Bump in the Night

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Normally my late night walk with Jack is a pleasure. We usually head out before midnight, but last night the clock got ahead of our intentions, and it was after 1:00 am. I looked at Jack, wondering if he could “hold it” till morning but couldn’t resist his pleading eyes and wagging tail.

“OK,” I said, “but just a short one.”

Since no one else would be out dog-walking at that hour, I left Jack’s leash at home so he could enjoy romping in the woods along our way. Plugging in my ear buds, I clicked on Michael Buble’s playlist, and we were off.

The lively “Haven’t Met You Yet” came on, causing me to pick up the pace to match the beat when without warning my foot smashed full force into something that sent me sailing parallel to the road. Before I hit the pavement, I knew what it was:

a speed bump.

Our neighborhood is nearly empty 9 months of the year but becomes a busy beach community in the summer. So in June, half-a-dozen portable speed bumps come out of storage to slow the increased traffic, and I’m usually tuned in to their familiar locations. Last night was the odd exception.

Although I’d forgotten a flashlight on a pitch black night, my ipod could have served the same purpose and prevented some painful road rash. Hitting the asphalt with one knee followed by the other, then both palms, the tops of my toes, and cheek, my first thought was, “I’ll bet I tore through my new capri’s.”

As is true for all of us after we’ve had an accident, I wish I had a video of the mishap, but I knew the next day would bring a body-summary of what actually occurred. This morning God guided me in how to properly take inventory:

  • Though my hands are skinned, I didn’t break a wrist.
  • Though my knee is cut, I didn’t break a knee cap.
  • Though my foot is twisted, I didn’t break the bones.
  • Though my toes feel rug-burned, I didn’t break a toe.
  • Though my back hurts, I didn’t break a vertebra.
  • Though my rib cage hurts, I didn’t break a rib.
  • Though my head aches, I didn’t get a concussion.

God began my day by highlighting 7 blessings. As I gingerly crawled out of bed wondering how I’d ever get all the blood out of my new capri’s (and pajama pants), I thought maybe God had let me take my spill just to give me a fresh opportunity to count blessings.

If so, it worked.

He even gave me an 8th. When I hit the ground, my ipod and Michael Buble’ flew out of my pocket and somersaulted down the road. And wouldn’t you know, as it hit, the screen lit up, nicely illuminating the speed bump.

Blessing #8:

  • Though my ipod took a hit, it didn’t break.

Actually, as I hooked it up again, Michael Buble’ was still singing the same song, completely unfazed by my bump in the night.

“My cup overflows with blessings.” (Psalm 23:5)

 

On the Outside Looking In

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Today a Chicago area friend and I spent the day together in Michigan, talking, laughing, biking, praying, wading, sunbathing, eating and walking. It was a meaningful day of simple pleasures most anyone could enjoy… anyone but a new widow.

Several months after Nate died, I remember a dark time of sorrow and gloom. One day in particular stands out as a low point. I was walking Jack in the pitch black of a winter evening, shivering with the cold but also with the misery of missing Nate. Passing a neighbor’s house, I saw through the window they were entertaining friends, and I was overtaken by sharp loneliness.

While standing in the road watching six adults talk and laugh in a warm living room, I felt like the little match girl of storybook fame, homeless and cold, looking in on a family holiday meal. I had a home and plenty to eat but like her I was on the outside looking in.

A week later, other neighbors invited me to dinner. I said “no.” It was crazy to reject a chance to be part of the happy conversation “on the inside,” but that’s new widowhood, a hodge-podge of emotions that make no sense: “I’m lonely, but leave me alone; I’m excluded, but don’t invite me in.”

So what’s to be done for a new widow?

Not too long after my forlorn experience in the road, I walked into a neighbor’s kitchen, though I can’t recall the reason. Once inside, I saw a long dinner table set for a crowd and realized they were having company. A big pot of stew simmered on the stove, and fresh bread lay on the counter.

“Our small group is coming tonight,” my friend said. I nodded, and then she did the perfect thing. She filled a bowl with beef stew and handed it to me. “Why don’t you take this with you? I’d love for you to have it.”

Gratefully I accepted her gift and stepped into the cold night with my warm stew, feeling included but not with the pressure to meet new people or make small talk. It was exactly what I needed.

Showing love to a new widow is difficult. You might be refused repeatedly and be wounded by rejection. After several rebuffed invitations, you might think, “What’s the use. She wants to be left alone, so I give up.”

But from experience I can say, “Please keep trying.” Her in-and-out behavior of living on the fringes is her way to cope with the complex and unwelcome role of widowhood. If you don’t give up, eventually you’ll receive a “yes”, and you’ll know you’ve helped end her days of standing on the outside looking in.

The Lord said, “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness.” (Jeremiah 31:3)

A Fresh Perspective

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Through cyberspace relationships I’ve heard incredible stories of hardship coming to widows and widowers. One woman lost her husband, her mother and one of her children in the same 18 month period, and yet she perseveres.

While walking Jack today, I saw a great visual for this kind of resilience, a simple day lily growing on a hill. It looked every bit like it’d once been at death’s door but was now thriving.

The life-giving stem had been crimped, as if someone had tried to snap it off but failed to break it completely. Left hanging, it had gathered new strength through what little stem was left in tact and had reversed its direction. Today it was growing toward the sun and had put forth a fresh bloom.

The same can be true for people. Life’s load can force us low, but as we entrust ourselves to God, he prevents total breakdown. The question is, why does he let us get so close to complete collapse before rescuing us? Can’t he hear us “crying uncle” as we go down?

I can think of several reasons why severe adversity comes to us. They’re the reasons Christians usually give in an effort to bring comfort or understanding: (1) Life isn’t fair, and bad things happen to good people; (2) Disease and accidents occur because we live in a fallen, sinful world God never intended; (3) God allows trials so we’ll turn to him during the struggle; (4) Sometimes God takes people in death to save them from something worse; (5) God wants to show us he can bring good things out of bad circumstances.

Each statement contains an element of truth, and I’ve experienced bits of all of them through Nate’s cancer, death and my widowhood. But when a loved one is hurting or even dies, none of those answers bring much satisfaction.

More satisfying to me has been simply to accept the truth that I’ll never fully understand. Although God is omniscient and omnipotent, he makes the choice not to stop all evil, terminate all persecution, or heal all illness.

He could, but he doesn’t.

And that’s the part I don’t like and don’t get. It’s a disconnect from human logic. But then again, he’s not human.

The good news is, miserable circumstances are also a golden opportunity to trust God in spite of them. It’s a chance to increase my faith in him and overlay the negatives with the perfection and goodness of his character. He is without flaw, the topmost Being in existence. I can rail against him if I want, attacking, spewing anger, laying blame. But at the end of it I’d feel just as bad.

Strangely, it’s when the flailing and fighting has stopped that God pours his peace into troubled people. He may not change the circumstances, but he gives a new way to look at them.

And just like the damaged lily, we end up blossoming again, too.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.” (Isaiah 43:2)