When I was a young teenager, I noticed that every other house on my block had a divorced family. It was a pattern. Not a happy pattern. Not a striped or polka-dotted pattern. Just a pattern.
Divorced.
Not divorced.
Divorced.
Not divorced.
We lived in the not-divorced house. We had ideals and our family seemed to be shinier than most. It felt good. It felt better than the not-divorced families. We didn't have police officers lining the street as the husband screamed at the wife while she took stuff out of the house. We didn't have the kids crying in the yard like our neighbors did. We caught minnows and crayfish in the creek behind our house while the other neighbors sorted out their family problems.
We heard divorce statistics and each time the statistics told two stories: They are unlucky and pitiful. And you are fortunate and happy. It was all very black and white. And then divorce came and life was murky. The statistics didn't feel satisfying anymore. They stung a lot. I was humbled. I used to like statistics until their numbers pointed at me, lumping me in a percentage.
When I was young I thought that humility was reserved for saints carved in stone in European cathedrals, heads hung down. I no longer think that way. Humility is just humans recognizing other humans as humans. Seeing that we're all weak in some ways. That none of us are God.
I was speaking to an older woman about divorce. She didn't come from a divorced family but her son-in-law did and she felt the need to tell me that I needed to get over my parents' divorce and just get on with life. She told me that my parents would remarry and that I would have to accept that as well. That's just the way the world is. Divorce happens to people. Now get over it. My son-in-law got over it and you should, too. And I found that piece of information funny coming from her because her family was all snugly together, living within a few miles of each other. I remember wanting to hurt her in some way with my words. Maybe tell her she her hair was ugly or that she smelled bad. Very juvenile stuff. Hurt people like other people to hurt as well. But I let her stand there smiling to herself.
On more than one occasion I have also glossed over the hemorrhaging of another person and wanted to slap a bandaid solution on a much bigger problem. I have done that. More than I want to admit. There are parts of my life where I want to push a rewind button and say something different. Maybe nothing at all. Or maybe something as simple as, "I can see that you are (in a hurt or awkward situation which I have never experienced) and I love you so much. How can I be your friend right now?"
I don't know much about suicide or child abuse. But I do know a little about miscarriage and depression and unemployment. The circumstances are horrible, no argument there. Horrible. Here's the thing: there is redemption. And one redemptive angle about all of these difficulties is that with love and forgiveness and healing and pressing on we can become people who are more enlightened about weakness. We are not defined by our losses. We are made new. We might become quieter and softer and slower at the end of it all, but somehow we're stronger. More focused. We choose our words better. We throw awesome parties. We give tighter hugs and shed purer tears. We're truer.
But what about the losses? What about the dreams of an unbroken life? What about the Eden we all carry in our souls? What of the parents we lost to cancer and the babies we never held? What of the child we bore who has learning disabilities and all communication is a hardship?
I don't have an answer in myself. I've tried to be God, but I'm not God. I have no power and no amount of positive thinking will make me think differently. I need bigger power than me.
I believe in a redemptive God who takes all the loss, names it, weaps over it and brings new life. He doesn't gloss over the pain. He directs his gaze at it and holds it with all of its prickles. I'm not sure how God redeems. It's kind of a mystery to me. Sometimes it's a process. One day something is killing me and then with prayer and truth and a bit of wrestling, I find healing. True healing. Another puzzle piece clicks in place. I am made more humble, more human.
I have a friend who is amazing at entering the stories of people. She is my dot on the horizon, the person I want to be in ten years. Her life hasn't had the same struggles as another, but she stands by you and lets you weap on her shoulder and cry ugly and she just stays there. She has figured out humanity, I swear. She doesn't have answers, she just has a shoulder. And ears. And warm eyes. And I think that something must have happened in life to make her that way because she is so truly kind that no child comes out of the womb that way. She is also fantastic at making chili and laughing and reading books. She's the whole package.
The older I get, the easier it is becoming for me to approach a hurting person and just say, "I know nothing of your hurt." It's so liberating. And then I try to gauge if they are the hugging type. Some people are not.
When my parents first separated I noticed that people became really uncomfortable and didn't quite know what to do with it. Some well-meaning people gave me books about how to not divorce. They wanted me to give the books to my parents. There were two books. And honestly, I never gave them to my parents. I kept the sentiment of the people but not the books. Some other people called me with their advice or their opinions. Some people spoke vehemently and some spoke quietly. Some people talked as fast as they could about the weather and nothing else so they wouldn't have to talk about divorce. But at the end of the day, each person was trying to communicate this: "I hate that this is happening. I love you. I want to stop this hurt." I recognize that. It took many years, but I see that now.
Our human condition is appreciated in the flattening times of life. We are not know-it-alls. We are just people who inhale oxygen and exhale carbon-dioxide.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And then when we have strength to sit up from our flattened condition, our movements are slow and simple. We take delight in the smallest of achievements, like wiggling our toes or blinking our eyelids. Eventually we stand, frail, like a newborn doe. We take a few wobbily steps and thank God for the simple gift of walking. One step and then another. And when we begin to run, our old rhythm is gone. We run differently. And when we speak, our cadence and vocabulary is changed as well.
We're not the same. We are reborn into humanity. Into humility.
