Storm Stories: A Great Sunrise

Our third anonymous contributor has an extraordinairy tale to tell.  Brace yourself.

TROUBLED WATERS

by Anonymous3

I am in a cold hallway, surrounded by noise, bright lights, fatigue, disappointment, and grief. I am in a hospital emergency room, having ridden over in an ambulance with my mother. She is in the throes of what turns out to be an alcohol-induced pancreatitis attack. I don’t know this at the time, however. All I know is that she is sick, and there is nothing I can do to help her. I am terrified and bewildered, and wanting to cry. How little do I know that I will be back here several more times this year (2008), dealing with this same thing each time I return.

I call a friend, and as soon as she arrives, I collapse in her arms, crying, frightened for my mother, and frightened for myself. I have no idea how to carry what’s now been put on my shoulders, and in a way, don’t want to. All I want to do is run away and hide, and come out when it’s all over.

Fortunately, the episode passes, and she does reasonably well with not drinking—for a few weeks. She starts drinking again, and about 3 months or so later, we are back into the hospital again. This pattern repeats itself twice more, and each time, I feel more prepared to deal with the external storm: the stress, the anxiety, the questions without answers: Why is she continuing to do this to herself, despite what she’s being told? Where is God in all this, why is He allowing this?

However, nothing prepared me to deal with the internal storm of anger and helpless grief I have wrestled with over the past several months, watching someone I love so dearly destroy herself from the inside out. There were days when I wanted to throw a shoe at God, possibly knock Him off the Cherubim Throne in my anger. Then there were days when I was so despondent that all I wanted to do was curl up in my bedclothes and sleep until it was all over. But I put on a brave face and tried to walk through the troubled waters as best I could, in spite of the internal turmoil, and Heaven’s apparent silence.

Looking back on it, I now understand that the internal storm I’ve been dealing with has made me more able to show compassion for those who are suffering (see II Corinthians 1:3-4). That realization came to me when I was listening to a Jars of Clay song called “Surprise”, when I heard the following lyric:

But love won’t cure the chaos
And hope won’t hide the loss
And peace is not the heroine that shouts above the cost
And love is wild for reasons
And hope, though short in sight,
Might be the only thing that takes you by surprise
(from Good Monsters)

I understood, in that moment, listening to the song on my iPod on a rainy day on a northbound train, that sometimes love doesn’t cure the chaos—not even Divine love. God could have interceded, but in order to do so, He would have had to violate free will, both mine and my mother’s. I won’t wrestle here with the theological implications of that. But I know that as surely as I know the sun will rise tomorrow: that God, in His immense love, has been walking with me, even if He hasn’t put His hand into my circumstance to change it.

My sunrise is this: that I am learning to be brave, to face the suffering of the world around me with grace and hope, to be what one author has called an “artisan of hope”, bringing the colors of compassion and truth into it and make it beautiful. I am learning that even though God might never intervene, I can trust Him to walk with my mother, and bring her safely home, even if she never seeks His healing on this side of eternity.

I leave you with another lyric that has helped me see the sunrise in all this:

Crying seems to hurt me
But it’s all right to cry
You have been so strong now,
Your tears will turn to wine….

Oh the leaves are falling
Winter is now here
But Spring is coming
And you can bloom again (bridge)

The beauty of the ash of love
When you emerge,
You are more beautiful (chorus)

Some storms leave a beauty
Some storms leave the thorns
Compassion pours from Heaven
Mercy every dawn

Somewhere in this whirlwind
Somewhere in this crowd
Hole up to His heartbeat
And push away the sounds

(repeat bridge and chorus, from Charlie Hall.  The song is “Bloom Again”, from his The Bright Sadness)

I’ve found so much healing in the journey that I’ve taken, since the internal turmoil has given me so much more grace than I ever anticipated having. While it has not affected the external storm (it’s only a matter of time before she ends up in the hospital again with the recurrent disease), it has given me the strength to deal with it from a place of serenity and love, secure in the Father’s love for both of us. I’d say that’s a great sunrise, indeed.

A few days after getting this Storm Story, I received an e-mail from Anonymous3 and asked to enclose it as a postlogue.  Anonymous3 was nice enough to give me permission.

Good morning, NorEaster.

Yesterday morning as I walked to the bus stop to make my Sunday morning pilgrimage, I saw the most amazing sunrise. I realized as I walked that sharing my story that way helped me to really see it. I’d been so busy, just throwing myself into what was going on at work and church that I’d never really taken a lot of time to deal with the emotions associated with what was happening.

Sharing that story, in a lot of ways, has brought more healing and peace than a year’s worth of therapy (and a hell of a lot cheaper than that, too!). Thanks again for giving me the opportunity to write that.

Love in Christ,
Anonymous3

You’re very welcome, Anonymous3!