My Not-So-Perfect Life

I just finished reading a book. Like, it's 10:30pm and I should be in bed sleeping but I just finished this book five minutes ago and can't turn off my brain so I'm sitting in the dark blogging. It was a novel - My (not-so) Perfect Life. It was a cute and fun read.

Warning - potential spoiler alert! Basically, the book is about this woman who tries to make it seem like her life is perfect when clearly, it isn't. Mostly done by posting glam'd up pictures to Instagram. In the end, she creates an Instagram account called "my not so perfect life" and posts *real* every day pictures.

At the end of the author's acknowledgements, she writes, "I hope your life lives up to your Instagram posts..." or something to that effect. But I think she's got it wrong. I think we should be saying, "I hope your Instagram lives up to your life." (me attempting to be a philosopher - HA!)

We all do this. We all look at someone else's social media posts and pictures and think, "Wow. They have a perfect life." We look at their pictures and think they've got the fancy house, they go on the fun exotic trips, they've got a big loving family, they've got the ideal job, etc. And in turn, we take a look at our own lives and can only see the struggles, what's wrong, what we don't want but have.

We get trapped in this spiral of jealousy and desire. We get stuck thinking about how our lives are so awful and not what we expected and how does everyone else get so lucky to have it all? But in reality, that's not true.

"Every time you see someone's bright-and-shiny, remember: They have their own crappy truths too. Of course they do. And every time you see your own crappy truth and feel despair and think, 'Is this my life?', remember: It's not. Everyone's got a bright-and-shiny, even if it's hard to find sometimes."

A quote from the book.  Seems so simple but so incredibly hard.

Let me tell you, I've been stuck there before. I've been stuck there too often. I let myself become trapped. And I didn't want to escape that mindset.

But here, in the dark, at 10:47pm, a light goes on in my head. I literally wrote about this in my Word of 2018 post. And my word for 2018 is HOPE. I need to look at my life with HOPE.

HOPE that things will get better.
HOPE for God to give me strength and comfort.
HOPE in trusting God and His overall plan.
HOPE in understanding that I am beyond blessed in my life.
HOPE in knowing that the tomb didn't stay sealed and that Jesus has Risen!
HOPE as a confident expectation of future blessings based on facts and promises.
HOPE IN GOD.

One thing that honestly helps when you're feeling trapped in self-pity and despair - write down at least three things you're grateful for. Or write specifically about something you're grateful about from just that day. I know this works.

And I need to take my own advice and start doing this again. But in addition to writing down something I'm grateful for, I should start adding something I'm hopeful for, as a reminder to keep that HOPE. To understand that HOPE is the same, whether the day has brought joy or sorrow, triumph or tradegdy,  bright and shiny blessings or the quiet, hidden blessings.

Back to Instagram and social media. Maybe don't post only the perfect, edited pictures. Maybe don't strive to make it appear you have it all together. Post the struggles, the heartache, the frustration. Post the silly and undescribable. Post the love and the blessings. Post a little bit of everything. And maybe one day you'll be able to look back at all those posts and think, "Wow. My life was so much more, much more full, than even these posts can show." 

Holy Week in Grief

Holy Week. It comes every year. Lent is always one of my favorite seasons of the church. I appreciate the idea of embracing the darkness because in the end, Jesus will save us all. His light shines brighter than any darkness. No matter how bad you think things are. He will always win.

I've never experienced a Holy Week like this one. Ironically, it's not the first Easter surrounding the death of a loved one. Just one year ago, we lost my Grandpa during Holy Week. But we also knew that his time had come. I understood that his pain and suffering would soon be over, that he would be reunited with my Grandma again and stand in the presence of God. There was grief. But not like a shocking grief.

This Holy Week. There were a lot of feelings. A lot of thoughts about Austin. A lot of thoughts about what it all means, how it all works.

The message on Maundy Thursday was one of love. Throughout the last supper and that last evening, Jesus showed the same love to every single disciple, even Judas, who he knew would be betray him. Jesus tells us, "Love one another as I have loved you." His final commandment.

We will never be able to love as truly and deeply as Jesus did, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. It's not our place to judge others. Our job is to LOVE. All. Always.

I know this message. I think of it often. I remind myself of it when life gets hard and frustrating. But on Thursday, I felt ashamed because of that message.

I thought of Austin. The last few months we had. We had our differences and disagreements. I would get frustrated and angry. I wasn't living out that commandment. I should have been showing Austin love. He didn't deserve to be treated any differently just because we were having issues. He didn't deserve to be judged. Obviously I didn't know all of his struggles. I should have at least shown him God's love.

But I can't change that. And I'm ashamed of some of my actions. But what I can do is resolve to do better in the future. To treat those I disagree with or get angry at with love. Show them God's love and grace. "Love one another as I have loved you"

Good Friday. That was hard. I couldn't help but think of Austin at his ending. What led up to his ending. Did he feel abandoned? By those he thought loved him? By me? By God? Did he feel alone? And I think that he must have. He must have felt those things. And I can't imagine that pain.

I also thought about those of us who love Austin and who were left behind. "No chance to say goodbye. No way to ease the pain of parting." And this prayer: "For the times when we have not loved, even when we could, failing to carry out the simplest act of mercy, we ask the Father's forgiveness."

Then Saturday. The day that doesn't really get talked about. Unless your life is currently stuck in Saturday. Sometimes others will write something that so clearly states what you can't put into words. A friend, Kayla Becker, wrote something on Facebook that did just that: 

I’ve never really identified with the “Saturday” of Easter before. That silent day in between “Good Friday” and Easter Sunday. The day between the shocking grief and the stunning reality of what His brokenness healed. This Easter I’m stuck in Saturday.

We wear our grief like a cloak now. We’re no longer shocked and disillusioned. The weight of loss is just wrapped around us. And we are reeling as we try to put our lives back together around the trauma of loss. And I understand Saturday in a way I never wanted to.

We know the whole story. We know eventually the stone rolled away. The wounds became what healed us.

For as long as I’ve known the grief of the Friday of Easter I’ve also known the joy of Sunday.

But as for the ones actually written into that story, they didn’t know Sunday was coming. They didn’t know the stone would roll. The only knew the enormity of their loss.

In the blur of the visitation and funeral there are a few things people said that I remember vividly. One more than any other. Dear friends of ours wrapped their arms around me and said with more compassion and grace than I can muster...

“We know loss.”

And it was so simple. And it was so profound. When your heart is breaking, sometimes the most beautiful thing another human being can give you is the knowing. They were not indifferent to our pain.

And here they were years from the initial shock of it. And yet, it was still written into them. The knowing.

But in their knowing, I saw hope. They were not unscathed by their grief. They were not the same people they had been before loss. They did not pretend to be. But they knew something we didn’t yet. They knew Sunday was going to come. They used their wounds to heal.

And hasn’t that always been the way… brokenness is what heals. It’s the bridge between Saturday and Sunday.

I have not yet known heartbreak like this in my entire adult life. I am devastated. And I refuse to lie about that.

I won’t pretend this hasn’t rattled us. His death was traumatic and unexpected, and in ways we feel like we’ll never recover. I won’t pretend we haven't asked all of the hard questions. We lie awake at night, our faith deeply shaken.

I have exactly zero answers for all of the painfully difficult questions being asked. I won’t pretend that I haven’t questioned and tried to make sense of it. But it doesn’t make sense. It feels cruel and unfair. It feels painful, awful, and impossible. Because it’s still Saturday for me.

But the impossible beauty of living on this side of the Easter story is that I know eventually Sunday has to come. Even if I’m still living in Saturday. I know.

We might be shaken. We might be a bit like Thomas, begging to touch the wounds so we can believe it’s really true.

Sunday will come.
Wounds can be used to heal.
God is not indifferent to our pain.

Jesus is the bridge between the Saturday we’re in and the Sunday we believe will come.

And I don’t know if I’ve ever really been able to celebrate Easter in the way I will tomorrow.

Sunday will come.

As I was doing some reading, I learned about a Seder tradition of leaving a place set at the table for the prophet Elijah. "We have faith in his eventual return at the same time we acknowledge his absence. The empty chair at the table is both lament and expectation. His absence makes a very physical presence."

The presence of love and the presence of grief. Together. Acknowledge both. Welcome both. Leave the door open. Allow the emptiness a place at the table.

And then. Sunday. Easter. A day of celebration. Of rejoicing. To be honest, it felt odd to celebrate something so amazing as the resurrection of Jesus when I was still grieving the loss of Austin. Throughout the morning, I realized that I need to focus on where Austin is now.

In heaven! For eternity! For Austin, there is no more pain, no more tears, no more sorrow. There is only the absolutely joy of being with God! And that's because of the Easter miracle. The suffering has ended."The great promise of Easter had prevailed." Truly. Easter makes all the difference. And I can celebrate that.

He is Risen. He is Risen indeed.