Category: grief

A Cry for Calm

Posted on by Lisa Marion

My heart is heavy these days. So much to think about and take care of. “To-do” lists liter my desk. I’m struggling. I try each morning to remember to spend time in quiet and read the Scriptures suggested by my church. I was very distracted this morning and kept looking at my phone instead of praying.

So many thoughts; Was I unkind to my dad’s nurse? I forgot the water for his C-pap machine! More pillows, more pillows! Awk! Focus lisa, focus! Back to my reading.

The psalm was full of pitiful cries for God to deliver His people amid their trial. Yes, got it. Help God. The Old Testament passage, from Isaiah, too depressing to even contemplate. Finally, the Gospel reading, from Mark. Jesus stills the storm, and He did it with three words! Peace, be still. This is what I needed, peace. I grabbed my Bible app and searched for the passage to understand the original Greek.

Peace, I’ve looked it up many times. I thought I’d find eirene; the tranquil state of a soul assured of its salvation. Or shalom; wholeness, completeness, and well-being. But to my surprise I found something different.

The original word in this passage for peace is siopao. A Greek word that literally means to silence, or hush. Jesus isn’t telling his disciples (or me) to have peace, he’s telling the storm to be quiet, to hush.

Yes! I want the storm terrifying me to stop, to be quiet, to hush. Finally, a breath.

Yet the passage ends with Jesus turning to his disciples and asking them “Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?”

Fearful? Yes, I am fearful as I face the storm of my father’s decline and coming death, but Faithless? Am I? Were they? Amid their storm they ask Christ, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?”

This is a question I don’t need to ask, of course Christ cares that my father is perishing, and he cares that I am troubled by so many things. I have faith that everything will be well, but I still need to hear him quiet the storm – now. To hear those three small words, “Peace, be still!”

Yes, Lord, I know you care that he is perishing. Help me to remember you have the power to quiet the storm in my soul.

 

The Cycle of Comfort

Posted on by Lisa Marion

Still basking in the glow of my retreat in the high desert. As I mentioned the topic was Dealing with Death. It was powerful. Death is never a cheery topic but it’s an important topic.

The goal of the retreat was to create space where everyone could express themselves and talk about the confusion and chaos that often lingers after someone dies. We took a deep dive into the comforting Scriptures of Eternity and God’s providential love. Here is a link if you’re interested in those Scriptures.

My first encounter with death came early. It was the violent murder of my grandmother. It changed the whole dynamic of our family. My poor young mother had a nervous breakdown, and I took over her role as “mom” at the age of 10. Her emotional darkness left her present yet unavailable. My father was overwhelmed and checked out. This left me alone to process the devastating changes. But in this void my child’s heart knew I needed to pray. I memorized the Lord’s Prayer from a small plaque in my mother’s closet. I look back now and see myself small and alone, but I also see God drawing me to him.

Interesting that at this retreat there was two women who had also experienced a profoundly violent murder within their family. It was powerful to see God use my experience (from 50 years ago) to help this family process their darkness. It felt like the  redemption of my trauma, turning my mourning into a beautiful gift. It made me think of the precious gentle movements of God. It brought life to the passage about comforting others with the same comfort we ourselves have experienced,

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.”  2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Have you ever thought of that? How God could use the comfort you’ve received to comfort others? I feel strongly that if our comfort isn’t passed along WITH our sufferings, our sufferings are just that – sufferings. But if we share our experience of comfort our sufferings have the power to help another along their journey, and the cycle of comfort continues.

What goodness has God brought from your sufferings? Maybe you have yet to taste that kind of comfort in your sadness, that’s okay too. If something is lingering in your heart, reach out and let’s talk about it.

 

 

Keeping Track of Prayer Requests

Posted on by Lisa Marion

I keep note cards as reminders for my prayers. I keep one for each person I direct. I keep another specific card just for folks who’ve asked for healing. My cards are all different colors, except for the healing card, it is white.

Today during my quiet time, I crossed off two names and marked them with “RIP.” A phrase that has been highjacked by horror movies, but the sentiment is still full of our desires for the one who has died. In love we wish them the ability to rest from this chaotic earthly life, to rest from their pain and struggles. We pray they get the calm resting we all crave.

The act of praying for another is an act of love. People want to be released from their struggle, pain, and illness. Healing is a beautiful gift; one I’ve witnessed several times in my life. It is a profound experience, yet, one that I don’t fully understand. I’ve learned that healing is beautiful, an unexpected surprise, but I’ve also learned that death is not the worst thing that can befall us. Death can itself be a type of healing too.

My father’s health is declining. What sometimes seems “slowly” is actually “quickly.” His days drag on, and the months fly by at a breathtaking pace. This poor man is literally being kept alive with medicine and devices that propel his weakening body forward into each new day. His mind, still sharp, active, and mildly irritated, must adjust to an ever-changing medication regime. He is frail and can barely stand, but his mind rages against this reality. “I’ve got this! I am making progress.”

Yes Dad, progress, but your speech is beginning to lose its sharpness, you are short of breath, you confuse people and information. You may be making progress, winning these small battles, but you will eventually lose this war. He knows this and we are all content to leave it unsaid.

His weak heart  is full of emotions and memories. Tears are often his companion as he thinks back on his life. “I’m ready to go.” Is the battle cry some days and on other days I hear, “I’m 12 years from turning 100! Won’t that be interesting.” He may have 12 weeks, 12 months, but certainly not 12 years. It is hard.

The two souls that were marked off my white healing card were both terribly ill. One almost 100, bed-ridden, and fully dependent on others. The other younger than myself – taken too soon, or sooner than you would expect.

Removed from my prayer list, no longer in need of healing. Sad? Maybe, but not really. They received the ultimate healing. While we live, we have needs, but once this life is completed, our needs evaporate, and we move into that paradoxical place of experiencing yet waiting, “already but not yet” as some theologians put it. Death is often a great mercy.

I muse on the specific events that will end my father’s earthly life. I await the call, thinking on those last moments at his bedside. I pray for a peaceful end, yet I will be ready for whatever the end looks like.

Please pray for us. Pray for a good death a peaceful passage from this life to the next.

Thank you for listening to my thoughts, and if you have a specific need, something that I should place on one of my colorful prayer cards, please email me. lisa [at] dailypax.com

Deep Flooding and Deep Nourishment

Posted on by Lisa Marion

The flooding started shortly after I arrived. It was odd to see the water slowly rise all through the surrounding pecan orchard.

“Flood irrigation” she said. “They gradually flood the entire orchard floor, and it slowly and deeply waters the roots of the trees. It’s a very old farming technique.”

I’m fascinated by how much I don’t know. Flooding on purpose. As the days pass, I see the water level rising and reaching far and wide throughout the entire perimeter of the retreat center.

I wonder if this flooding helps me understand some of the deeply traumatic seasons of my life. I have felt the weight of flooding. Flooding that felt like drowning. So much on me, a flood of needs amid true lack. Desperate moments alone. I have seen hard things. Things you’re not supposed to see. Things you never share with anyone because the reality is too real.

The deep flooding provides a consistent watering. An odd modality of nourishment. I don’t think I like it, but as I continue to think on this “very old farming technique” of irrigation I begin to understand how the flooding in my life has led to this deep consistent experience of nourishment at my roots. I still don’t like it, but I understand it. And I’ve learned that God knows exactly how much flooding I can endure, and how much flooding I need.

As I walk around the grounds, I see the water almost reach the road. Along the surface of the ground, I notice small plants also benefiting from the flooding. Small patches of green proudly poke up through the water. It makes me think on those who have watched me struggle through my own flooding and have taken courage.

Near me I can see into the water, it is a bit muddy and small bits of nature float along. Yet in the distance the flood water takes on a clean shimmer, almost blue. A smooth blue shine, a glassy surface of light blue.

Blue? I think, why blue amid the vivid green trees with their strong brownish trunks. Then I see that the blue is reflection of the sky. The water reflects the heavens. My heart is lighter, I take moment to thank God for the flooding I’ve experienced, and I rest in the message of life around me.

 

Unconditional Love & Unconventional Forgiveness

Posted on by Lisa Marion

Recently my Spiritual Director passed away. He was a wonderful example of Jesus with skin on. He was a lover of the many people who visited the abbey where he had lived for over 50 years. He was an incredible mentor to me and loved me through a multitude of difficult situations. I miss him deeply. As I reflect on his death I am saddened by three things; the loss of this gentle man to the many who sought his help, my own loss of a wise and compassionate Spiritual Guide, and most importantly, I don’t want his wisdom to die with him. With that end in mind, I have set my heart to do my best to share the Wisdom of my friend Fr. Francis.

2015 left me in mourning. My husband of 34 years had lost a five-year battle with alcoholism. Found by a stranger, alone, and dead. The struggle was over. During those years my life had been hijacked by his destructive behavior. When I finally stepped aside to let him find his way, my life then was hijacked with guilt and shame. I had tried to stay strong, to remain at his side, as a dutiful Christian wife, while he struggled. However, the more I tried to help him, the deeper and deeper I sank into depression, confusion, and self-loathing. Surely with love I could find an answer to his problem. It became increasingly obvious that my love could not save him, and my helping was not – helping. When he died this illusion of failed helpfulness led me deeper into depression. Only now, there was nothing that I or anyone else could do to help. He was done. It was over. He was dead.

A small sense of relief led me down a path of more guilt and shame, it was almost too much to bear. I’m thankful my faith tradition offered me an opportunity to release the weight of these obsessive thoughts in the Sacrament of Confession (or Penance as it’s officially called).

My confessor, Fr. Francis, is two hours away. Two hours that provided me the opportunity to examine my part in my husband’s descent into alcoholism and death. Alone in the car I could formulate an extensive list as to why I was responsible for his death. The conflict between being a “good Christian wife” and trying to live a life with boundaries caused me so much agony.

“You should leave him.” Came as the battle cry from many, several among the clergy.

“Okay, yes, I should leave him.” But the real part, the part of their battle cry that caused me the deepest pain was the question,

“Where does it say in the Gospels that I can abandon this very sick man?” The battle cry was quieted, they could offer no answer.

As I arrived my confessor greeted me with his usual hug. A warm, comforting embrace that gave me the feeling of protection from a source outside myself.

“I want you to hear my confession.” I quietly whispered in the safety of his embrace.

“Okay.” Came the gentle reply whispered almost as quietly as my request.

Silently we walked to the abbey chapel and made ourselves comfortable in the wooded confessional room. Armed with an extensive list of my wrongdoings (formulated in the 2-hour car ride) I began, “Forgive me Father …” He interrupted me. “Lisa,” taking my hands into his he said, “Simply say you’re sorry for whatever part was yours.” Stunned by his kindness I said, “Lord, I am sorry for whatever part was mine.” He continued gently with the grace-filled prayers prayed after confession, and we were done. Grace and forgiveness for “whatever part was mine.” I couldn’t believe it was that easy.

It is a cunning lie that those who love an addict feel that – somehow – they’re to blame. That somehow, they were not smart enough, not quick enough, not crafty enough to solve the problem for the one they love. A wicked and powerful lie. Yet, in his compassionate wisdom Fr. Francis officially, lovingly, and somewhat unconventionally released me from the grips of this lie. He could have easily insisted I recount the sorted details of this painful season, sending me back to hating myself for not rescuing the one I loved. I had spent years examining my actions and inactions, constantly beating myself up. With love and gentleness and without more self-flogging, I was released from guilt and shame. Fr. Francis was truly the physical presence of a loving God to me during a time of little comfort and less love. A gift.

Have you ever experienced a gift like this? Pure grace and pure love! Sometimes we have to be in a really dark space before any light pours in! What could you let go of if you were in that confessional with Fr. Francis. What could his gentle loving kindness help you release? Can you simply ask God to release you from “whatever part was yours?” Can you believe it is that easy? Can you accept this kind of unconditional love and forgiveness? Fr. Francis truly showed me God’s love at that moment, and I endeavor each day to release the chaos of guilt and shame that tears down my heart. Love builds up, it never tears down. Thank you, dear Francis, for building me up with your tangible expression of God’s love.

Grief

Posted on by Lisa Marion

This morning at church, as we entered the “praying” part of the service, the young priest said, “And we offer prayers for those who are in ‘a Season of Sadness.’” He gave a name to something I’m experiencing; a Season of Sadness.

A season to journey through. To accept as a stretch of time, but not to define the rest of my life. Like a spell of bad weather, something to endure, to get through, in anticipation of other seasons.

My husband would have turned 64 on Friday. Today we would have celebrated with our children and friends, as we have done for years. Homemade cake, BBQ in our back yard, obligatory photo-op … but this year is birthday passed in quiet remembrance of what we’ve lost. A few texts and phone calls, but that was it.

Husband, father, uncle, friend. Quick to laugh and quick to fall asleep. Perfectionist to a fault, yet generous and eternally optimistic. His presence is missed, and his absence cannot be avoided.

I could never imagine my life without him, without his warmth, without his ideas, and without HIS strong opinion. My arms are empty, and my bed is cold. We struggle as we adjust, yet he is at rest – peace. The peace he could not find here; demons, history, regrets, failures, all plagued him. Yet in our eyes he was wise, kind, and generous to a fault. Ever present and always ready to do more. My mind drifts to the things we never said, and the missed opportunities. It all makes me very sad.

I’ve heard it said, “It is easier to escape a presence than an absence.” I have found this painfully true. For there is always the grief, thick and inescapable. A cloud that lingers, a mist, or perhaps an aroma. A sudden familiar smell or a favorite color … grief is a thing that defies words, for words are feeble, thin, constricting.

Yet there is a strange comfort in the presence of constant grief – it is a thing you know. It must be invited it into your life, for it will accept no rejection. There have been days where grief has been my only companion. Something “other,” yet my very “self” at the same time … how this is, I cannot explain, I only know this has been my experience. Yet, in deep grief I have found hope, a thing that is also something “other,” yet NOT myself. Hope is a thing that is as equally explainable as grief itself.

Each April, Blogger.com offers writers the opportunity to write an “A to Z” about a topic. You take a letter a day, and blog about it. This year I’m thinking about writing an “A to Z” about grief. A close friend asked, “Really, is there enough to write about grief?”

Oh, yes, my dear friend, there is more than enough to say about this dance between grief and hope. I don’t mean to depress with my writing, I merely want to express my experience, so that another might read and say “Yes, this is my experience too.” And through this connection find peace in knowing that you aren’t alone.

What about you? What is your experience with grief? Have you found hope in the depths of your grief? Send me an email, tell me about it. Together we can create a body of work that will help someone through their own “Season of Sadness.” Thank you for support and I look forward to hearing from you.

~ lisa

Christmas Control

Posted on by dailypax

I reconnected with an old friend before Christmas. During lunch we caught-up, it had been a while. It was a slow, relaxing meal. We said our good-byes, and I headed to the ladies room. I felt sad. I can often avoid the reality of this season in my life – but after chatting freely about my struggles with an old friend, my spirits were low.

Are things really as bad as they sounded? Maybe it was recounting the events of the past year? Maybe it was her compassionate response? I’m not sure the reason, but the weight of my life was heavy on me.

In the background Christmas music had been softly playing, but now, walking alone down the hallway to the ladies room, it became suddenly louder. A blues tune introduction, then a single male voice,

“Have yourself … a merry little Christmas.”

His voice was slow and deliberate, as if addressing me directly. I paused to listen.

“Let your heart be light.”

Let; permission. No action, simply allowing. Not forcing, but not preventing.

“From now on, our troubles will be out of sight …”

Not gone, just not visible. Out of sight, perhaps out of mind, for a short while.

It spoke to me of accepting, but not focusing on, my troubles. Can I have peace for a bit? Can I put this heaviness aside? Can I make a choice to move into the lightness the singer called me to?

This is not denying my sadness or ignoring the depth of my pain. No, this is more about a choice. A purposeful movement within me, to turn my heart and attention to having a “merry little Christmas,” regardless of my circumstances.

Can I call for a cease-fire on my internal assaults about the way things are? Christmas is here, Christ has come into the world. There is hope in this, real hope – in the Incarnation. God became flesh and dwelt among us, not that he could know us, but that we could know him. To know he cares about us and that his life was full of great sorrow too.

God is faithful. He knows my needs; my real needs, that aren’t dictated by the latest trend or irrelevant “thing.” My need for love, and peace, and for the confidence that I will be okay.  God will make provisions for these needs.

If I believe this, I must act like it. I still have some control in my life, even if it is only over my own attitude.

Disquietness

Posted on by dailypax
    Why art thou cast down, O my soul? And why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God. Ps 42:11

The psalmist is speaking to the “living part” of himself, his soul. The living part of his being is cast down and heavy – disquieted. I understand this.

If this “disquiet” is a part of the Psalmist’s experience, a byproduct of fears and oppression, why does the modern person become concerned when feeling this way? As though we’ve done something wrong; that we haven’t had sufficient “good thoughts” or maintained a positive attitude.  Yet heaviness and disquietness are the soul’s natural reaction to life’s difficult situations.

This passage appears to be an internal discussion between the writer and himself. I benefit from the progression of thought expressed.

“Why are thou cast down, O my soul?” He is surprised at his own heaviness.

Then he encourages himself, “Hope thou in God, for I shall yet praise Him.”

As if to say, “Why are you sad, take heart, something will come of this difficulty, something worthy of praise. God has proven himself in the past, He will not absent himself this time, take courage – be still.”

This psalm speaks to me in two ways; first, that to be heavy or disquieted is a natural state of my soul in response to fears and worries. Second, that when life causes me worry and distress, I should encourage myself by remembering that God hasn’t failed me and that when the turmoil has passed I will have something to be thankful for.

Counterintuitive? Yes. But that is the point.

Roadside Memorial

Posted on by dailypax
The thin marine layer acts as filter, holding back the colors of morning. All that is left is a vacant landscape all in grey tones. A normally vibrant view is reduced to a silhouette of hills and buildings. We approach the place. A place most of us travel again and again – part of our rut. The traffic is slow and purposeful. We want to see the place. We take our time. This morning, the first day of business traffic through this thin stretch of Pacific Coast Highway.

A sudden surprise; everything is swept and clear. Expectations were to see the spot as it was; glass and shards of metal strewn around, a flicker indicating the presence of a traffic flare. But as we pass we can see no evidence of the damage done just two days earlier. If one hadn’t heard – one would never know.

Then it is seen, the humble roadside memorial. Against the city codes, it stands “permitted” today; an exception to the rules marks the spot where 3 souls were separated from their bodies.

“Too soon” some would lament … yet not, He always knew what the news would be that day. As though already published He had awareness of the headlines and the report we would hear;

    a woman in her 20s, a man in his 40s and his mother in her 60s.

Too soon? Perhaps by our standards, but the number of their days was already known to Him at their birth.

Three spots of flower-filled color, three clear, fresh candles. They pierce the grey tones of the morning and remind us to live as though this day were our last.

Hope-filled Grief

Posted on by dailypax


“For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and the with trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first: Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. Wherefore comfort one another with these words.” 1 Thes 4:16-18

Paraphrased: “You will see your loved one again and you will be reunited forever, Christ himself will come again. And HE will make this so.”

I was comforted, again, by this truth today at the Requiem Mass for a great lady, Catherine Wilcox. The priest, encouraged us, “Mourn and grieve, yes, but not as the world grieves.”

Christian grief is filled with hope, the aspect of mourning that eludes the world. Ours is not a wishful hope, but a certain anticipation of the fulfillment of a promise. “Wherefore comfort one another with these words.”