#loneliness

“We all churn inside.”

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My students and I read the short essay “Joyas Voladoras” by Brian Doyle last week. The first time I read it (Oct. 2017), it put me under the pile. Doyle had died just months before I read it, and Amy had passed away a year prior. The irony and profound message were not lost on me. This time, the lesson for me was a bit different.

The essay begins with Doyle talking about Hummingbirds and hummingbird hearts.

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Andrew E. Russell/Flickr                                                                           (as found on The American Scholar: Joyas Voladoras page)

He’s not really talking about the hummingbird but using it as a metaphor for a much closer-to-home issue. It’s not until near the end of the essay that the reader realizes Doyle is talking about the human heart.

Speaking of the hummingbird, Doyle states, “They can fly more than five hundred miles without pausing to rest. But when they rest they come close to death: on frigid nights, or when they are starving, they retreat into torpor…their hearts sludging nearly to a halt, barely beating, and if they are not soon warmed, if they do not soon find that which is sweet, their hearts grow cold, and they cease to be.” (emphasis mine)

Later in the essay, Doyle switches to the heart of the majestic blue whale, the largest animal to live on the third rock from the sun. He admits that we know “nearly nothing” about this magnificent creature once it finishes puberty. “But we know this: the animals with the largest hearts in the world generally travel in pairs, and their penetrating moaning cries, their piercing yearning tongue, can be heard underwater for miles and miles.” (emphasis mine)

Taking a moment to run through a list of animal heart types, Doyle then surprises the reader with the third profundity: “No living being is without interior liquid motion. We all churn inside.” (emphasis mine)

I found myself churning in the middle of a room full of 6th-grade students. I was gasping for air, desperately trying to stamp down the flood of emotion threatening to pour out of me…having lost my “pair”…having reached torpor.

What happens to the Christian who is exhausted from “doing too much for the kingdom” and is giving more than they have to give? What about the teacher who stays up late to grade papers so his students can get their essays back within a day or two? Or the single parent of three, desperately trying to keep all schedules straight, deliver kids to the right place at the right time, go grocery shopping and clothes shopping, pay bills, and fill out taxes let alone keep tabs on each of the delicate hearts left solely to him to shepherd? Torpor? Yes, utter exhaustion, sometimes maybe even “come[ing] close to death.”

This lonely father of three hit Torpor many months ago. The last seven months being the darkest months to date. Standing in that room, with 6th graders staring at me, having heard the hitch in my voice, I realized that God – and a few godly friends – have been at work to warm my heart so that I can once again “soon find that which is sweet.” I pray my heart doesn’t completely grow cold and that I don’t settle for Spenda when God’s sweet nectar is within reach.

It’s Time.

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The last “two-candle” candlelight service

December 23, 2018, was an important night for me. I was in the middle of the Candlelight service at my church. I was holding two candles like I’ve done each Christmas Candlelight Service since my wife died. While waiting for the rest of the candles in the room to get lit, I asked God, “Abba, how do we move on into this next year?” It was a prayer I’ve asked many times when a new year is staring down the barrel at me. Usually, I feel God direct me – sometimes immediately, but most times, as the days go on, His plan falls into place. This time was different.

“Put out a candle, Thom.”

It wasn’t audible, but it was distinct. I shook my head. That can’t be right. I’ve been holding on to two candles since Amy died, to honor her. I’m sure that wasn’t God. 

“Yes, Thom, it’s me. I said, put out a candle. It’s time.”

Not wanting to give myself time to talk me out of God’s directive, I licked my forefinger and thumb and pinched out the flame. There was a finality to it. I immediately felt a difference, as if something tangible inside of me happened when I snuffed out the flame.

I remember shaking my head slightly, looking down at my hand that held a lit candle and a used candle. I wasn’t sobbing. I was at peace.

“It’s time.”

There is a lot of meaning in those two words. I’m wondering what all God has in mind, but He didn’t take long to start me down the path of change.

A few days later, I was asking my sons’ counselors about the process of redecorating the house. I’ve been very antsy about helping my boys and me move out of the season of grief caused by the daily reminder of loss.

“It’s high time for a Bachelor Pad,” one of the counselors said. “Don’t do it all in one weekend, but be intentional. Have a box ready to store things you and your boys do not want to give away. Put the things of Amy’s in the box that you all want to keep, but that really don’t have a place in a bachelor pad. Put the box somewhere safe so everyone can go check on it when he needs to make sure Mom’s things are still there. Then put the lid back on the box and put it away. Tackle one room at a time. It’s time.” The other counselor agreed and said something similar. She too ended with “It’s time.” I felt confirmation in the continued reminder.

One week after the candlelight service, I was talking with some close family friends. I filled them in on God’s directive and told them I was praying the boys’ transition would be positive, even if it was painful. A week later my phone rang. One of the same friends I’d been talking to was on the other end.

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Out with the old… (complete with 2 dressers, an armoire, and 2 side table dressers)

“Thom, my mom’s getting rid of her solid oak bedroom set. I sent you an email with pictures. Check it out and let me know if you’re interested.” I opened the email to look at the pictures. I was overwhelmed. The bedroom set I’d been using was the one Amy and I purchased two weeks before we got married. Climbing into it each night brought with it a sense of loss, a reminder that I would wake up alone in the morning. I’d been wanting to purchase a new set, but knew it would be too costly. I was trying to figure out how to purchase a new set, but God had a different plan.

When the arrangements were made for the new bed to arrive, I offhandedly asked another friend of the family if she knew of anyone who might need a bedroom set. She did. It was another confirmation of God’s divine plan. The following Saturday morning, the new bedroom set arrived after the old one had been brought downstairs. Two hours later, a packed U-Haul left my home on its way to bless someone God wanted to bless. I slept soundly that night for the first time in years.

had no idea God was going to start the “Bachelor Pad Makeover” in my bedroom, but He did. For the last three weeks, I’ve slept in a new sanctuary. Little by little, the rest of the house is changing too. And my boys…they are helping to create the Bachelor Pad.

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In with the new…

Two Sundays ago, one of the pastors at my church said, “God is never late, but he sure does miss many opportunities to be early.” I remember chuckling, thinking about my impatience, but tonight, I realized that I’d rather be in God’s timing than mine. If it had been up to me, I’d be making payments on a new bedroom set for the next three to five years, struggling to figure out how it would all work out financially. The next time I’m impatient, I pray I remember to be patient and listen for “It’s time” from on high. God’s timing is truly perfect.

 

“Of Whales And Of Malaga I Sing…”

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It’s been a while since I’ve stopped myself long enough to sit and write. Somewhere in the midst of the last 2 months, I decided that I didn’t have time to grieve. There was too much to do. Too many late nights finishing lesson plans, folding laundry, and picking up the house. Too many long afternoons filled with appointments for the “dad taxi”. Too many weekends filled with catching up on sleep and taking care of my boys (whatever I could pack into the day so I wouldn’t have time to think, to ache, to cry).

It all started with my decision in August, on a plane back to Portland after returning my oldest son to college for his Sophomore year. There was a commercial for Ralph Breaks the Internet. I decided to boycott Disney. The last three Disney movies have left me in a puddle of my own making. It started out as an inside joke…with myself. Then it became an unfeeling reality. It was easier not to feel, or rather, not to tempt my heart to feel deeply. So I didn’t. Don’t get me wrong. It bubbled out every 5 or 6 weeks, but I was usually alone or in a setting where I could blend in and not have to deal with it. Sadly, along with the decision to stop grieving came a less conscious one…I put my book on hold. I allowed the busy-ness of life to come in and push aside a dream and a calling.

Once school started, I began treading water, trying to get everything done. It took nearly 3 months for me — the unstoppable force that is single-parenting — to hit the proverbial wall — the unmovable object with which I had a divine appointment.

I am truly tired of tears. They take too much time. They’ve been present so much in the last two and a half years. Amy and I made so many happy, joy-filled, ecstatic memories. Where were those? The truth? They were there, but the joy was marred by grief and the laughter was replaced by a small smile, followed by tears.

Somewhere I bought into a lie: It gets easier, Thom. Once I’d swallowed that destructive lie, it was followed by another one, more maniacal, more evil: It’s been long enough, Thom. It’s time to stop dwelling. It’s time to move on. Somewhere in our culture, we’ve accepted that everything fits into tidy timetables. Right? Don’t believe me? Get out your planner and begin to fill every half hour slot with the things that need to get done. When the slots are all full, that which doesn’t have room sits in the waiting room awaiting its “assigned appointment”.

Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy CoverThe immovable wall came in the form of a novel I was set to teach this year. I’ve taught it before with great success. It’s one of my favorite “YA” author’s books. Lizzie Bright and the Buckminster Boy, by Gary D. Schmidt, has won many awards, including the ever-coveted Newbery Honor. My 6th graders and I began reading it during the last week of October. The curriculum requires me to read the book aloud with the students and not to let them take the book home. Why? To teach them to be active readers. To teach them how to understand literary devices. To teach me a very difficult truth.

It’s a book about a boy living in Phippsburg, Maine, in 1912. He meets an incredible girl his own age, and the two become more than friends; they become soul mates. Along the way, he encounters loneliness and loss, severe loss. Near the middle of the book, the main character comes within a few feet of a whale while he’s struggling against the tides and the waves to steer a small rowboat, with little success. For the remainder of the book, he is spurred on by the spiritual encounter he had with the whale. He longs to know “What was in the eye of the whale?”

The boy’s schooling requires him to read of the adventures and bravery of Aeneas as he leaves Troy and heads into the unknown to a destination, not of his choosing, in order to found an Empire he never imagined. The boy has his own adventure, his own unknown destination, and quite possibly his own Empire to found.

During the chapter where a significant character dies, I was not at school; I had a sub. I was relieved. I wouldn’t have to come anywhere close to that emotional part of the story. I could discuss it later with the students, no problem. But reading it aloud…well…I didn’t want to test my fortitude and my wherewithal to stay the course and not grieve.

On the last day of reading to the class, I broke. The thirteen-year-old boy was wrestling with his new normal. Instead of demanding he was done grieving, he vowed to never forget “to look at things straight” and he broke down in grief — he would never forget. At one point the main character says he has no one to talk with about the state of his heart, but he turns to a new friend a few lines later and bears his soul. Life continues. Grief continues…and may not ever go away. Life can only be lived through the grief, not avoiding it.

I stood in front of my class, silently crying, unable to read aloud as the realization hit me. I’ve been trying so hard not to feel. A colleague came into my next class period and read the end of the book with my next class since I was unable to do so.WIR2_Poster2

That was last Monday. But it wasn’t until Thursday night when a new friend of mine asked me about the state of my heart. I opened my mouth and I consciously realized all the things I’ve just described. On my way home, God reminded me of a memory from many years ago. It made me laugh, then cry, then laugh while crying.

I’ve dusted off the book and will begin seeking the help I need to get it published. And I might swing into a theater and watch Ralph Breaks the Internet. Who knows…maybe it’ll remind me of an incredible memory with Amy. It does center around a unique friendship: a beautiful young girl befriends a clumsy oaf and they go on life-changing adventures together. Now, why does that sound familiar?

Eating my words

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humble pie
Picture from: https://dribbble.com/shots/1695927-Humble-Pie-Type 

Not too long ago, I hit a wall…a pretty big, soul-shaking, attention-grabbing, painful wall. And the month that has followed has been a difficult one. Why? What caused the sudden stop which threw everything into the air, only to slowly fall around me in a jumbled mess? A conversation with my youngest. I was apologizing for failing as a dad for the umpteenth time. In the busyness of life, I’d not been home much, nor had I the time to really speak into my sons’ daily lives.

In the conversation that ensued after the apology, we began talking about physical health.

“I used to beg your mom to take care of herself when you guys were little, but she didn’t take care of herself until it was too late.”

With the wisdom, tact, and honesty of a child, my youngest prophet said something only he could. I had just told him he needed to take care of himself and not overcommit to the various things in his life clambering for his attention and focus. “But you don’t,” he replied. I opened my mouth to protest, to deflect, to blame being a single parent, but nothing came out. I simply closed my mouth again.

Usually, when my youngest “parents me,” I retaliate and push back, reminding him, “I don’t need a parent.” But in that moment, I felt the Holy Spirit say, “He’s right.”  Realization flooded me. It was time to eat a slice of humble pie.

“You’re absolutely right. I’ve been working 7 days a week, for 3 jobs, and volunteering at the church every weekend for the past 6 weeks, I’m never home, and I’m only getting 5 hours of sleep a night.” My mind was racing with the other ways I was not taking care of me.

1. I’ve needed new glasses for 7 years, and have had a new prescription for a year, but haven’t prioritized the purchase; someone always needed something, or Christmas was coming, or…or…or…

2. I hadn’t talked to my close friends in weeks, not actually talked, voice to voice.

3. I hadn’t spent much time in prayer beyond short prayers of blessing and “God…help!” in almost a month.

4. I hadn’t been in “big church” for 6 weeks. I’d been volunteering in children’s ministry each week, but hadn’t made it to the sanctuary for one reason or another.

5. I hadn’t spent any individual time with any of my kids.

6. I’ve gained all of the weight I lost and then some.

My heart was spent. After my son went to bed, I tried to figure out the reason behind my lack of self-care. After texting a few friends (it was almost midnight), I blearily came to the conclusion: I’m lonely, and I’m way in over my head. I’ve been spending so much time “doing” and trying to make ends meet and trying to help everyone else around me and trying to not deal with the physical loss, or rather the loss of Amy physically being here.

The first year, I was numb. The second, I spent focused on helping my kids find a new normal…and paying bills. In the deepest dark of evening, after my kids went to bed, I’d fill the space with anything that kept my mind from the loneliness: television, movies, books, cleaning until I fell asleep, sometimes in the recliner, among others…because the bedroom is the place I feel most alone. It was where Amy spent her last moments…and many of her last days. It’s where I expect to go talk to my wife after a long day. It’s where we talked, and planned, and dreamed together side by side, shoulder to shoulder, or spooning. It’s where I still expect (in that moment between opening my eyes and actually waking) to wake up next to my beautiful bride, watching her sleep, holding her hand. When I sleep in my room, I lay across the bed, with my head on Amy’s pillow, hugging another pillow, watching television until I fall asleep from exhaustion. I’ve not been taking care of me; something I swore to Amy I would never do. Some of the filler was simply filler, some sin, some depression, some simply spinning my wheels to expel all energy before having to feel alone.

This morning, sitting in service with friends, our pastor spoke on Peace using Philippians 4:4-7. The Apostle Paul was in prison, writing a letter to the church at Phillipi. “Rejoice in the Lord always,” he said. We’ve all heard the sermons about adversity and rejoicing. But this morning was different. Pastor Keith highlighted something I’ve never seen before: “The Lord is near” (v. 5b). A significant part of the sermon dealt with loneliness. Referencing Isaiah 7:14, Pastor Keith reminded us that God would send a savior whom we would call Immanuel — which means God with Us! “The truth of the matter is NOT that we draw near to God but that He is seeking us out. He is near to us. We are His sheep who what? We are his sheep who are going astray and He is seeking us out.”

“We often forget, in the midst of the circumstances of life, Jesus is near.” And where have the circumstances of life caught up to me? Missing the physicality of doing life with my soul mate – being so lonely I was filling every minute so as not to deal with the void. Losing a spouse is extremely lonely. That’s obvious. It never donned on me that God is near to fill that void.

I left church this morning with a smile only to pick up a book God led me to a week ago that told the story of the prodigal son. In it, the author explained that the towns in which the parable was set would require the prodigal son to take a “walk of shame” in returning home, past all the neighbors and villagers who would have known he’d left and all the juicy bits. The Father chose not to let him walk that shameful walk…alone. The Father ran to his son and walked that road with him…and walked his son, whom he loved, back home.

A month ago, when I was hit by that immovable wall, I began the baby steps of taking care of the things I should have been taking care of for a while. I’ve been back in church – three weeks in a row. I’m wearing a new pair of glasses and can read what I’m typing without blowing up the text on the screen. I took at least a month off from working in children’s ministry, after bearing my soul to my close friend – the pastor of children’s ministry. And I’ve been stealing every moment I can to spend with my boys. In the next week, 1 of my 3 jobs will end and I’m curbing the hours on the second so I can be available to my boys and to rest and learn to allow God’s presence to fill the void.

In my search for Joy, through grief, I was reminded of true Peace.

“And the Peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 4:7, NIV).