What is Spirituality, Part III: Finding the Spiritual Disciplines that Work for You

 

Lighthouse on Long Island, 1/1/19

Spirituality begins with the desire to see our lives from the perspective of God, but it grows and deepens through work: i.e. the work of finding a method or process that “works” for us. I invite you, if you have not done so already, to explore what that process might be for you.

Richard Foster, in his seminal work, The Celebration of Discipline: The Path to Spiritual Growth, outlines 12 Spiritual Disciplines that religious people have used throughout the ages to grow spiritually. He divides them into 3 main categories: Inward: Meditation, Prayer, Fasting, Study; Outward: Simplicity, Solitude, Submission, Service; Corporate: Confession, Worship, Guidance, Celebration.

In his foreword to this book, the great American theologian, D. Elton Trueblood, writes: “The great problems of our time are not technological . . . . or political or economic, because the difficulties in those areas . . . . are largely derivative. The greatest problems are moral and spiritual and unless we make some progress in those realms, we may not even survive.”  [viii]

Foster then explains that these Disciplines are for everyone: “We must not be led to believe that the Disciplines are for spiritual giants, and hence beyond our reach, or for contemplatives who devote all their time to prayer and meditation. Far from it. God intends the Disciplines of the spiritual life to be for ordinary human beings: people who have jobs, who care for children, who must wash dishes and mow lawns. In fact, the Disciplines are best exercised in the midst of our normal daily activities.”

Growing up in the church, I participated in many of these disciplines, without really thinking of them as Disciplines. The main ones were Confession, Worship, Prayer, Study and Service. As for going deeper into faith, I assumed that things like meditation, fasting, simplicity and solitude, were for Catholic sisters and monks, and “giants of faith” like Mother Teresa and Desmond Tutu.

It took a time of desperation in my own life to finally drive me deeper into these Disciplines when I was 33 years old. As I describe in my book, When the Northern Lights Went Dark: My Journey through Loss and Grief to Healing and Hope, my revelatory experience occurred some 8 months after my first wife, Pauline, died. I had begun to heal and find some hope, but, as I wrote: “I had certainly made a great deal of progress. I had come a long way. Yet something extremely important was still lacking. I felt I was operating too much out of weakness rather than strength.

“One morning I awoke with a sense of a new insight, a dawning revelation. I finally began to realize that the weakness I was operating out of was the trying to control what I could not control. I was allowing everyone and everything around me to determine how I felt and thus needed to control outcomes of events in order to ensure my own happiness. This was my weakness. I had no inner strength. Like a sponge, I was at the mercy of having to absorb whatever flowed my way, whether wine or vinegar. I was lacking a deep spirituality. I was weak in body, weak in spirit, and, therefore, weak psychologically.” [244-245]

That morning I began my own form of Spiritual Discipline. I went for a run (solitude), came home and prayed, then read my Bible and portions of books by two  of last century’s greatest spiritual writers, Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen (study), and then grabbed my guitar and sang (worship.) Eventually I added time for meditation and I began to learn about and try to practice simplicity and submission. (Later I will explain  what each of these disciplines means and entails, as it certainly wasn’t obvious to me in the beginning).

Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen, Whose Writings Helped Me Find My Spiritual Path

This was my first attempt to practice Spiritual Disciplines in a new and deeper way, and it became a crucial turning point in both my healing and my own spiritual journey.

Growing up, if someone had asked me what a Spiritual Discipline might be, I probably would have pointed to my mother beginning her day by reading Scripture, then her morning devotional book, and then praying.  This was such a crucial piece of her devotional life, as it may be for many of you. The problem was, it didn’t work for me. I have had many fits and starts trying to keep that discipline, but it never lasted long.

It wasn’t until I started to work with my first Spiritual Director (Guidance) that I found out why that didn’t work for me and that there wasn’t anything wrong with me: I would just have to find my own spiritual path.

Once supported and guided, it did not take me long to find out what that would be. Rather than sitting and reading and praying, I would walk. Yes, walk. My mom’s process is fine for many introverts, but not for an extreme extrovert like me.

But it was not aimless walking. I first had to develop a route that would be the same every day, so I did not have to think about where I was going. Then, as I walked, I listened to my soul and heart. I tried to open myself up and notice where my mind and spirit would go. Often it would be something I was worried about, or a problem I didn’t know how to handle. As I walked, I thought about this worry: how it started and what were the primary issues involved. Then, after accepting that this worry was a real part of my life, I would try to turn it over to God, not only in terms of “giving” it to God, but also how I might respond to it     in a more spiritual way. Then, when I got home, I would find a quiet place to pray and read from the Bible or from spiritual writers.

That has pretty much been my discipline for the last 25 years (with plenty of lapses from time to time). Now, as a retired person, I have reversed the order. I begin my day with what theologian, Howard Thurman, terms “marinating” (another name for meditating). I get my coffee, ice my back, think about blessings and challenges of the previous day, make a plan for how I will spend the present day, and then pray for family and friends and issues of concern to me. Then, after a period of reading and writing, I go for my walk.

My prayer this morning includes the hope that you will take this unusual time as an opportunity to find your own way of bringing your own worries and fears before God, and then allow God to guide you in terms of how to think and feel and respond to the challenges of your own life.

 

Deming, New Mexico, 2016

What is Spirituality? Part II: Is This All There Is?

Growing up, even in the church, does not automatically lead to one developing spiritual disciplines or practices. Moving in that direction requires a good deal of self-consciousness and awareness that is normally not present when we are young. What, then, is it that leads one to the point where they decide to pursue spirituality as a major part of life.

Sometimes, as mentioned in Part I, it is a traumatic experience, like a pandemic or the death of someone dear or losing one’s job and seeing no clear path as to how one will get back to work again, or when?

Sometimes one begins to pursue spirituality in the midst of fairly ordinary life, when one achieves a goal they have worked towards for a long time, such as a college degree or a certain job or getting married or having children or achieving wealth and success at work. We tend to think that if we can just achieve these kinds of goals that we will automatically feel happy and fulfilled. But, sometimes, maybe most of the time, at the very point of success, we may find ourselves asking, “Is this all there is? Shouldn’t I feel happier, more fulfilled, more motivated to achieve even more?”

There are different ways of talking about this initial stage when we begin the quest for a deeper spirituality. Ron DelBene calls it an awakening that grows out of the sense that we are missing something. We all know the experience of craving food and opening the refrigerator, not sure what it is we really want. We finally settle on something, eat it, and then realize that food did not relieve our craving. So we go back, grab something else, and maybe even a third thing, until we are too full, and yet we still do not feel satisfied. [See DelBene, The Hunger of the Heart, 19]

That is the way it is with physical hunger, and it is similar with spiritual hunger, the hunger of the heart. Suddenly we are awakened to the notion that we are missing something, and we become determined to figure out what that is.

This awakening creates a kind of yearning that is inherent in who we are as human beings:  a yearning to know ourselves better and to feel closer to God and other people. St. Augustine put it this way: “My heart is restless until it rests in thee.” The Psalmist writes:      

             As a deer longs for flowing streams, 

                  so my soul longs for you, O God.

           My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. [Psalm 42:1-2]

This experience of yearning and awakening leads to seeking, as we begin to explore the ways our thinking and feeling are beginning to change as we search for a path that will deepen who we are and begin to satisfy the longing for greater fulfilment in life.

At first this yearning may lead to fear as we face reality and ask ourselves: but can I really change? Can I really grow as a spiritual person? Can I become a person of deeper faith, compassion and love?

This fear is compounded by the cultural, and even at times the churchly, view of spirituality: that it is only for special people of uncharacteristically deep faith, which leaves me out. However, as Richard Foster writes about the classical Spiritual Disciplines (which we will list and discuss in Part III), “We must not be led to believe that the Disciplines are for spiritual giants and hence beyond our reach, or for contemplatives who devote all their time to prayer and meditation. Far from it, God intends the Disciplines for the spiritual life to be for ordinary human beings and are best exercised in the midst of our normal daily activities.” [Celebration of Discipline, 1.]

In fact, a true mark of the spiritual life is humility.  It is “self-righteousness” that gets in the way of spiritual growth, as Jesus pointed out repeatedly, because the self-righteous believe they are better than others and are lacking nothing in and of themselves. The humble, on the other hand, acknowledge their weakness and failings, and their struggle to trust themselves to God and other people. The humble also realize that spirituality is not a destination to which we arrive, but a constant journey. In the words of Thomas Merton, “We do not want to be beginners. But let us be convinced of the fact that we will never be anything but beginners all of our life!” [Contemplative Prayer, 37]

In the next post I will share my own personal experience of spiritual awakening when I was age 33. Part of that awakening was from reading the writings of Thomas Merton, and almost immediately I printed the following quotation from Merton and taped it to a wall at home so I would constantly see it and be reminded that the spiritual journey always begins in humility:

Poppies at the foot of the Organ Mountains, Las Cruces, NM, 3/20

“My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore, I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.” [Thoughts in Solitude, 83]

What is Spirituality, Part I: A Different Way to See the World

Do you think of yourself as a spiritual person? Probably not. Why?

Because I have met very few people who claim to be spiritual, although they often are.

In a way spirituality is simple, although never easy. And it is not the same as being religious. You can be religious and not be spiritual, and you can be spiritual without many traditional religious elements.

Religion tends towards the intellectual and the institutional. It has to do with belief systems, creeds, rituals and involvement in groups, such as congregations or synagogues or other groups one finds throughout the many religions of the world. Religion has been an essential part of my life, and I still find deep meaning and purpose through my religious faith and church connections.

Spirituality is more individualistic and, in some ways, private, having to do with how one see’s the world, God’s relationship to that world and what one senses God is calling one to do and be in the world. This does not, however, mean always going it alone. Just stop by a Franciscan monastery or a Sisters of Charity convent and you will find spiritual people not only praying together, but also working and serving together. You can find the same, in a different way, in many churches and social movements, such as  Witness for Peace, Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Services, Catholic Charities or Jewish Family Services.

I have been writing this blog,  Meandering Spirituality, with some 65 posts over 8 years, without ever actually reflecting on what, exactly, is spirituality. Over the next several posts I will share what I have learned about spirituality and what my experience has been trying to grow as a spiritual person as a way of helping you reflect on your own spiritual journey.

Let me begin with what we call Spiritual Direction, which is done under the tutelage of a Spiritual Director, who is a person, often a priest or pastor or Catholic sister, who has been trained and certified as a Spiritual Director.

I have had two Spiritual Directors over the years, both Protestant clergy, one Methodist and one Lutheran. The person I worked with the most is the late Pastor Scott Haasarud (you can find my Tribute to him in the list of topics on the right side of this blog.) Scott was a Lutheran pastor who was also trained in Jungian psychology and in Spiritual Direction (including teaching others to be spiritual directors).

I had many profound experiences driving up to Scotts’ house, walking in the door left open for me, climbing the stairs to his office, sitting in a very comfortable chair surrounded by walls of books, with Scott’s dog, Taz, at my feet. And Scott would usually begin with a question, something like: “So, Brian, what is God doing in your life right now?”

And, as is typical in any kind of therapy session, I would begin by sharing a challenge I was facing, something I was worried about, a decision I was trying to make, a problem I just couldn’t get my head around. Yes, Spiritual Direction has a psychological dimension, and Scott, like any good therapist, would often point out that aspect of my issue. But, unlike a traditional psychologist or therapist, the psychological was not the main point: it was a beginning point moving towards the spiritual, which might include questions such as: What do you think God is calling you to do in this situation? What might you learn about God and God’s world through this experience? What do you think Jesus would do with this problem or challenge? Do you have friends or other church members who can support you as you try to find a spiritual path through this experience?

My description of this blog from the beginning has--as you can see on the top of this page—tried to highlight this perspective: “I am a theologian. Everyone is a theologian. If you look at your life, if you look at the world, and you reflect on the relationship of God to your life and the life of the world, you are a theologian. You are a spiritual person.”

This is the sense in which, as I said at the beginning, spirituality is rather simple. It “simply” has to do with looking at what is going on in one’s life and searching for God’s relationship to whatever that experience is. But that is where it can quickly get complicated, right? Figuring out where God might be leading us, or what God might be trying to teach us, or how one might respond spiritually with people with whom one might be in conflict, is not always easy. And, even when one gains insight, carrying that insight into action also may not be simple.

For example, right now our lives have been turned upside down by this once- in-a-hundred-years pandemic. And we likely spend plenty of time thinking about and talking about the scientific, economic, and political dimensions of this crisis. Spirituality simply adds a whole other (and, I would argue, the most important) set of questions. What can I learn about God through this experience? What can I learn about other people? What can I learn about myself? Is my spirituality calling me to a different perspective on what is happening? Is this a time to really do a “values clarification,” and figure out what is most important to me in life (and what I can let go by the wayside). What is God calling me to do (or not do) right now? What does it mean in this context to “love my neighbor?” What does it mean to trust the future to God? For what might I pray? Is this a time to deepen my faith and spirituality? If so, how might I do that?

In future posts I will reflect on some of the perspectives and practices of spirituality. Most of us have probably never been given a time such as this when we have a unique opportunity to reflect on our spirituality and to practice spiritual disciplines that might take us deeper into life and the world.

However, before doing that, in my next post I will discuss one way a spiritual person might reflect on our present trauma, focusing on suffering and love.

Pandemic, Palms and Spirituality

Drawing by Mary Erickson

Suffering never leaves us the same. Even after the pain and struggle and fear subside, we do not return to exactly the same person we were before that suffering.

Powerful experiences, like the present pandemic, force us to re-evaluate who we are and our place in the world. People talk about gaining a “new perspective,” or that events like this “put things into perspective.” In spiritual terms, this is having a mountaintop experience. You find yourself able to “rise above” and look at things from a new vantage point.

Now, we tend to think of mountaintop experiences as being positive. In spirituality they often are, but they can also be difficult and painful experiences. We may feel like we are “falling over the edge,” as fear and uncertainty grip us. Traumatic experiences never leave us the same, and they push us either towards greater suffering or new forms of enlightenment (and often, in the process, some combination of the two). To speak in spiritual terms, suffering either pushes us away from the world, other people and God, or it pushes us toward the world, other people and God. 

Palm Sunday, or Passion Sunday, as it is also called, represents that struggle. Jesus enters Jerusalem on a donkey, a symbol of coming in peace. The people celebrate with palm branches, ready to enjoy the Passover rituals and the anointing of Jesus as their leader. But the tables are quickly turned, as the palms turn to ash and Jesus, the Suffering Servant, is crucified and yet, in the midst of his horrible passion, reaches out in love to the whole world.

Traumatic experiences and suffering either scare us into our own shells, and dull us to pain and suffering, or they push out into the world and other people’s lives, as we try to feel and understand their pain and fears, and meet that suffering with compassion and love. This can become a new perspective that actually helps us deal with our own suffering as well as becoming people of deeper and greater love for all others and the world.

We may move towards seeing the world as a dangerous, fearful place, other people as competitors for scarce resources and tests and medical procedures, and God as one who has failed to protect us and those we love and thus as One who, in the end, cannot really be trusted.

Or we may see the world as a place in need of healing, other people as fellow journeyers who need our love and are willing to give their love to us, and God as one who is with us in our suffering and trying to work through it to give us a new perspective, greater compassion and a deeper trust that God is always at work with us in the world to bring healing and hope.

Father Richard Rohr, Franciscan Friar, theologian and spiritual writer in Albuquerque, New Mexico, writes about the present pandemic:

"There is no doubt that this period will be referred to for the rest of our lifetimes.  We have a chance to go deep, and to go broad. Globally, we're in this together. Depth is being forced on us by great suffering, which, as I like to say, always leads to great love . . . .Now is no time for an academic solidarity with the world. Real solidarity needs to be felt and suffered. That's the real meaning of the word "suffer": to allow someone else's pain to influence us in a real way. We need to move beyond our own personal feelings and take in the whole. . . .  I hope this experience will force our attention to the suffering of the most vulnerable. Love always means going beyond yourself to otherness. It takes two. There has to be the lover and the beloved. We must be stretched to encounter with otherness, and only then do we know it's love. Love alone overcomes fear and is the true foundation that lasts. (I Corinthian's 13:13) [Richard Rohr, Center for Action and Contemplation, March 19, 2020]  

Not only can suffering open our hearts in love to others, but also loving deeply leads to greater suffering. Indeed, the price we pay for love is suffering. This is experienced most deeply in loss and grief, and the deeper our love the greater the sense of loss and grief. The suffering of loss and grief also never leaves us the same, either pushing us away from God and others, or toward them in wonder at the beauty of this complex world and amazement at the richness of the diversity of cultures and peoples.

Spirituality, of course, is the search for a deeper and fuller relationship with God and others. Father Rohr goes on to say that “there are only two major paths by which the human soul comes to God: the path of great love, and the one of great suffering. Both finally come down to great suffering—because if we love anything greatly, we will eventually suffer for it. When we’re young, God hides this from us. We think it won’t have to be true for us. But to love anything in depth and over the long term, we eventually must suffer."  [Richard Rohr, March 20, 2020]

We often live under the illusion that we and those we love can be protected from pain and suffering and death. A pandemic shatters that illusion. We are all in this together and we are all vulnerable. Yes, most of us will not die, but some of us will, and we don’t know which ones of us this disease will take. In that sense this pandemic is the great equalizer, and we each must choose now whether we will move toward or away from each other.

We can try to crawl into psychological and spiritual caves, hoarding what we need to protect ourselves, or, like thousands of retired doctors and nurses in New York and neighboring states, leave those caves and go into the suffering of the world, in many cases without the necessary weapons with which health professionals normally do battle. And, while we try to stay safe at home, every day workers go forth to stock grocery shelves, clerk in those stores and deliver items we need to our doorsteps, at risk to their own health. In a world in which we lament the lack of true heroes, they are all around us every day now. Many of them (perhaps even most) may not think of themselves as spiritual people, but they are choosing life over death, and even risking their own lives when they make that choice.

“Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights.” [James 1:17, NRSV] 

 

Turning 70 and Trying Not to Worry

I turn 70 years old this summer. I have a rocking chair on my patio, and just as I imagined years ago, I spend a good deal of time in that chair reflecting. And I think a lot about my daughter and her husband in Virginia and my son and his wife and our grandson on Long Island, New York.

I try to practice my spirituality in terms of accepting the fact that I cannot control events in the world, but it is very difficult not to worry about my family, and their families, and my daughter-in-law’s sister who is an emergency room nurse on Long Island in a hospital that saw Covid19 patients quintuple over the weekend.

Meanwhile, on the East Coast, our kids and their families worry about us. One could probably call it reverse parenting. They keep reminding us to wash our hands, not touch our faces, not do our own shopping, not go out unless we absolutely have to. You know the drill.

So here we all are, unable to be in the presence of the most important people in our lives, trying not to worry, trying not to give in to our fears in this environment we have not experienced before with leaders struggling to agree on what the next steps should (or should not) be.

I heard a psychologist this week say that there are three factors that can lead to our fears spiraling out of control. First, the experience is unpredictable. Secondly, it is uncontrollable. Thirdly, it is sustained and chronic with no clarity about how long it will last.

Well, there you have it! No wonder that at night the vultures come out and sit on our bedposts and we lay awake worried about so many things.

In December I wrote about “The Thing I Can’t Write About.” Well, I am still having trouble writing about it as evidenced by the fact that I haven’t posted the next 3 blogs I said I would write. I am still stuck on what I wrote in December, especially now that my daughter, Jessi, is quarantined with what her doctors think could be Covid19, but are not sure because she does not yet qualify for a test.

Here is that post again, slightly revised. As I state at the end, it is so very hard for us to talk about the fears we have for our children (and they for us) but finding the courage to share those worries and fears creates community and helps each other face and take on the pain and uncertainty of the present days:

I have written about all kinds of things in my blog and in my book, but there is one thing I cannot write about. One would assume that this is because it is not important. To the contrary, sometimes the thing we can’t write about (and have trouble talking about) is one of the most important things in our lives. For me, this has been my daughter Jessi’s mental and physical health.

However, she has had the unbelievable courage to write about it herself, and today I decided I have to find the courage to write about it also. I begin with the words (and picture above) from her Facebook post three days ago, on December 17, 2019: 

    --8 years old: Diagnosed with Diabetes

    --10 with Anxiety

    --15 with Depression

    --16 with Suicidal Tendencies

    --29 (Today) with Bipolar II

I’m trying to process the latest diagnosis. It wasn’t a surprise, but it still comes as a shock to the system. It's knowledge and questions answered, but I’m heartbroken. With this knowledge comes ugly statistics and painful stigma. I’ve spent so many years afraid of the dark that I didn’t speak honestly about the light; the ignition that arises and becomes the outgoing, fast-talking, overly productive mania. It was a relief most of the time swinging up. I never thought to mention the swing in the first place. So, this is bipolar, eh? I guess it’s time to become a spokesperson for it.

It all began in November 1998. Jessi was losing weight and had little energy. We went to our cabin for Thanksgiving, and Jessi had difficulty walking through the snow. At home she wanted me to carry her up the stairs to bed. We made fun of her for being lazy. I still feel guilty about that. 

On Monday of the following week we took her to her pediatrician. It did not take long for him to render a diagnosis of Type I Diabetes. He sent us immediately to an endocrinologist, who gave her an injection of insulin, and then we all returned home to begin the process of trying to come to terms with this disturbing diagnosis. 

[Picture of a very thin Jessi at Halloween before her Diabetes diagnosis]

That night we had company coming from out of town. We didn’t know what to do, but visited the best we could, not telling them what was going on for us. However, as soon as they left, and Jessi had gone to bed, I looked at my wife, Mary, and blurted out: “I hope I die before I see anything bad happen to her.”

There are those times in life when our words are not meant to be taken literally: they are just pure emotion. And yet such words often reflect the great ambiguity of life as we face the suffering of those we love most. What parent would not be willing to take on their children’s diseases and suffering if it would keep their child from that suffering? What parent would not willingly die before seeing their child die?

But once our emotions begin to subside and our minds clear, we realize our calling as parents is to live for and with our children doing everything we can possibly do to mitigate their pain and to support them as they struggle through life.

Well, I haven’t died, but I have seen so many bad things happen to Jessi. I have had trouble talking about it outside of therapy, and I haven’t been able to write about it. I’m not sure why, but I have decided that now is the time.

Six days ago Jessi, who lives in Virginia with her husband Rob, called Mary and me at our home in Phoenix and told us she was not “safe” (our code word for when she is having suicidal ideations) and asked us to call Rob at work because when she is not safe she cannot be left alone. Mary called Rob on her phone and I kept Jessi on my phone. I talked with her until Rob got home and then we put together a plan so she would not be alone, including seeing both her therapist and psychiatrist. Mary flew out immediately to Virginia to be with her this week and Rob took off work until Mary could get there. And it was through those doctor visits that Jessi was diagnosed this week with Bipolar II.

Two months ago Mary and I walked Jessi down the aisle at her wedding, and I officiated the service. Jessi wanted to do the “first look” for me, and then Rob. That picture is now my FB Profile picture. As powerful as a picture can be, it still can’t capture the depths of the pain, joy and hope we feel when we look into the eyes and hearts of our children. 

All of us parents carry that experience every day of our lives. It is so very difficult to speak and write about it, but there comes a time when, for our own sake and the sake of those we love, we must. We also write and speak about it as a way to help each other face our parental fears and hopes as a step in supporting each other.

The Thing I Can't Write About, Part I: The Suffering of Daughter Jessi

I have written about all kinds of things in my blog and in my book, but there is one thing I cannot write about. One would assume that this is because it is not important. To the contrary, sometimes the thing we can’t write about (and have trouble talking about) is one of the most important things in our lives. For me, this has been my daughter Jessi’s mental and physical health.

However, she has had the unbelievable courage to write about it herself, and today I decided I have to find the courage to write about it also. I begin with the words (and picture above) from her Facebook post three days ago, on December 17, 2019: 

    --8 years old: Diagnosed with Diabetes

    --10 with Anxiety

    --15 with Depression

    --16 with Suicidal Tendencies

    --29 (Today) with Bipolar II

I’m trying to process the latest diagnosis. It wasn’t a surprise, but it still comes as a shock to the system. It's knowledge and questions answered, but I’m heartbroken. With this knowledge comes ugly statistics and painful stigma. I’ve spent so many years afraid of the dark that I didn’t speak honestly about the light; the ignition that arises and becomes the outgoing, fast-talking, overly productive mania. It was a relief most of the time swinging up. I never thought to mention the swing in the first place. So, this is bipolar, eh? I guess it’s time to become a spokesperson for it.

It all began in November 1998. Jessi was losing weight and had little energy. We went to our cabin for Thanksgiving, and Jessi had difficulty walking through the snow. At home she wanted me to carry her up the stairs to bed. We made fun of her for being lazy. I still feel guilty about that. 

On Monday of the following week we took her to her pediatrician. It did not take long for him to render a diagnosis of Type I Diabetes. He sent us immediately to an endocrinologist, who gave her an injection of insulin, and then we all returned home to begin the process of trying to come to terms with this disturbing diagnosis. 

[Picture of a very thin Jessi at Halloween before her Diabetes diagnosis]

That night we had company coming from out of town. We didn’t know what to do, but visited the best we could, not telling them what was going on for us. However, as soon as they left, and Jessi had gone to bed, I looked at my wife, Mary, and blurted out: “I hope I die before I see anything bad happen to her.”

There are those times in life when our words are not meant to be taken literally: they are just pure emotion. And yet such words often reflect the great ambiguity of life as we face the suffering of those we love most. What parent would not be willing to take on their children’s diseases and suffering if it would keep their child from that suffering? What parent would not willingly die before seeing their child die?

But once our emotions begin to subside and our minds clear, we realize our calling as parents is to live for and with our children doing everything we can possibly do to mitigate their pain and to support them as they struggle through life.

Well, I haven’t died, but I have seen so many bad things happen to Jessi. I have had trouble talking about it outside of therapy, and I haven’t been able to write about it. I’m not sure why, but I have decided that now is the time.

Six days ago Jessi, who lives in Virginia with her husband Rob, called Mary and me at our home in Phoenix and told us she was not “safe” (our code word for when she is having suicidal ideations) and asked us to call Rob at work because when she is not safe she cannot be left alone. Mary called Rob on her phone and I kept Jessi on my phone. I talked with her until Rob got home and then we put together a plan so she would not be alone, including seeing both her therapist and psychiatrist. Mary flew out immediately to Virginia to be with her this week and Rob took off work until Mary could get there. And it was through those doctor visits that Jessi was diagnosed this week with Bipolar II.

I don’t know exactly what happened to me this week. Is it being alone all week now that Mary is in Virginia? Is it the recent conversations I have had with several life-long friends who have shared their worries and fears about their children? Is it trying to get ready for Christmas? Is it the longing that  "the hopes and fears of all the years will be met” in Christ again, and with renewed power in our lives?

Two months ago Mary and I walked Jessi down the aisle at her wedding, and I officiated the service. Jessi wanted to do the “first look” for me, and then Rob. That picture is now my FB Profile picture. As powerful as a picture can be, it still can’t capture the depths of the pain, joy and hope we feel when we look into the eyes and hearts of our children. 

All of us parents carry that experience every day of our lives. It is so very difficult to speak and write about it, but there comes a time when, for our own sake and the sake of those we love, we must. We also write and speak about it as a way to help each other face our parental fears and hopes as a step in supporting each other.

Now, finally, it is time for me to write about the one thing I haven’t been able to write about, as I share in the next three posts what I have learned about being a parent when it comes to the suffering of our children.

Facing Grief: My Journal Entries in My Book on Dying and Grieving

When I was middle aged, there was nothing that scared me more than death. Now that I am (fairly) old, there is nothing that I fear more than grief. It is not that I am not afraid of dying, but I have experienced profound grief, and my preference is to have no part in it again. And yet I know all too well that I do not have the power to keep those I love from dying.

In my last blog post—"Facing Death”--- I described my first reason for writing my book on Dying, Loss and Grief: to share my wife, Pauline’s journal entries as she was dying as a mirror that can help each of us reflect on the psychological and spiritual aspects of our own dying.

In this post I explain my second and third reasons for writing this book, which are tied together. 

Reason two is to try to give a feel for just how difficult and challenging grief can be. I do this by sharing my journal entries the year after Pauline died. As I write in the last chapter:

          

          No matter how you cut it, death is not a problem to 

          be solved.  It stares you in the face and refuses to move. 

          It separates you from those you love and need and never 

          gives them back. (253)

There are many experiences in life that you cannot really understand unless you have been through them yourself. One of those is severe grief. I found it to be so much more difficult than I could ever have imagined. In my book I share my raw and unvarnished journal entries in the attempt to help others to better understand the pain of grief, and so that others who are going through severe grief realize that their struggle is not unique. In a culture that expects us to move beyond our deepest losses in just a few weeks, or even days, we desperately need that word of grace and unconditional love.

And we need to know that some of our obsessions are normal. For months I could not go to sleep until I walked around my house and kissed each of Pauline’s pictures. I slept on her side of the bed so I would not wake up and look over and see her gone. I kept going to her grave long after many people thought I should “get on with my life.” I experienced depression, not being able to eat, having difficulty concentrating, lacking the desire to get out of bed and take on the day. In social situations I never knew what might lead me to tears.

As a result of these experiences, in two of the parishes I served--with the support of local funeral homes--I helped establish a Widow/Widowers Program so that those who had lost life partners could come together, share “their obsessions,” and realize that such actions are a normal part of the grieving process. Widows and widowers who had been bereaved for some time led small groups of those newly bereaved where they could share their deepest thoughts, feelings and experiences. The love, support, and solidarity that came through those programs, and the eventual healing, amazed and moved me week after week.

This brings me to the third reason for writing this book: to help those who have not experienced severe grief, but are trying to support someone who is, by giving a glimpse into just how difficult grief can be and by providing insights and suggestions for how best to support those who are grieving.

As just one example, I describe what I call violation, which is so common in grieving, which I explain as:

        Exposing something so precious and personal to you 

        and having it rejected by others. Long after others have 

        heard enough, you still need to talk and share. When that 

        sharing is rejected—through words or even just a look—

        the pain is excruciating. That is why so many who grieve 

        go behind closed doors with their pain long before the 

        necessary healing has taken place. (216)

As family, friends, teachers, clergy, we do not have to have “answers” for those who grieve. What is needed is the commitment simply to be present with those in grief, and a willingness to sit and “really” listen. Such a loving and caring presence is the greatest gift we can give those who grieve.

My book is available at Amazon.com in Paperback or Kindle editions (including Kindle Unlimited.