Pain is Beauty

I finally realized what this cloud hanging around me for the last few days has been: I am heartbroken.

And not even solely for the things I should be, like the devastating earthquakes (as in plural) in Nepal, the plight of the disabled and homeless people living in third world countries, the AIDS epidemic that still reigns in Africa and leaves millions of children orphaned, or a plethora of other horrendous and rightfully heartbreaking things.

Alas, fret not though. Nothing dramatic has come along to ruin my chances of a bright outlook or change my course in life; all that has broken my heart has already happened.

On Monday, my family put down a beloved family pet that we've had for more than a decade to spare him the suffering towards a recovery that may have never happened. Later that same day, I ended a relationship that meant a great deal to me out of the knowledge that sometimes loving each other just isn't enough.  Most recently, there was my 4th graders' last day of school, and I had to accept the fact that I had been asked not to attend by a mentor with whom I could not mend our relationship.

I assumed, as I've spent my time learning to let go and get back to my foundation, that I would end up with a blank page to begin my reconstruction; I was wrong. What I have is myself in tiny, building block pieces that had to be wrenched from their previous footholds, some even broken apart, and now I have to begin putting everything back together. I cry more easily now because I feel everything with a renewed clarity, and I empathize so greatly with suffering that it takes root in my pain, like a branch of the same plant.

But in these times of malaise and despair, I try to remember things that will outlast the heartbreak:

     My mother always ends our communications with "Love you".
     My grandmother texts me on every holiday usually to tell me the card that she sent should have arrived at my parent's house.
     My friends Skype with me, send letters, call me because they don't want me to text when I'm driving, and offer open invitations to stay with them if ever I'm in town.
     My friends also say things like:
      "Have you heard her sing? When I did, I fell in love."
      "Darling! You are just so beautiful."
      "Your writing is like reading poetry."

When things look bleak and replete with sorrow, it's often hard to appreciate all the things I just mentioned, or even see them at all.  I wouldn't trade this heartbreak away though because without it, the things I just mentioned wouldn't mean as much as they do now that I can see them as the blessings that they are. My goal is to live fully in this heartache, to see it for everything that it is, and use it as a tool to soften my heart rather than callous it.

I was looking for a verse in 2 Timothy from a book study I've been doing with a few friends, but I didn't remember the exact reference, so I perused hoping to stumble upon it. Instead of the verse I was looking for, I found this one: "Remember Jesus Christ, raised from the dead, descended from David. This is my gospel, for which I am suffering even to the point of being chained like a criminal... If we died with him, we will also live with him; if we endure, we will also reign with him." -2 Timothy 2:8-9 & 11-12

My suffering is not unique, and I think in acknowledging it, we take away the power that it holds when we keep it to ourselves. After our sufferings in this life, whatever they may be, we will live and reign with him.

I am heartbroken now, but I won't be forever, and I think there's a certain dignity in being able to feel this much, even if it pains me to do so. There's a saying that often comes back to me when things are overwhelming and it's the idea that "Jesus is closer than our breath". It helps me to think that more than just wiping away our tears, Jesus can feel, and has felt, everything we feel and will always be there when we need Him.

So to end, I wanted to add to my mantra from last time: I am here. I am loved.

Letting Go

I recently cuddled up on the half of my bed that isn't strewn with piles of clean clothes waiting to be put away (Has anyone figured out the length of time it takes to have someone come and put them away? I've been waiting for a while and nobody seems to be coming) in order to watch what once was one of my favorite shows: Grey's Anatomy.  I figured it had been about a year since I watched an episode and since I used to devote long stretches of time, many consecutive hours actually, I ought to catch up.

Here's the thing though: I didn't like it. The plot line coming down from the cliff hanger I left off on was thinly addressed but mostly overlooked in favor of more drama to set up for the next one.  Characters that once jumped off the screen and into my daily repertoire of conversation topics morphed into vapid stick people renditions of actual people.  I found myself confused as to why I spent so much time with something that meant so little to me now, and I realized that the difference was time. I had gone on with my life and was no longer in the throes of obsession over what was happening in the Grey's universe, and I was able to let go.

Letting go isn't always that easy though.

I spent the last 16 weeks planning and preparing as I rounded out my college experience and made my way through student teaching, hoping to come out alive and in one piece at the end, though I would have settled for one of the two.  Turning in my final paper and heading towards the coast on a week-long California trip the day that I finished was the break I had been subsisting off of during those final dragging moments of any taxing experience.

And taxing it was.  People were constantly asking where I was going from here, so I constantly had to be thinking about graduation, a career, marriage, was I moving, did I have any interviews lined up, will I be pursuing my Master's, etc. I didn't realize how exhausted I was becoming until I had a conversation with a close mentor of mine during my California trip that, through some tears and general blubbering on my part, led to one end. Where am I? Not where am I going, not where have I been, but where am I right now? Jesus wants all of us. Everything we've got. All the strength and devotion we have and all of the tears and aches we bring.  He wants the victories and the defeats, the highs and the lows, the small things and the big ones, too.

I had lost something important, and so I had been grasping at everything I could to anchor myself while telling myself in the back of my cacophonic mind that Jesus was there when I needed Him. I had lost control and that pushed me to attach myself to any semblance of control I could get my hands on. I had brought so much on myself to try and organize and manage and I was so bent on manifesting my own destiny through sheer will power and determination, that it led to me hoarding responsibility.  Speaking with someone outside my situation illuminated all the empty towers I had built around myself and made me seriously look at the foundation of who I am.  It took many hours of reflection and debate with myself and others and countless tears and compromises, again with myself and others, to get to where I am now and to agree to release all that I held on so tightly to.

I don't know what's going to happen from here, so if I can just answer some of the questions that always come around the beginning of wedding planning season and tune you in to my most recent episode, this is what I've got: I don't know where I'll work or live in six months time, I'm not planning on getting married this year, I haven't figured out my career, and I'm taking my life one moment at a time. To get back to somewhere I know I want to be, I'm letting go.

I ended the night, and the subsequent nights after, with this: I am here. That was it. It was all I could say without completely collapsing into a spiral that led me nowhere productive. So no Bible verses this time, no rumination on Jesus' teachings or words, no proverbial advice going forward, except this: Where are you?