what does this all mean? I really don't know. I wonder how many people are driving around, looking so OK. But they are crippled, either emotionally, spritually, or in some other way. Are we seeing them? Are we even looking? I don't want to be either of those people. I don't want to hurt. I don't want to be crippled. But I don't want to be the person that doesn't see another is hurting. I wonder sometimes, when I am not feeling crippled, if I even really care enough to look around to see what is going on in the eyes in front of me... I wonder if I am oblivious. I also wonder if being crippled... if suffering is the only real way we ever are able to see the other hurting person. I wonder.