A dear friend of mine is very sick. She sleeps 20 hours a day on her couch and has for 6 weeks because she has little energy to do anything else. Many of her other friends are deeply worried about her, and their worry is exacerbated by her choice to pursue a healing method unfamiliar to them. Her emphatic statement that she’d rather die than go to a medical doctor is small comfort, but does establish a clear boundary. They are left almost entirely helpless.
I’ve thought often of this quandary over the years. How do we help someone we love whose hurt doesn’t go away fast?
Often, people seem to place themselves in difficult situations, when from our perspective the solutions are simple. Do X and Y will happen, and then we will all feel better. Why does X feel so impossible to them?
I read the following at a large blog the other day and my heart melted inside.
A handful of years ago her 17 month old baby boy died. She had several other children, the oldest of whom was only nine. Her Relief Society sisters did not deliberate long. Three of them simply showed up with faces full of concern and began to clean. Sitting on the stairs, she watched them, not really comprehending why they were there. She hadn’t processed it yet, what she had just been through, what had just occurred. All of a sudden it hit her like a wave, all of it at once, and she fled upstairs to her room, collapsing on her bed in uncontrollable sobs of despair. It wasn’t long before all the cleaning tools were found abandoned. The women had made their way upstairs and all lay down on the bed beside her, silently weeping with her and holding her close.
A woman in my ward related this story today. Her story of personal salvation. The body of Christ, in all its beauty, majesty, and glory.
It’s hard to weep. It gives me a headache. Especially if it lasts a long time. I’m impatient with my own difficulties that sometimes last much longer than I’ve scheduled for them. It’s natural to be impatient with others and their sorrows. Especially when we are powerless to affect a change in their lives.
Another friend, much younger, has written about the difficulties of the stage of her life and how those difficulties don’t go away, likening the experience to a being in a hurricane when a helicopter swings in to offer help but the proffered rope is out of reach.
I’m convinced that this is the meat of mortality. This grinding difficulty of too many plates in the air, as another friend who is dealing with rebuilding after divorce calls it, that forces us to set priorities and to decide what we can do. This choice to reach out to others or not, to receive the assistance of friends or not, to lie on the bed with someone and cry – this seems important.
In any choice, we are left realizing that we can’t control anything. Another friend is trying to come to terms with an accident that replays in slow motion in his head. He wasn’t distracted. He wasn’t tired. He was in complete control until he … wasn’t. There was no reason to roll his dump truck. He’s not just accepting his own mortality or his body’s refusal to heal on his 3-day schedule; he’s dealing with the randomness of his own experience. We don’t like thinking our life is out of our control.
Stuff happens. It doesn’t make sense. Sometimes it’s not about preventing or shortening the experience. Sometimes I think it’s the chance we so desperately need to set aside our illusions of control and independence.
Something happens to us and others when we lie on that bed and weep silently. Something good.
Ruth
July 4, 2012
I melted too. It was exactly what Jesus is recorded in doing. He wept. Even though He knew things would get better.
How I feel for your friend on her couch! I want to shout out, “Let her sleep! Sleep can heal. Cover her up, tuck her in, close the curtains, help care for her family, but let her sleep. Trust that she knows what is best for her.”
I feel there is so much damage done when we don’t trust that we can each find the way that is right for us. We can’t force or hurry, and we shouldn’t. Force and control was what the Adversary wanted. But God trusted that we could figure it out, no matter how painful or unjust the learning process was. Thank you for this post!
misssrobin
July 4, 2012
Beautiful post, as always. One of the wonderful things about having been through struggles is that I’ve learned how they prepare me. I don’t believe God usually causes bad things to happen, but He does use them for good. He turns something ugly into a learning exercise and makes us so much more than we were before. Trusting this helps.
It still stinks when my world goes dark, but I know the light will come again. And there will be a time when I can help someone else because of the darkness I’ve been through.
I went through many years unable to cry. I am grateful I have the ability again. It is so healing for me.
Thanks for being there so often to share tears with me. I love you.
Bonnie
July 6, 2012
It’s true, Ruth, he did weep. And he does trust us. I like that he trusts us.
Robin, you are a wonderful example of the light coming back and waiting patiently for it. I’m glad you can cry too, and I love you back.
mormonwomen
July 22, 2012
Brilliant post. I love your heart, mind, and spirit — and your gift for writing. Beautiful and so, so true. Coming to accept this reality about mortality has been one of the hardest lessons for me, but I’m getting there. It’s a powerful, freeing truth.
Scabs
July 25, 2012
I followed the link from Mormon Women. This spoke to me in a way I feel I’m just beginning to understand. For so long I screamed into my pillow demanding to know when this would be over. My husband, irritated, would question if we’d ever get past this. This isn’t what it’s really about, is it? I don’t always get a golden pearl at the end of each hard day. And a lot of us who feel pain–no matter how it comes to us–wonder why? and wish for time machines that could take us to better places.
Empathy is one of our most powerful tools. I think it’s the soul of charity. Our Father has gifted us with this unbelievable outcome and purpose of the Atonement. Something we can share with each other.
And, there is something else. With my experience of pain, I felt alone, lost, condemned, shamed, embarrassed…it took all I had to one day reach out and speak. And share my grief. Sharing brought empathy and opened my eyes to others.
I love your thoughts on this.