Originally published at Real Clear Politics on May 29, 2020.
“Please. Please. I can’t breathe.” [ . . . ]
Category: Uncategorized (Page 3 of 4)
If I want to make one of my twins squirm, all I have to say is, “Son, when a mommy and a daddy really love each other…” We’ve had the sex talk, so they know where that conversation is going. They yell, “Dad!” and look for a quick exit.
If I want to make adults squirm in our church, all I have to say is, “So what do you think about the election?” Eyes dart around the room to see who is there, what I know about their political opinions, and how guarded I need to be with mine. [ . . . ]
One of the unique and solemn privileges of being a pastor is sitting down with the family of a deceased loved one to take in a concentrated dose of eulogy—“good word”—about the recently departed. In these times the family reviews commonly known features of the person’s character and unearths rare anecdotal jewels that form a sparkling composite of their beloved. These are poignant times of joy, gratitude, and love amidst the sorrow of loss. [ . . . ]
Game 6 of the World Series last night was one for the books. Not only did it display brilliant pitching and hitting from the Nationals, it set a World Series record for 6 away-game wins. With the news of Max Scherzer unable to pitch Game 5 but slated for tonight’s game, the drama could not be higher.
Drama is, of course, what draws us most to sports. Sports may be the last frontier of unspoilable drama. With the ubiquity of smartphone cameras and spoiler websites, most movies and TV shows have to go to extraordinary lengths to keep their plot twists under wraps. Not so with sports. Barring any illegal “throwing” of a game (which may have happened in the infamous 1919 World Series), no one knows who will win any game. Entire industries exist around gathering statistics, making predictions, and commenting on the action in real time. But the thrill is in the unknown. It is where we remember that we are human, bound by time, uncertain about the future. [ . . . ]
Originally published at Mending the Soul
Seven years into my first pastorate, a young lady in our church told me her story of being sexually abused as a little girl. She was deadpan as she recounted the events, mirroring the blank response her parents had given as they reinterpreted her report into something less horrific. I felt all the things for her any human being would—sorrow, anger, grief. I was sympathetic. [ . . . ]
Think of a time you heard someone’s story of abuse, neglect, or loss that was more severe than anything you have experienced. Typical reactions are shock, sorrow, and a desire to provide care and justice that counterbalances the hurt that person experienced. Also, you likely felt an appropriate helplessness. What can I possibly do to make this better? Where do I even begin?
As it turns out, the first step of caring for the hurting does not start with their story but yours. In short, you must first receive God’s care for your wounds if you are to care well for the wounds of others.
The apostle Paul writes about this order in 2 Corinthians 1:4. God “comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” The call to care well for others is not a call to pronounce information about comfort but to share the comfort we have received. Paul models this in the following verses as he describes “the affliction we experienced in Asia” in which “we were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself. Indeed, we felt that we had received the sentence of death.” Paul speaks truthfully and honestly about his affliction and the impact it made on him and his fellow workers. He also relays the outcome of this trial spiritually: “But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead.”
Counselors often speak of “processing” our emotions around grief or pain. If you think about materials we extract from the land, we refer to crude oil versus refined oil or unprocessed ore versus processed ore. In their raw forms, these cannot be used for good. They must go through a process.
Our emotions must also be processed when we have painful relationships or events in our past. When someone sobs at a funeral or screams when a spouse confesses infidelity, these are raw emotions. They are appropriate responses. Depending on the severity of the trauma, the emotions may remain raw for a season. But in this raw state the person is not in a place to be a source of help to others.
Often we neglect these emotions rather than facing what caused them. We believe that “time heals all wounds” and move on with life without processing what we have experienced. This may help us survive and function, but it can become a roadblock to caring well for others. When another person discloses a painful experience or a difficult situation, it may crack open the door to the closet where we have locked up our unprocessed emotions. If we are not able to sit with someone in their sadness (because we have not dealt with our own sadness) or listen as someone vents their anger (because we have unprocessed anger) we can stymie that person’s healing process.
So as you consider what it means to care well for others, bring this question to God in prayer: Do I have experiences of abuse, neglect, or loss that I have not processed? For Rachael and me, some patterns that have highlighted unprocessed emotions are feeling a visceral outrage when a child shows disrespect, feeling the shame of failure for allowing a check to bounce, feeling the need to be the best student in the class, or feeling an inward retreat when another raises his or her voice.
These events begin our journey back to unprocessed emotions. There is no precise roadmap for this journey, but here are some signposts that we can follow: [ . . . ]
Yesterday marked the one-year anniversary of my health avalanche. The day seemed typical at first. I took my usual prayer walk and felt great. But a few minutes into my shower everything came crashing down. I could feel the energy drain out of me and severe fatigue set in. The words “Call in sick” popped into my brain like a pre-programmed emergency message. Within an hour we were at the ER.
This avalanche had been rumbling for years. In the fall of 2013, I felt depression for the first time. Until then I enjoyed a sunny, optimistic disposition as my default. To feel nothing, even dark thoughts, was an entirely new experience that I could have lived without. Over time Rachael and I found natural remedies that could keep the anxiety, overwhelm, and depression at bay. We made dietary and environmental changes. But at best we were managing symptoms, never getting to the root cause. [ . . . ]
On May 25, 2018, Rachael burst into the bedroom a little after 6:30 AM sobbing, “Chris…your dad…he died!”
I didn’t cry in that moment. I stared at the ceiling in a daze. Time stood still. The shock cauterized my emotions and fogged my mind. Here a load-bearing wall in the Davis house had unexpectedly, impossibly collapsed and all I could do was watch blankly. [ . . . ]
First published on April 19, 2015. Three months later I would take my first trip back to Logan, WV in 12 years. A local funeral director informed me that J.T. passed away two weeks before I arrived.
My outing with J.T. first tipped me off that I am a nomad. Over the clatter of his replica Model A the spry, elderly man pointed out the creek that delineated the holler his family inhabited for generations. On this land his great-grandfather, Devil Anse Hatfield, organized his Logan Wildcats for guerrilla attacks on the Union Army. On this same land J.T. raised his family. Whenever he took them to Myrtle Beach, where the other coal miners vacationed, he grew nervous and uneasy the farther away he traveled and relieved when he returned. His sense of place entwined with his sense of identity. He was not fully himself when removed from the hollow of those West Virginia mountains. [ . . . ]
I didn’t know what to expect from a visit to my father’s grave, but I knew I had to make the trip. It had been nearly 10 months since I stood by that plot at the graveside service. Afterwards Samuel, then 3, packed down the mound of brown, moist dirt, engaging this shocking loss more freely and tactually than anyone else. Our conversation was profound:
“What did we just see happen, Sam?”
“Grandpa is dead.”
“And where is he now?”
“He’s into God.”
“And where is his body?”
“His body is down there.” [ . . . ]
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