a time to lament

I’ve been fascinated with the power and purpose of lament, of grief, for a number of years now. I believe that lament is powerful. I believe that it is the first step toward change – it opens the door to the next step in a situation that has become unbearable.

We live in a culture that minimizes and belittles the “time wasted” in grieving. We feel the pull to “move on,” to do what must be done to get to the next thing. We believe that any action is more powerful than the seeming inaction of lament.

But to weep and hurt is to instigate the most powerful change in the world. To sit in sorrow and grief is to kindle a fire of change within our own hearts. No action is as powerful as a transformed heart. The heart is the root out of which grows plants and blooming vines and towering trees.

One of my all-time favourite authors, Anne Lamott says:

Only grieving can heal grief; the passage of time will lessen the acuteness, but time alone, without the direct experience of grief, will not heal it.

All this I believe, but living it – testing it – is a different matter. The pull for the human heart to protect itself is strong. We want difficult and painful things to be in the past. As a classic conflict-avoider, I feel this more than most. I hide from that which stirs up negative emotions in me. I smooth over those memories or hurts that I can’t bear to think of. This is an ineffective strategy, for the most part. My brain might bask in a blissful state of being unaware, but my body knows. My body will carry a double load if my brain neglects its duty. But my brain is scared. It will hide away hurt until it becomes a rash or a food intolerance or a panic attack.

After years of mental “hide & seek,” my body finally decided enough was enough, and I began having symptoms I couldn’t ignore. I have been pulled, kicking and screaming, into a quiet, empty space. I haven’t truly been able to read for some time now. Stacks of books sit on my nightstand with bookmarks or dog-eared pages in the first chapter. I want to read them. My body is hitting me where it hurts by making me unable to stuff my brain full of knowledge and interesting facts. This obsessive consuming of everything and anything had looked productive. It made me feel alive and relevant and important. And it was fun. But I was entirely ignorant of the fact that it was a coping strategy. I am still loath to admit it had become unhealthy. Actually, much of my life that looked productive and worthwhile was a detour – a fast road away from the painful places I might find myself if I didn’t have a distraction. Podcasts became my security blanket. Books that stimulated the intellectual part of my brain were every bit as much an unhealthy distraction as soap operas were to housewives in the 80’s. And all the busyness, while it kept me from the painful thoughts, also kept me from my family. I walked through life, much of the time, without the closeness I needed from my loved ones. And without giving them the closeness they needed too. Oh, I did things for them. I cooked and cleaned and drove to appointments. But I was far away. The connection was weak – like wifi at a fast food restaurant. It promised availability, but cut in and out, becoming entirely ineffective.

This has all been a very painful realization for me. And I still find myself struggling to pull away from things that will distract – that will make me feel “together” and important. My instincts still push me to do more, to find engagement and distraction in good things. But I am learning. Slowly.

I don’t know how long this rest and quiet will be necessary for me, but I am certain that the gifts I will receive will be bigger and better than I can imagine. I think I have seen hints about one of the gifts. Instead of the need to prove that I am worthwhile or good, I will receive rest – security in the truth of the goodness that was woven into my being as I was formed. This is a gift worth waiting for. It seems fitting that this gift comes only as I learn to just be.

The painful pieces of my past that I’ve been running from won’t go away just by hiding from them. The fear of facing the painful truths of sexual abuse won’t go anywhere either. But the armor I choose to wear as I head into battle can change everything. Right now that armor needs to be rest, not busyness. The silver chain-mail of goodness and worth, and the helmet of my belovedness are what I need for this battle. This time of rest and quiet might appear to be a vacation from the outside, but it is as scary as any physical mountain. Heading into rest is turning to face my monsters. Taking time to grieve what I lost, what was stolen from me, is good and necessary. It is also the bravest thing I have ever attempted.

Friends, if you know someone who is healing from sexual abuse – and you do, even if you don’t know you do – please be gentle. The wounds they bear, while mostly invisible, are the most ghastly, the deepest you could ever imagine. And their behaviour might seem strange. Coping strategies often appear to be adding chaos and anxiety to their life. Trust me that they are doing the best they can. They are carrying a weight that is unimaginable and unexplainable. Things that seem to be doing them harm might actually be saving them from facing giant fears they aren’t ready for yet.