I lack the words sometimes to express the way Im feeling or processing life. All I know is I am more exhausted than ever and the mere suggestion of one more commitment, no matter how enticing, I cannot for the life of me agree. Waiting on news and additional biopsies for answers is apparently the final straw. So not my words here today, just something that spoke to me and perhaps it will speak to you too. Meanwhile, we are leaning into rest and reading and being together.
Right After It’s Over
by Kate Bowler
On a long hike through an Indiana forest, I stumbled upon a spindly tree that tumbled off a cliff. Walking in the cool caverns below, I could see how the wind and the rain had eroded the ground under its tangled roots, but that the tree did not simply fall. It snapped at the base, and tipped over into the chasm beneath. Much to my family’s dismay (who wanted to keep hiking), I was transfixed. The tree didn’t die. Or, as I announced loudly to my six-year old, THE TREE MADE A SERIES OF IMPORTANT CHOICES.
At first the tree grew straight down, as if surrendering to gravity. After all, there was nowhere else to go. But at the point of breaking, the remnant began to thicken. It must have taken years, but its roots grew wider and deeper. Then, in a shocking act of hubris, the tree decided to try growing sideways. It added a few wobbly branches that stuck out entirely horizontally, like a gymnast might use her arms on a balance beam. More years passed. But at some point, the tree decided that sunlight was a good idea, and the only direction to go was up.
This is what happens when you anthropomorphize trees, I said, shaking my head. But nonetheless, my eyes got misty as I traced how the trunk made a perfect U-shape and, rather impertinently, grew straight toward the sky.
Can you picture it?
Perhaps you know what it’s like to be pushed off the edge. By some gust of wind, you suddenly knew your precious lives were hanging on by so little. The human condition is all thin roots and rocky soil, and so you fell.
When your life is snapped at the stem, there is almost nothing to do but watch yourself break. You find yourself trying to remember to breathe. You can hear your own voice and it might sound strange. Time is slow and surreal. Is this me? Is this really my life?
In the aftermath of devastation, the best we can do is survive. Try to sleep. Remember to eat. Keep breathing. Nothing will feel possible, but there you are. Another day. Even that may feel like a miracle.
There comes a season where you begin to realize: I could stay like this forever. Overwhelmed and broken. WHO COULD BLAME ME? Did you even hear what happened? It’s unthinkable. The world I loved is over now.
Our self-help culture will try to explain to you that this is the time to become better than before. Get back up! There are no set-backs, only set-ups! This is teaching you something or showing you a different path. Doors are closing and windows are opening, after all. You know, now that we’re talking about it, you might even be lucky that this happened. After all, this is an opportunity.
The deep evil inherent in the Perfectibility Paradigm is on full display. Your humanity is now a liability. Your grief and fear and confusion and fatigue is wielded as evidence of your failure. You are not only a person who has lost, but a loser.
Please, please, please, hear me say to you: you are not ruined or broken or a failure. You are simply in pain. And God is with you. This is God’s great magic act, in my opinion. The more we suffer, the more we can’t get away from God’s insistent love.
When life is hanging upside down, we must try to send all available energy to the roots. Drink a glass of water. Utter the words: “God, help me.” Try to get outside. Tell someone that you’re struggling. Don’t forget to sleep. It might not feel like much. But with these small acts of nurture and taking stock, you are like my favorite tree. You are letting yourself grow straight down.
Grief is a long story.
Someday you might try to get your balance, peeking your branches out a little. Seeing if you can reach and stay stable at the same time. Perhaps a short trip. A more casual conversation with others. Letting your guard down.
There will be days when you will be able to look around and ask: what is here? Where is there some ground to stand on? Is there anything that tastes good now? That nourishes? Where is there room to grow? If so, you might be ready for a turn.
As my friend Nora McInerny says, there is no “moving on.” There is only “moving forward.” Yes, there will be days when it might be crucial to pull down the blinds and lie in the dark. (Or morally recommit to watching every episode of our favourite television shows Community or The West Wing.)
But in the meantime, my dear, you are growing. You are tired and might be scared, and you may have lost too much. But you are not finished yet. Not today.
