Trading My Sorrows

My eyes filled with tears as I watched the couple slow dance to 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'. Ben, gently swaying with his arms around his wife, closed his eyes for a moment. He was fighting back tears too.

It was in that moment that I saw the pain amidst the joy, the duality that defines so much of Ben's life right now as he cares for Judy, who has Alzheimer's disease. He cherishes every smile, even when Judy isn't fully aware of her surroundings. He cherishes every word, even when Judy doesn't fully understand the conversation. And even as Ben lives with this deep pain, God has filled him with a new joy and peace that cannot be explained. When Ben is not with Judy, he is ministering to families and teaching others about Alzheimer's. 

Later, when I had a chance, I asked Ben how he has learned to manage the daily sadness of slowly losing his wife–if he has a routine or Bible verse that helps him get through the feeling when it overwhelms him.

"I don't have any one thing," Ben replied in his quiet way. "But I have learned to let myself feel the emotions."

The words struck me. I had learned at a young age to stifle certain emotions. Strength, I thought, lay in the ability to push through fear, doubt, despair, and sadness and tough it out. Why cry when I could do something about the situation? Why feel sadness when sadness hurts so much?

But as I recently discovered, sometimes crying is pushing through. Last summer, when I found out that I was expecting Baby #8, fear crept into my heart. But I didn't address the fear; I only told myself, "God wants to teach you something. So find the lesson." Then the baby came, and I found my fear realized as I struggled to manage everything. But I told myself, "I can do this. I just have to try harder." All the while, I became buried deeper and deeper in my dark emotions, sometimes lashing out at my husband or children, sometimes beating myself up for not doing enough. Joy and peace seemed elusive. I felt like everything was going to fall apart if I stopped moving. But it was really me that was falling apart. And all I was really doing was putting duct tape on a bursting pipe. I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong… until I allowed myself to cry.* If you've ever watched Pixar's Inside Out, you would understand.

And I discovered that crying goes beyond a psychological or physiological need to expel pain. Whenever I try to avoid feeling loss or pain, I am really trying to hold onto self-reliance. I put on a good front. I tell people "I'm fine." And I keep trying to fix the problem. I try not to feel the pain in the hope that by the time the problem is fixed, I can move on to happier emotions. But in doing so, I also keep a death grip on my pride. Which means my hands are closed, and I am unable to receive help, or anything, from God. 

All this time, I kept asking God to reveal to me what He wanted me to learn, not realizing that I was unable to learn it. That was, until I cried. Until I humbled myself and let go. Until I admitted that I couldn't do it on my own.

I would have found this in the Bible too if I had thought to look. My friend Susan (thank you, Susan!) reminded me that centuries before me, the authors of the Psalms cried out in despair and hopelessness, sounding almost blasphemous as they accused God of abandoning them. David, in Psalm 13, wrote

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?

How long will you hide your face from me?

How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and every day have sorrow in my heart?

How long will my enemy triumph over me?

Look on me and answer, O Lord my God.

Give light to my eyes, or I will sleep in death;

my enemy will say, "I have overcome him," and my foes will rejoice when I fall.

Notice, though, how David ended his song. 

But I trust in your unfailing love; 

my heart rejoices in your salvation.

I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me.

David did not just cry out to feel better. He didn't cry out to the sky just to release pent-up emotions. He traded his fears and sadness for peace and joy.

And that is what Ben is learning. And me also. By being honest with myself and admitting my weakness, I find strength, real strength. By allowing myself to fully feel the heartache, I can then be healed. And I've felt joy, peace, and patience return to me, though my situation hasn't changed much. 

Yes, there is a release when you cry, but what's even better is when you can release the emotions and the whole situation to the One who can do something about it.

(*See the post from May 11, When Mamas Need a Good Cry.)