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The barrenness of the Burren reminded me of another
large expanse of seemingly empty space, the desert
through which the Israelites wandered after leaving
Egypt. Both the Burren and the desert mirror the journey
through difficult times everyone experiences at one
point or another. The loss of a job, the death of a
parent or loved one, the end of an important
relationship, or other losses throw us into periods of
confusion, sadness, or even desolation. The internal
compass of life doesn’t seem to be working during these
times, and like the Israelites’ desert journey, the walk
through these times can seem directionless and without
focus. “Why have you brought us out into the wilderness
just to die?” the Israelites screamed at God, and anyone
who has been through a significant loss can identify
with those words. Explanations for these periods in the
wilderness of mourning are hard to come by. All we can
know is that our lives, like that of the Burren, will be
forever changed.
That does not mean, however, that our lives are changed
for the worse. Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t believe
that God orchestrates loss to teach us a lesson or force
us to change direction. God is not a puppeteer pulling
strings and determining our every move. Bad things
happen in this world, and God cries in pain along with
us. Yet in the midst of the most barren spaces — just like
the Burren or the desert — God can present us with
something new and, often, something unexpected.
In the Burren the new and the unexpected come in the
form of wildflowers. Rain brings out an astonishing
profusion of them, blooming from cracks and crevices
that appeared to be lifeless. The Burren is home to an
unusual collection of flowers, some of which thrive in
alpine and others in Mediterranean regions; nowhere else
on earth are these flowers found together. Out of the
catastrophic ice age and the changes that followed has
come a unique environment. Out of our own losses will
come the same one-of-a-kind life landscape.
That promise may seem absurd if you’re in the midst of a
major loss in your life, and if that’s true for you,
that’s okay. You don’t have to believe it right now. In
the midst of loss there is a time for mourning, for not
moving in any direction at all, but simply managing to
get from hour to hour and day to day. When loss is new
the “what-ifs” can seem more pressing than anything
else. What if I don’t find another job and can’t pay the
rent next month? What if I don’t find another important
relationship? How will I live without my loved one?
Imagining a future, much less a bright one, seems
impossible.
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It can be overwhelming
simply to think about grief. Every page of the newspaper, every
minute of the news, even the conversations I have are full of
suffering and loss. Today, as I write, 16,000 children will die
because of poverty and hunger, according to Bread for the World. The
very earth is groaning in pain. As I try to understand, it becomes
easy for me to dismiss my own pain, or worse, to evaluate yours.
I don’t want to compare my
grief to yours or compare yours to anyone else’s. Then I would
simply be judging and reducing the value of what is gone. There will
always be someone in greater pain than I, and I will suffer more
than some. I do not want to compartmentalize grief either, because
when a child suffers from hunger across the globe, I understand that
I share in that grief as well. Can I simply sit with my grief and
with yours and honor it?
When my daughter was an
infant, I would hold her on my shoulder and her breathing would soon
match mine. I learned that I could calm her by holding her close and
simply breathing with her. She is in elementary school now. When she
gets distraught, I can still comfort her by sitting close and
matching my breath with hers.
Perhaps instead of
handling our own pain and grief, we can imagine God holding it and
holding us — breathing with us. God is not watching us from a
distance, but is so close that we share the same spirit, the same
wind, the same healing breath.
Come to me, all who are
weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take
my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in
heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy,
and my burden is light.
Matthew 11:28-30
When I read Jesus’ words,
I hear an invitation to be held and to be balanced not by my own
management or strength, but rather by God’s love and grace.
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