From Michelle. 28 January, 2011.
Dearest friends and family,
Believe it or not, I was a single mom for five days this past week. What this means is that Steve was off traveling. I love to mention this casually to folks and watch their eyes widen. Yes, Steve was off traveling. Thanks to the invitation of one friend and the companionship of another, Steve was able to attend a conference in Grand Rapids, MI. This meant figuring out a few self care necessities, taking a flight, much walking, and generally taking Steve’s independence to the next level. After much debate we decided against bringing the wheelchair. The airlines offer excellent wheelchair assistance to and from the plane and after that, there was a car, and forearm crutches. All I could do was hold my breath, say a prayer and watch Steve walk out the door.
From his first call, I already knew that the risk had paid off. Steve was not only alive and well, but alight with new ideas, great conversations, and a renewed confidence in his body. Having traded in all that he loves (learning, exploring, reading, studying scripture, meeting people, listening, preaching, traveling) for a dogged routine of physical exercise and the limited universe of home and hospital, it was time to break free for a bit and rekindle the soul.
There is a growing space in our lives, afforded us by Steve’s healing process, to reengage with people, thoughts and ideas beyond the bare minimum. Steve traveled. We have upon occasion actually left the home in the evening for a dinner or event. I began a bible study, and am picking up books again, just a few, and only occasionally, but it is a beginning. We are beginning to peek our heads up above the necessary and gaze into the possible. The horizon stretches out with our trembling imaginations.
Curiously, as the clamor of insistent needs dies down, I feel a deep undercurrent of grief quietly reasserting itself. Until now the present was all-consuming. I had neither time nor mental space to imagine our former life. I was in a new country, learning a new language, and the old way of being was on such a distant shore as to be almost unreal. I had difficulty imagining my vibrant husband who tackled and tossed my children, who easily dove into a pool, or walked around our village for hours praying and doing sermon preparation, who easily held me. I was entirely absorbed in who Steve was in the present and what he needed to get well.
But as the spaces in our lives and hearts grow beyond mere survival, I find the specter of who Steve was visiting me at surprising moments, moving me to tears. I am trying to accept and even welcome this new wave of sadness, not because I want to dwell in self pity or wallow in what is lost, but because everything suggests that the best way forward must be through the grief and not around it.
Occasionally, I am given a precious insight into Steve’s suffering. For all of the progress, and given how little he complains, one might forget that any suffering is going on at all. Yesterday I was at the dentist to repair an old filling that was loose. It was far back and deep, so I received a good dose of anesthesia. Afterward, I met Steve and the boys at the park. As I leaned in for a hug, I pressed my numb and swollen cheek against Steve’s face. How strange the sensation. It was a muted sense of pressure, a memory of the feel of skin, a mere distant sense of life upon contact. Suddenly, I realized that this was a window into what it must be like, to not feel hot or cold, sharp or dull, but then not just in a cheek or lip but throughout one’s body. Even with these smallest of insights, it remains difficult to imagine.
One of the books by my bedside is a book by Jerry Sittser called A Grace Disguised. I read parts of it long ago, with great compassion but little recognition. Professor Sittser lost his mother, wife and youngest child in a car accident. The book is an honest, thoughtful account of grief and loss alongside a loving and gracious God. A recent quote struck me in relation to our own experience: “… (T)ragedy can increase the soul’s capacity for darkness and light, for pleasure as well as for pain, for hope as well as for dejection… (The soul) can grow larger through suffering. Loss can enlarge its capacity for anger, depression, despair, and anguish, all natural and legitimate emotions when we experience loss. Once enlarged, the soul is also capable of experiencing greater joy, strength, peace and love…. the soul is capable of experiencing these opposites, even at the same time.”
This is what I try to communicate every time I write, the hope inside the pain, the glory amidst loss, the sweetness in the suffering. It is rarely all one or the other, but most often a complex amalgam of it all. We are constantly astounded by amazing grace. In countless ways I see God’s love breaking through. We continue to marvel at the amazing support, and the beautiful ways our needs get met time and time again. And then there is the insight from a numb lip, and the memory of a life lost. It is the richest of lives, marked as Professor Sittser says, by hearts expanded by grief to also hold greater amounts of joy.
With love,
Michelle