When the World Seems Like a Terrible Place

I recall sitting with a woman a few years ago whose only son had unexpectedly died. I had sat in the same place a couple of years before when her husband had passed away. Of course, the loss of her son was opening the old wound, not yet nearly healed, caused by her husband’s death.

With tear-filled eyes and pursed lips she lamented, “Oh, how terrible life can be! Isn’t this world a terrible place?”

What could I say? On the one hand, I believe that the world can be a wonderful and enchanting place. There are times of fun and joy and happiness. 

On the other hand, and especially for her right then, the world was indeed a terrible place. Family she dearly loved were ripped from her life. She faced the prospect of countless days filled with heartache and endless nights of loneliness. Such grief cannot be dismissed with a quick, “Oh, it will be all right. You’ll be fine.” Or, “Don’t worry, he’s in a better place.” Regardless of whether or not these statements hold any truth, to minimize her feelings of loss at that moment would have done her a great disservice. More than anything, she needed someone to understand her pain and confusion.

“I know, this is really difficult,” I finally said, taking her hand. “I’m sorry.”

She eventually did get through both losses. It was far from easy and took plenty of time, but with help from her friends and hope from her faith she was able put her life back together. She was able to laugh and sing again.

When the world seems like a terrible place, I think it is good to remember a few things. Such as not to blame yourself for something that may not be your fault. The death of a family member is a good example. “If only I had seen what was going on.” “If only I had been there.” “If only I had encouraged him more to go see a doctor or a counselor.” If onlys assume you have power in somebody’s life that you simply don’t have. There are some things which are beyond your control. 

And don’t beat yourself up because you think you ought to feel better. You’ll heal in your own time and there’s no sense in “feeling bad about feeling bad.”

It also helps to remember that  you will get through this thing, even if you don’t think so at the time. One widowed woman remarked to me six months after her spouse’s death, “I used to have more bad days than good days. Now I have more good days.” She added that she believed she would never get over her loss, but she said, “I know I can get through it.”

And remember that you are not isolated. There may be nothing more helpful than reaching out to others when you hurt. It is also important to draw on your spiritual resources. In very many ways, you are not alone.

Pain and suffering, from time to time, will inevitably take up residence in your life as unwelcome guests. You can’t ignore their presence. They’ll break stuff and mess everything up and, when they finally leave, you will have to put it all back together the best you can. But leave a space for joy to move back in. Joy may have left, but it’s not far away.

And when it moves back in, your world will be a much better place.

-- Steve Goodier

Image:flickr.com/Joe Penna

Celebrating My Scars

Image courtesy of andyk

Po Bronson, in his book Why Do I Love These People? (Random House, 2005), tells a true story about a scarred and stately elm tree. The tree was planted in the first half of the 20th Century on a farm near Beulah, Michigan (USA). It grew to be magnificent. Today the elm spans some 60 feet across its lush, green crown. Its trunk measures about 12 feet in circumference. And a vivid scar encircles the tree.

In the 1950s the family that owned the farm kept a bull chained to the elm. The bull paced round and round the tree. The heavy iron chain scraped a trench in the bark about three feet off the ground. The trench deepened over the years threatening to kill the tree. But though damaged so severely, the tree strangely did not die.

After some years the family sold the farm and took their bull. They cut the chain, leaving the loop embedded in the trunk and one link hanging down. The elm continued to grow and bark slowly covered parts of the rusting chain that strangled it. The deep gash around the trunk became an ugly scar.

Then one year agricultural catastrophe struck Michigan -- in the form of Dutch Elm Disease. A path of death spread across vast areas of countryside. Most elm trees in the vicinity of the farm became infected and died. But that one noble elm remained untouched.

Amazingly, it had survived two hardships. It was not killed by the bull's chain years earlier, and this time it out-lasted the deadly fungus. Year after year it thrived. Nobody could understand why it was still standing in a vast area where most every other elm tree was gone.

Plant pathologists from Michigan State University came out to study the tree. They looked closely at the chain necklace buried deep in the scar. These experts reported that the chain itself actually saved the elm's life. They reasoned that the tree absorbed so much iron from the chain left to rust around its trunk that it became immune to the fungus. What certainly could have killed the tree actually made it stronger and more resilient.

As Ernest Hemingway said, “The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places.” The same chain that severely wounded the tree saved its life in the end.

The story of this tree reminds me that the very things that have hurt me, physically as well as emotionally, have also helped me more than I may ever know. Many of them left scars – some of the scars are visible and some not. But these days I am learning to accept my scars – even to celebrate them.

Why not? My scars remind me that I did indeed survive my deepest wounds. That in itself is an accomplishment. And they bring to mind something else, too. They remind me that the damage life has inflicted on me has, in many places, left me stronger and more resilient. What hurt me in the past has actually made me better equipped to face the present.

Yes, I have scars. I have decided to look on them as things of beauty. And I will celebrate them.

-- Steve Goodier

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A Sliver of Hope

Jean Kerr said, "Hope is the feeling you have that the feeling you have isn't permanent."

I like that. Hope is what we have when we know that the night will soon be over. Hope is what we have when we somehow know that dawn is coming.

It seems that hope is in short supply these days. Which is why I like this story about "Robbie" Risner, who found that the tiniest bit of hope alone could keep him alive.

Brigadier General Robinson Risner ("Robbie") spent seven years as a POW at the "Hanoi Hilton," as prisoners of war called their North Viet Nam compound. It was horrendous. He endured four and a half years of that time in forced isolation. Four and a half years with no human contact; no conversation; no touch. The intent of his solitary confinement was to break his will.

And what's worse, ten months of that isolation were spent in total darkness! Robbie remembers that those ten months were the longest of his life. The day guards boarded up his little seven-by-seven foot cell, shutting out the light, he wondered if he was going to make it. He had already been under intense physical and mental duress after years of confinement. And now, not a glimmer of light shone into his cell -- or into his soul. It seemed hopeless.

Robbie spent hours a day in the dark exercising and praying. But at times he felt he could nothing but scream. Not wanting to give his captors the satisfaction of knowing they'd broken him, he stuffed clothing into his mouth to muffle the noise as he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Hope came in the form of a single blade of grass. One day Robbie got down on the floor and crawled under his bunk. He located a vent that let in outside air. As he pressed against the vent, he saw a faint glimmer of light reflected on the inside wall of the opening. Robbie put his eye next to the cement wall and discovered a minute crack in the construction. It allowed him to glimpse outside, but was so small that all he could see was one blade of grass. A single blade of grass and a faint ray of light. But when he stared at the sight, he felt a surge of joy, excitement and gratitude like he hadn't known in years.

In that single blade of grass he saw life and growth. And he saw freedom. As long as could gaze upon one little blade of grass, he could remind himself that his darkness would someday be over. Dawn would come again. He would live and, like the grass, he would thrive. It was only a sliver of hope, no larger than the tiny crack through which he gazed, but it could be enough.

If you could use a little more hope, try to find a sliver of light in your darkness. I suspect it's there. And it may not seem like much, but it might be enough to get you through the night.

-- Steve Goodier

Image by Allison Chopopick