Grief

Grief is a tricky thing. So often it lies dormant, tucked away in your heart, not throbbing or bleeding, but still there. Then some days it decides to poke its ugly head out. It sneaks out and grips your heart until you can't help but feel the pain. Those days hurt pretty badly.

My grief introduced itself into my life nearly two years ago.

Grief doesn't really seem to understand time.Two years may seem like ages to you, but it seems so very short to me. People often think that something that happened two years ago simply happened, that it's over and done. But it's really not. An explosion like that has shrapnel. It has rubble. It has ruin. That stuff doesn't just magically heal or disappear; it lingers and aches.

I will never forget the night two years ago that my daddy decided to tell the truth. I hope I never have to
experience that magnitude of grief again. Since that night, I have mourned. I have mourned a thousand deaths. Things died that you could never even see. Other people don't know that I still ache from these deaths, that I still grieve. They don't understand. And, quite frankly, I don't want them to, because the only way they could understand is to experience my pain themselves, and I would never wish that on anyone.

Some people say that time heals all things, but I'm not really sure if that's the case with grief. It doesn't heal completely anyway. It will always hurt. I don't ache nearly as much as I used to, but it hasn't gone away. It's a different kind of hurt now: less raw, softer, and more familiar. I know my pain by name now. I know how to deal with him, but he will never be a stranger to me.

I'm ashamed to admit that I sometimes find myself thinking that my grief is heavier than someone else's, that they don't deserve to feel the ache because mine is worse. That's very selfish of me. The truth is that everyone has something that aches, some little piece of their life that has been severed or torn or bruised. Life is messy, and we all have cuts and scars. No grief is less than another because all pain is real. I remember when I first met grief I had a friend who was earnestly trying to comfort me. She told me to think of all the people who had it worse than me. I told her the truth: I know there are people in desperate situations, but I hurt, too. My pain is real, too.

I don't bleed all of the time. Most days I am downright happy. Most days I can leave my grief tucked away in my heart. But today, I ache. Today I'm feeling. Today I am not okay. Tomorrow I will be, but not today.
I think that's healthy. I think it's good to look grief in the eyes when he pokes his head up. It's real at least. Honest.

If you're hurting today, I'm sorry. If you know someone who's hurting today, just be still. Listen. Cry with them. You don't have to comfort them or cheer them up. Just ache with them. It's okay to hurt.

People

For the past couple of years, my opinion of the human race has been subterranean at best.

Out of all of God's creations, we are the broken ones. We are the ones God chose to give His breath, yet we are the ones who choose to wave off His perfect wisdom in favor of our own pitiful ideas. We can't ever get it right, and lots of times we don't even want to. We cause explosions every day, and most times we already know the consequences. We cower and cry for ourselves as our shrapnel flies out, sticking and stinging anyone nearby. We're all battered and scarred, and it's our own fault. We've heard of the solution to our pain, but we don't want to give it up. We're all addicted to the drug of our own choices. 

Why on earth would God still want us? 

I cannot dare to claim that I deserve God's love, that I deserve for Him to want to talk with me and hold me and teach me, yet He does. I read the stories in the Old Testament of the Israelites who screw up over and over and over and over again. And every time, after He punishes them like any good father would, He reminds them, "I have loved you" (Malachi 1:2). 

For the past couple of years, I just couldn't see why.

I work at the Counseling Center at my college. Most days, I just make copies or print flyers or play my occasional daily round of Candy Crush. However, if someone comes in needing help, I get to tutor them. A few weeks ago, a girl came in asking for assistance. As we sat together, I tried my best to explain the material. I talked and used my hands and tried to think up good examples, but no matter what I did, she just stared at me with a blank look on her face. I wasn't even sure she was listening, much less understanding anything I said, and I found myself growing frustrated with her. Then all of a sudden, this thought popped into my head: God created her.

Suddenly, I remembered that God knit her together in her mother's womb. I imagined Him forming every finger, counting each hair on her head. I remember that He loves her so very deeply that He sacrificed for her. I remembered that He knows her. And He wants her to know Him. He wants to laugh with her and ache with her and live every single day with her.
And all of a sudden, I  loved her.

I tried it again later. I picked a random person and simply began to think about God creating and loving and knowing him, and it happened again. My heart swelled and my eyes pricked with tears. I loved him, too.

I kept trying it. I tried seeing people through God's eyes, imagining Him molding them and knowing them and loving them. I tried it with family and friends and strangers, and every single time, I found myself falling in love with them. I can't seem to help loving those whom my greatest Love adores.

These past several weeks, God has been changing my opinion about people.  I've started seeing things I never noticed. Like how people have invented dry-erase markers and toaster ovens and the internet. Like how we smile when someone tells a joke or roll our eyes when we're annoyed. How we pick the people we like and hug and kiss and high five. How we make up songs and stories. How we skateboard and build campfires and paint masterpieces.

Mostly I've been thinking about how each person has a story.

Sometimes when I'm driving, I look at the people in the cars I pass, and sometimes, for a second, our eyes connect. For that single second, we have a relationship. I find myself wondering about their story, who they are, what they've seen, why they are.

I've been thinking that maybe people aren't as crummy as I thought before. We're actually kind of incredible.

We each have our own minds. We have our own thoughts and emotions, senses of humor and senses of pain. We connect with other people. We humans become this web of connections, relationships. We share thoughts and emotions. Our lives spread out and start to smear together. Our souls connect and spark like static electricity. Billions of people have stood on earth and returned to dust, and each one was alive, with a sparking soul and a smearing life.

I don't say that with an ounce of pride. When I start admiring and loving people, I don't hear God clearing His throat with eyebrows raised, scolding me for forgetting that He is the One who created everyone, that He is the One who instills abilities and keeps the breath flowing through our lungs. Actually I hear Him agreeing with me. Tears spring to my eyes as in the deepest part of my soul, I hear Him say, "Yes. You get it." I think He tears up right along with me.

I cannot deny that people are flawed; I've experienced it firsthand. But we are beautiful, too. We are God's masterpiece, His greatest, most favorite creation. We are the ones He chose to die for. We are the ones He gave His breath. He loves us, and I think He wants us to love us. After all, loving people is number two on His list of things to do (Matthew 22:37-39).

When I love and admire people, I'm not applauding their merits, I'm worshiping God. I'm acknowledging that He is a magnificent, brilliant, creative maker.
I love these things He makes.

A taste of grace

Sometimes I get stuck in this rut of thinking I have it all together. I start looking at my habits and choices and think that I'm doing alright. I sing the old hymns about Jesus' cleansing blood, but I don't sing them for me.They are for the ones who really need help. I get to a place where I don't see my need for forgiveness, and I brush aside Christ's sacrifice as worthless. I forget what the flavor of grace.

Then I spend some time at home.

I'm not sure if anyone can relate, but whenever I spend an extended period of time with my family, I'm vividly reminded of my imperfections. Around my family, I let my guard down, and my true self rears its head. My true self doesn't look nearly as nice as the self I give to the masses. It is much more selfish and rude and demanding. Quite ugly, actually. That self made a special guest appearance to Christmas break this year.

By the end of my break, I found myself immensely discouraged at my own ugliness. It seemed that every day I would wake up intending to be good. I would wake up planning to be kind and sweet and thoughtful, the perfect daughter/sister/granddaughter. But every day, I failed. No matter how pure my intentions, I wasn't good. And once I realized I wasn't, I felt so discouraged that I stopped trying. I hated the fact that I wasn't perfect.

The last Sunday of my break, I went to church feeling the weight of my imperfection. I stood with the others and sang along to the familiar tunes, not really meaning a word I said, until the worship leader began leading the final song. It was a song I've sung a hundred times, a song I've probably known since before I could read the age-old words: "Jesus Paid It All." As I began singing along, I ached in the pain of my mistakes. I told God, "I'm sorry that I'm not perfect." I think He smiled at me. He said, "I know. Listen to what you're singing. I took care of your imperfection."

Jesus paid it all. All to Him I owe.

And suddenly, I tasted grace.

I am not perfect, no matter how hard I try to make others believe I am. I cannot be. I am just as much a sinner as any other soul on this earth. My strength indeed is small. I am not good, but He is. Thank God, He is. I cannot ever deserve His forgiveness.

There's a verse in Romans that I once proudly presented to a friend who had questions about salvation by works. I realize now I need it more than she.

"And if by grace, then it is no longer by works; if it were, grace would no longer be grace." (Ro. 11: 6)