When the World Falls to Pieces on Your Birthday

I walked my wee hounds in a cool morning fog toward my young neighbor several days ago.  He sat cross-legged on a culvert, his head down, and dug through something on his lap.  The hood of his coat covered his whole head.  His backpack hung loosely from his shoulders.  From a distance, he looked like a bag of clothes someone left to be picked up by a charity. 

He was waiting for the school bus.
He’s a good kid.  Friendly enough but marches to a different drummer.  Loves to sing.  

Some mornings he leaves his house to wait for the bus while I’m still scratching myself awake.  He sings as he passes my house.  He sings at the top of his lungs in his weird vibrato-rich opera voice.   He sounds like he has inhaled too much helium.  The wee hounds lose their minds at the sound of him passing by. 

“Wassup?”  I asked.   He looked up.  His black mask covered his face except for his almond-shaped eyes.  He looked like a Ninja.

I noticed that the thing in his lap was a sandwich bag filled with Legos. 

“Hi, Mr. Jimmy,”  He said.  “Today’s my 12th birthday.”

I don’t know where he got the idea to call me “Jimmy.”  I don’t mind but no one has ever called me Jimmy. 

Today?” I replied with false wonderment.   “Today, this day, of all days is YOUR birthday?”


“You of all people were born on a Tuesday?” 

“No, Silly!  February 2nd!”

“Oh!”  I said.   “Well,  the wee hounds and I will now sing a festive song to celebrate this glorious day.”

He laughed, “That’s alright, Mr. Jimmy.  You don’t have to sing.”

Somehow the word got out. 

“Well, happy birthday,” I said. “You want to know something really weird?  I mean especially weird given that it’s your birthday.”

“Sure,” he said. 

“No one else on earth shares this day with you as their birthday.!” I said.

“Yeah!” he said. “This birthday is all mine.”

His twin sister who attends another school might debate that.

“Let me ask you something, “ I said.  “Does this day feel special, like a day different from other days?”

“Yes,” he replied.  “It does.  Does your birthday feel special?”

“Yes.   I’m 70 years old and my birthday always feels special.”

He looked down and dug some more in his Legos.

I noticed his friend from down the street walked toward us, her Nike-clad feet about three inches off the ground.  I’m pretty sure he thinks she glows in the dark. 

“Your special friend is coming,” I said. 

He looked up, saw her, and went back and fiddled with his Legos.

“She’s 13 you know,” he said.

I wanted to say, “And a foot taller than you!”  But I resisted.

He looked up again but his eyes seemed focused inwardly.   

“Who would have thought that  on my 12th birthday the world would be falling to pieces,” he sighed.


I wanted to talk to him about that but before I could open my mouth the bus lumbered around the curve and hissed to a stop.  The door swung open. My young friend struggled to hoist his book bag onto his shoulders.  The Nike Angel helped him with it.  “Bye, Mr. Jimmy,” she said as she giggled onto the bus.  “Bye, Mr. Jimmy,” he said as he struggled onto the bus bearing the weight of the world in his backpack. 

As the bus drove away, I could not help but wonder about the heaviness that kids bear during this Pandemic.  I wondered about their fears for their families and friends.  I wondered about how great a burden they carry about their own safety.     

They overhear too much, speak too little, and act out a lot.

“Who would have thought that on my 12th birthday the world would be falling to pieces.”

  I couldn’t get over his question.  I figured that he just carried the usual hobgoblins in his 12-year- old head:   Who likes me? Who doesn’t?  Where do I fit or do I fit in at all?  Am I being seen or am I being overlooked?  What do I do with these feelings I can’t even name?  Does the Nike Angel like me?

As the wee hounds and I continued on our way, a weird thought popped into my mind.   I wondered about how kids like my friend learn to pray about their deepest fears, worries, and anxieties. 

I wondered what young ones do as the burdens of life pile in upon them, when they overhear so many voices fight over politics and social issues.  I wonder what happens in their minds when they overhear so much about the pandemic, the number of COVID cases, the death toll, and the overburdened health care workers. 

I wonder what they think when they hear their Christian parents and grandparents sigh and say,  “What is the world coming to?”  (When the truth is they already know…or should.).

What will my little friend do with the burden of witnessing the world fall to pieces on his birthday?

We teach our children little prayers.  Now I lay me down to sleep.  Thank you for the food we eat.   Be-with prayers.  “Be with my grandma. Be with Freckles my Hamster.”  That’s good. 

“When is it age-appropriate for children to learn to lament?”   I ask myself.    The Thought-That-Thinks-Itself replies: “When is it age appropriate for children to know everything about things they ought not to know anything about at all?”

The filters are off.  Our kids hear it all. Sometimes from other kids.

I would like to think my little friend might learn a little bit about it at church. It’s hard to think that without laughing. 

In my experience, many, if not most, white churches don’t lament. (I can’t speak about the churches of oppressed people.  I don’t know.).   White churches praise and worship.  We give thanks.  We intercede and offer petitions.  We supplicate until the cows come home.  We seek comfort and encourage.   We ‘be-with’ and ‘be-with’ but it’s a rare church who laments, which is odd especially for Christians who think of themselves as people of the Book.   About 40% of the Psalms are psalms of lament.  About 0% of the songs white churches sing are laments.  

Jesus lamented.  “My God!  My God!” He lamented. 

Paul lamented over the thorn in his flesh.

The martyrs shelter in place under the very altar of God where the Lamb stands in the center of the throne:  “How long, Sovereign God, holy and true, before you judge the inhabitants of the earth and avenge our blood?”  (Revelation 6: 10)

But most churches don’t lament.  Few, if any, in church learn lament.  And church children sit on culverts, ponder hard questions alone, and finger through their Legos.  

As I thought about that I could hear someone object: “Shouldn’t kids just know the truth about how hard life can be and learn to live with it?

My answer to that is another question:  “Shouldn’t they be prepared to deal with what they learn?  Shouldn’t their prayers correspond to what they are learning?” 

Another objects:  “Shouldn’t we just teach out kids that God loves them and is always near?”

I answer: “Sure but when do our kids learn that the God who is near is also free, that God responds to our prayers out of his own freedom? If children don’t get that the God who loves them is also free, then how will they deal with the silences of God?”   I fear they will grow up to be like many of us:  we know God loves us, we know God is good, but we still flip and flop at night in bed wondering whether God will show up by Friday at 5.

Another objects: “Aren’t you overblowing this just a little bit?  Do you think children really carry a burden of cares?  Do children think that deeply about things?”

When I was 7 or so, I  saw a headline on the front page of the Atlanta paper: “Russia May Attack Fulbright Warns U.S.”  I had no idea who this ‘Fulbright’ was. 

I’ve been 7 ten times in my life and I still remember that headline.

The headline terrified me. I remember spending a Sunday afternoon in the backyard watching for the planes   All of the adults chatted and laughed inside the house.   It was left to me to defend the family.

Tall task for short fellow.

Fast forward a few years.   I was doing work in my yard.  My daughter piddled around in the yard close by.  She screamed.  I jumped up to see what was wrong. I picked her up.   Her face was tears.  Her mouth was wide open yet too small for the size of her screams.   Then she just stopped.  Through snubs she looked at me quizzically and said: “Daddy, if God loves us so much, why does he make bees to sting us?” 

She was four and had just had her first encounter with a wasp, a fiery dart from life’s quiver.

You tell me: do children carry a burden of cares?   

Why are we reluctant to teach our children to ask God why the world has the audacity to fall apart on our birthdays or why wasps sting little girls as they innocently play in clover?

Could it be that we fear the freedom of God so much that we want to protect our children from God?   Could it be that we direct their attention away from the silence of God by dousing them with the all-too-real love of God?    

What will they do when the day comes when the love of God sounds like silence?  How will we answer when they get wise to the truth:  God does what God does.  God speaks when God speaks.  How will they learn that sometimes the silence of God is among God’s most loving acts?  That God has made himself known, yes, but that God is also an unknown God, a God of Mystery.  When do they learn that the silence of God may flow from the wisdom of God or even the mercy of God? 

For sure, it is a scary world.  Creepy even these days. We rightly want to protect our children from that. But do we protect them from that by pretending that the creepiness doesn’t exist?  Do we train them to distrust their own perceptions?  No, honey, what you are hearing is the wind.  No, Sweetie, what you see with your own eyes is just illusion.

Let him with ears NOT hear.  Let her with eyes NOT see. 

Oh, the day will come when our children will become philosophers and ask a million why questions.  Why do bad things happen to good people?  Why didn’t God just create a more perfect world, a world that is free of suffering?   Why?  Why? Why?

They will do that because they learned from us how to gossip about God but not about how to question God to God’s face, with all due respect, all due humility but also with all due boldness.

Why did you allow my mom to die?  Where were you when I cried out for your help?  Why did you let the world fall apart on my birthday? How will we go on when the world is aflame?  Why did you make bees to sting us while we were just out enjoying your good creation?

“I believe in you, O God.  Help Thou my unbelief!” (Mark 9:24; NIV)

“How long, O God, how long must you turn your face from me?” (Psalm 13; NIV)

“Three times I prayed to the Lord to take it away…”. (II Corinthians 12:8; NIV)

When do we learn to lament?   And when should we teach our children to do likewise?

I wonder where and when Jesus and Paul and the martyrs learned to lament.  When did they sit among their bearded fathers and moan before Yahweh?   In the synagogue on the Sabbath.  At the Temple on Holy Days.  At the knees of their fathers.  On the laps of their mothers.   That’s likely where they cut their teeth on all the Psalms, including those many laments. 

I saw my little friend trudging back home at the end of the school day.  The One who walks three inches off the ground walked with him.  Suddenly, the little goof reached over and pushed her.  She pushed him back.  He pulled her hair.  She smacked him on the head.   He grabbed her back pack.  She grabbed his. Round and round they went tugging and pulling.

I heard his stepfather shout from her porch, “You two stop that fighting!”

The kid knows how to wrestle with an angel.  

When will he learn to wrestle with God?

Maybe when we do. 

When God Became Man

The following has only been slightly adapted from Jurgen Moltmann’s The Crucified God.  The content is his.  I think it is a powerful reminder of the significance of the cross as God’s participation in the suffering of humanity.


When God became a man he entered into our limited, finite situation. Not only did he enter into it, descend into it, be he also accepted it and embraced the whole of our existence with his being.

When God became a man, he did not become a spirit so that we must soar to the realm of the spirit in order to participate in God.

When God became a man,  he did not merely become the covenant partner of an elect people so that we must belong to his people through circumcision and obedience to the covenant in order to enter into his fellowship.

When God became a man, he lowered himself and accepted the whole of our existence without limits and conditions, so that each of us may participate in him with the whole of his life.

When God became a man, he not only entered into our finitude but in his death on the cross entered into the situation of our god-forsakenness.  

When God became a man, he not die the natural death of a finite being, but the violent death of the criminal on the cross., the death of complete abandonment by God. 

When God became a man, he suffered the abandonment and rejection of God the Father.

When God became a man, he did not become a religion, so that we may participate in him by having corresponding religions thoughts and feelings to God. 

When God became a man, he did not become a law, so that we could only participate in him through obedience to a rule.

When God became a man, he did not become an ideal, so that we achieve community in him through constant striving. 

No, when God became a man, he humbled himself and took upon himself the eternal death of the godless and the god-forsaken, so that all the godless and godforsaken can experience communion with him. 

~ Adapted from Jurgen Moltmann

 The Crucified God, Kindle loc 5514


To Give Our Hearts

The wee hounds and I took our second walk today.  They didn’t much want to talk so I tuned into a YouTube lecture I had wanted to hear.    The lecture was by Arthur Brooks, soon to be ex-President of the American Enterprise Institute.  It was on the book he wrote a while back called “Love Your Enemies.” 

He told a story about talking with his academic mentor, James Q. Wilson, a highly influential social/ political scientist who passed away in 2012.   Wilson stunned Brooks one day when he said, “You know, Arthur, any given change in public policy affects only about 5% of a person’s life.”

Brooks was shocked.  After all, he had only recently completed his Ph.D. in a public policy related program.
“James, if public policy only affects 5% of a person’s life, what affects the other 95%?”

“Love,” replied the great man.
The quality of our families, our neighborhoods and communities, as well as our nation, is related not so much to public policy as it is to the quality of love we demonstrate toward one another in everyday life and regardless of our agreements or differences.

The quality of our lives together is more about what happens across the property line than it is about what happens across the aisle in Washington, D.C.

The reason I thought about all of this while picking up wee hound poop was because I had just before our walk seen those plague indifferent self-absorbed kids on the beach in Florida.  Of course, the little clip I saw only featured the worst of the worst…I hope!  And, after all, kids will be kids- especially when Pavlov rings the “Spring Break!” bell.  

What strikes me about them, at least in this moment, is that they ‘have not love.”  That is, they have not love for anyone or anything beyond their own good times. They are doing what they do because it is what they think good for themselves in this glorious Spring Break moment.
They are not thinking of how they may be (and some likely are) spreading CV.   They are not thinking about the frontline health care workers whose lives are on the line as they help people suffering from this virus.  They are not thinking about their own grandparents or other loved ones with compromised immune systems.  They are not even thinking of themselves while doing nothing BUT  thinking of the themselves.

But then it struck me that I am too, in own immunosuppressed way.   I mean I get the whole social distancing thing.  My own daughter is a sitting duck in her medical practice in Tennessee and I am concerned for her and her whole staff.  So, you might say, I have my own flesh and blood in the game.

However, when I think about my need to run out to buy some necessity, the first thing I think about is ME.   What if I run into Ingles and unknowingly walk through a fine mist of someone’s sneeze from 60 seconds before?

I don’t want to get sick but it’s not because of a fear of dying.  It is because of a fear of suffering.  I’ve done extreme shortness of breath.  I’ve done ventilation and dialysis.     I’m done being so miserable that death itself would be a welcome relief. I’ve done all that and I don’t EVER want to do that again!

So, like the kids on the beach, my first thought is too often not about others but about myself.

Kid: I want to have a really good time.   

Moi: I want to avoid having a really bad time.
Keyword:  “I.”

When Brooks speaks of ‘loving‘ one’s enemies, he means precisely what Jesus meant.  

Seek the interests of the other even over your own!
Think cross-shaped love.

Now, I’m not going to expose myself to the dangers of CV more that I absolutely must because of the reasons I mentioned. I am sheltering in place like a hermit.  I really don’t want to get sick.   And, as it turns out, that is the better thing to do than to go PAR-TAY on the beach only inches away from strangers while looking for love in all the wrong places. (AS IF! Ha!)  However, I still think that neither self-gratification nor self-preservation is my best course of action nor my best motive for taking up a course of action. 

The heart matters.  And, among other things, what we do and why we do what we do not only displays our hearts, those things shape our hearts.  We become what we do and we become the why behind what we do.  If I consistently act out of self-preservation, then I become the kind of man who is principally out to protect himself.  

Is there a better way to act than out of mere self-preservation, even if some good comes out of my act?  There must be.  After all, Jesus said that if anyone would follow after him, that person must deny the self..  It would be a contradiction in terms to follow Jesus if one is only interested in self-preservation.   Self-preservation is the opposite motive to what is entailed in following him. Why?   We not only are to deny ourselves, we are to take up crosses. 

We take UP crosses so as to lay DOWN our selves. 

If I only act out of self-preservation,  I reinforce what comes most naturally to me, which is to continue looking out for number one.   However, at least in this situation we are in,  if I act on the basis of what is good for the other (i.e. the nurse tending patients in ICU) not only is the nurse better off but I am as well- both physically AND morally.    

When I give my heart to or for the other, I protect the heart I have. 


“Hear, O Israel, the Lord is God, the Lord is One.”  (Deuteronomy 6:4)

This morning, as I walked the wee hounds, I listened to Tim Mackie* talk about the first word in that verse.   The verse is known as the Shema and is central to Judaism.  The first word in the verse is “Hear” or better “Listen.”   The Hebrew word that is translated “Listen” is Shema.   Yep.  The verse is named after the first word.


Now when we think of the word listen, we think of something we do with our ears.  Mackie reminded me that to Shema is to listen with one’s whole being -heart, mind, body, and soul.  

To Shema is to (1) pick up a sound via one’s ears, (2) attend to that sound, (3) respond to that sound, (4) with urgency. 

A young mother is at home alone with her newborn who is asleep in her crib.   Suddenly, the baby cries.   The mom picks up the sound with her ears, attends to it (what is the meaning of it?), runs to the baby’s side, and picks her up.  

Hear.  Attend.  Respond with urgency.

All of that is packed into that one word, Shema.  To Shema, is a far sight more than simply hearing, more even than how we think of listening.

When the Shema begins with Shema! it means to hear with your whole being and rush to acknowledge with your whole being this truth:  the Lord is God, the Lord is One.   

The whole-being nature of listening (Shema) and doing is confirmed in the next verse:  “Love the Lord your God (response) with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength, i.e. your whole being.”

Mackie’s comments set me to thinking about the meaning and practice of parakaleo, ‘coming alongside‘ as it pertains to the suffering. 

It struck me that we are called by God alongside the suffering but we are also called alongside the suffering by the suffering themselves.

We all know that to come alongside the suffering at least entails listening to them when we get there.  But, what if to come alongside the suffering is to ‘shema‘ to them?

That would mean that when we are called alongside the suffering we are called not merely to come with an ear but to come with our whole being.  It means to hear/respond with the urgency required in the moment.

But how are we ‘called‘ by the suffering?  Do we wait by the phone?  Do we wait until we hear from them? No, the very fact of the suffering, the existence of the suffering, is call enough. 

One of the great ironic moments in scripture occurred when the priest and Levite, who likely prayed the Shema first thing that morning, passed by the man who had been beaten half to death by thieves.  (“He was just lying there.  He didn’t say anything!”) But, the Samaritan, the outsider, who likely didn’t pray the Shema that morning, heard the silence of the bloodied unconscious man and urgently responded to him with aid.

An unconscious bloodied man lying by the side of the road screams by virtue of the fact that he is an unconscious bloodied man lying by the side of the road.

He IS the call to come alongside and offer aid. 

Last week I spoke with the administrator of the assisted living facility where my mother-in-law lives.   He told me that 60% of the 105 residents in his facility have NO ONE who visits them.   I replied to him that whenever I visit my mother-in-law, I see the same 40 or so residents every time.  He said that that’s because that 60% tend to stay in their rooms. That is to say, that about 60 souls sit in silence behind closed doors alone, day after day. 

Now, I’m ruined.

I cannot walk the long hallway to my mother-in-law’s room without hearing the silent cry of loneliness coming from behind closed doors.


  • Tim Mackie is the excellent teacher on The Bible Project videos and podcasts. If you haven’t visited The Bible Project site…SHEMA!…What a terrific accessible resource it is for those who want to learn more about the Bible, the Books of the Bible, and other things pertinent to it as well. Their podcast is well worth the effort too!

Coming Alongside…But

As I was thinking about Parkaleo (coming alongside) this morning, I remembered a famous 80’s Benneton ad. The photograph came to be known as the ‘photograph that changed the face of HIV/AIDS.’ It also became a flashpoint when people protested that Benneton employed the image of a dying man in the embrace of his grieving father to sell colorful attire.

I think it is a compelling photograph. But, I also get the complaint…it does strike me to use it to sell fashion.

In any case, for my purposes here, it is THE image of Parkaleo, that ‘coming alongside’ the suffering that is the point of this site.

Here is an article that describes the background and controversy that erupted around it.

Descent into Delirium

In coming alongside the depressed, we might recognize that some depressed folks are depressed because the world is too much with them.   Like those who are hypersensitive to the ‘buzzing, booming, confusion‘ of life and who withdraw or become agitated in its presence, some folks are depressed because they cannot NOT see the world as a house of horrors.

When I have suggested such to people I get a similar response, “Well, yes..there is a lot  of bad stuff in the world but there is a lot of good too.”     Sigh.   Yes, I know.  There is a lot of good stuff too.   Those of us who live in safe, affluent environments and are sheltered from the bad stuff in the world find it easy to say that sort of thing.  Those of us who have never been traumatized by some horror do too.

I am saying that there are some among us who see only the horrors of life.  Perhaps at some level, they see the flowers and birds and lamb-like clouds that float gently on the breath of God but even that is a horror to them because they feel so awful. 

The very audacity of Spring!

As T.S. Eliot wrote in the opening line of The Waste Land:

“April is the cruelest month…”   

Whatever that may have meant to Eliot, many have understood it to mean that the person who is depressed or despairing experiences the flower-bursting beauty of April as a mockery. 

Are they wrong to experience such beauty in that way?  No.  Given that they see most clearly the horrors of life,  April appears a contrast to their own experience. They are driven more deeply into the winter-darkness of the soul…and often prefer it. 

The idea that some people are depressed because they clearly see horror in the foreground of experience has a long history.   I have thought about it for a long time myself.  I have come alongside the depressed many times and sometimes, after hearing them speak of such things, I found myself thinking, “Well, you do have a point!”     But, often it was a point heard only in the abstract.  “Every schoolchild knows there is suffering in the world. 

However, it was not until I experienced deep delirium after my heart transplant in April 2019, that the idea took on flesh for me.

I am not going to go into detail here (I’m working on a book about it) but will tell you why it so transformed my thinking. 

The experience of delirium, which occurs in 70% of ICU patients, varies from person to person.  For some, it manifests in confusion, for others hallucinations, and for others something all but unnameable.  It can be temporary and it can last for a while.  It can even cause some degree of permanent damage to cognition and memory.

I experienced all three and, loosely speaking, in that order.   The first week of my stay, while I was on kidney dialysis and being pumped full of drugs, I became confused about where I was, why I was there, who other people were and what was happening to me.

Some time afterward, I began to experience hallucinations within my room.  Things floating in air.  I saw people who were not there and didn’t see people who were.  I watched the paint peel from the walls.  And, I figured out how to turn the hands of a clock back with my mind. 

That was all pre-transplant.  However, for two weeks following transplant, I utterly broke with reality and went somewhere completely other than where I was.  I don’t know if I was there 10 minutes or 10 days.  It felt like an eternity. 

It was not a dream.  And, it was not a hallucination.  It was something that approached a vision, though I hesitate to say that lest people think I’ve become more inflated than I am.   (I would call it a ‘visionoid, as something that resembles the real thing,‘ but that sounds like a medical condition.  I could call it vision-esque,  but that might be taken as a performance involving baggy pants and seltzer water  and that would minimize it. )  All I can tell you is that it was far more real than everyday reality: the colors were far more vivid, the sounds far more acute, and the emotions completely beyond the pale.  

Terror comes to mind.

I want to say ‘vision‘ not because I think I’m Ezekiel, or Jesus, or Paul, or the blessed John on the Isle of Patmos. I want to say vision because I was led somewhere and shown things that are the Reality within reality or as Tim Mackie put it in one of his lectures:  an experience in which you are taken into the deep heart of human experience. (c.f. his lecture on the temptation of Jesus in the wilderness in his Podcast “Exploring My Strange Bible.)

I was taken to a place that was filled with the most violent, disordered, disfigured people on earth.   And, I witnessed and was engaged with the most fearful things, things I couldn’t begin to describe.  Death.  Violence.  The continual threat of violence.  Hannibal Lectors lined the hallways.  Piles of bodies- men, women, and children stacked in coal cars that extended into the dark of a tunnel. Assassins.  Terrorists.  Beings half-human, half-animal.  People who seemed to be made from scrap metal.  All dangerous.  All vicious.  All on the edge.

There were people who were charged with caring for those people.  They were themselves corrupted and corruptible.

I was there for days or so it seemed.  When I tried to sleep I heard scratching on the walls, tapping at the windows, tiny feet running through the ceiling, racing across the roof.  I was told it was the sound of Trouble…Trouble scratching its way through the walls.

The threat of a terrorist attack loomed large. Some people hated the very existence of the place and had vowed to destroy it.  They had tried once before with well=placed bombs. 

Finally, I was beaten to the point of death by a gang of residents and as I lay dying the building caved in upon us.  (The sound of that is the sound you hear when you are defibrillated and are half-conscious.   Roar and clang.)

When I emerged out of it, I found myself tied to a bed.  Dark.  A woman sat with me and I was completely out of control   Somehow the terror of the place where I had been returned with me.  I flailed.  I screamed.  I swore.  Soon four nurses surrounded me and that only served to amp me up even more.  (They were wise to restrain me but I was so weak from the transplant I’m not sure what I could have done.)

My actions were perfectly reasonable within the bounds of that horrific experience.  I thought the building we were in was about to explode and I didn’t know where my family was so I could warn them. 

Now, I get that there are good medical explanations for what I experienced.  I get that the brain is a pattern maker and that we are all sense-makers and storytellers.  I understand that we are in the realm of subjective experience.  I agree that it’s an iffy proposition interpreting one’s own dreams and visions.   I know…I know…I know.

But, I don’t care. I know what I endured and it was more real than everyday reality.
And not one day passes that I do not think about it.  And because I am not one to ‘waste my miseries,’  I have tried to make sense of it.  Sometimes the horror of it is too much to dwell on though. 

I won’t say anything here about how I’ve explored it, but I will tell you this:  It was as if all of the suffering and pain and horror, all of the disfigurement, disorder, and destruction, all of the violence and evil of this world was compressed into one building and all at once.  And I was there to see it, suffer with it, and suffer because of it.  And, the experience was compounded by the fact that I was cut off from the world I know and from the supports that constitute my everyday life. 

Thankfully, I emerged from it relatively intact.  Traumatized, yes.  But only with small-letter ptsd.

As a pastor, I have lived my adult life coming alongside suffering people but I had no clue, no clue whatsoever, as to what suffering was until that experience.

Before this experience, I knew there was suffering in the world.  Heart failure had, at times, given me a  taste.  But, those hard moments were few and far between and usually managed by medicine. 

And, I have been right there with everyone else as we read online about some distant ethnic cleansing, some war, some mass shooting, some famine, some virulence stalking some country, some kidnapping, some rape, some child molested and left to die in some distant wood, another shooting, another theft.  

I know about the diseases that haunt us down.   The shortness of time.  Loneliness.  

And somehow I have managed along with everyone else to live with it, to shake my head at the tragedy of it, and then move on, maybe a little wounded by it, maybe a little scarred, but it’s all in a day. 

There is a lot of good stuff in the world, you know.

But I’m not sure that’s true for everyone.  Some people really have to strain to see the good stuff.   I am convinced there are those who know what I’m talking about and who cannot get past the horror that surrounds us, who cannot get beyond the trauma they experience (or have experienced) because of it and are left  wounded and often alone. 

I believe it is a calling to come alongside them and listen.

They may have something to say that we desperately need to hear.  

And, maybe there is something we have to add to the conversation too. 

For Good Reason

Not long ago, a student asked me what I recommend he could do for a friend of his who was depressed.  Since I’ve been talking about ‘coming alongside’ since I began to get my feet on the ground post-transplant, his was a question that naturally followed.  I think my answer surprised him:

“Well, first, you have to ask yourself whether your friend is depressed for good reason.”   He cocked his head like a dog who was trying to make sense of his master’s belch. “You don’t want to fault him for being a realist, do you?” 

His head twisted so far, I thought he was going to roll over.

My question to him was not as weird as it sounds.  We assume that depression has its causes.  Chemical imbalances in the brain.  ‘Stupid thinking by not-stupid people,” to quote the ever-rational therapist, Albert Ellis. A response to loss fueled by errors in how one thinks, to paraphrase CBT’s Aaron Beck.    Genetics.  Family history.  And, those may all be good causes, especially when considered together.

But, I didn’t say good causes.  I said good reason. I meant to suggest to him that perhaps his friend’s depression was a moral good.  Is my student’s friend depressed for good reason?   Does the friend’s struggle serve a positive end, a positive purpose worth serving?  That’s how we know something is good.  Does X serve the purpose for which it exists? 

My house key is a good little house key because it unlocks the front door, the purpose for which it was created.   If it never unlocked the front door, it would be a bad house key and, like non-salty salt,  fit only to be ‘cast out and trod under the foot of men.”

Q:  For what purpose might at least some forms of depression exist?  

A:   The truth.  Some who suffer in that way may have a clearer vision of the truth of this world.

If prophets exist not so much to foretell the future but to speak the Truth, then maybe some people who suffer depression are contemporary prophets, eager to tell us how things are.  And maybe some of them are depressed or find that experience compounded because we don’t listen.  So, maybe rather than rushing to fix them, drug them, shock them, reason with them, we ought to sit down and listen to them.

At least some depressed folks may be the ones gifted to see, feel, and know the deep reality in which we all live and maybe what they see is horrible to behold.

What if we listened to them on the off chance that they have something to tell us?


To do that we need to think about the language we use in describing the experience we call depression.   Our language about it suggests that we think of it as something people ‘have.‘  The word ‘depression’ is a noun.  Depression is this thing that some people carry like a 400-pound brick.  

Or we think of it as a character trait.  He has a depressive personality.   In other words, he’s sort of bent that way, oriented that way.  Genetics and practice, you know.  “A man who has carried a 400-pound brick his whole life, at the end of his life, looks like a man who has carried a 400-pound brick his whole life.”

I’d like to suggest that what we call depression is a dynamic, an energy, a power.   (I’d  also suggest that turning the verb ‘depress‘ into a noun by adding that magic ‘ion‘ gives us a feeling of control.  Whew!  At least we know what it is now.  When we ‘thing‘ a dynamic, we feel as if we are in a better position to manage it.) 

I have come to think that the experience of the  ‘D-word,” at least for some,  is more like having a living lion in the house than a statue of a lion in the house.

But, if this thing we call ‘depression’ is a dynamic then what?  What is the sufferer supposed to say, “I am depressing myself?”  I’ve heard some therapists say that.  It is intended to give the sufferer a sense of agency.  “If I can depress myself, I can un-depress myself!”  

Or, maybe the sufferer should say, “My children are depressing me!  My husband- who started out as my knight in shining armor but has become a recliner that belches- is depressing me.”   But then do wall-bouncing children and belching, scratching knights have that kind of power?

Maybe the suffering should say, “I am under the influence of a depressing spirit.”  Or, maybe it’s none of that that, “it’s merely this chemical imbalance I have.”

Maybe the whole experience of that heaviness is a dance with several partners.

Maybe some people who suffer from it do so because they have a clearer vision of reality than the rest of us.  Maybe those of us who do the happy-clappy dance through life are self-deceived about the nature of the world around us and the depressed are those granted the gift of dancing with deep reality. 

Maybe some of them pay such a high cost because the rest of us refuse to see for ourselves?

Life is difficult.  So wrote Scott Peck in his book The Road Less Travelled.  Those first- three words of the book are worth the price of the book.  

“Well, yeah…it is…BUT…” we say.

Maybe that’s the difference between those of us who tap-dance in the rain and those of us drag themselves across an unvarnished floor of despair.   

We tap-dancers have big BUTS and the depressed have no buts a’tall.

The preamble to the wisdom teachings of Jesus includes these words and I paraphrase:  “How utterly and profoundly blessed are those who mourn because they see themselves and the world for what it is.” ( King Jimmy Version)  Why?  Because they will be comforted, oh yes!  But also because they GET IT.

The most painful parts of my heart transplant were not the hours of gasping for air as my old heart began its fast descent.  It was not the roasting darkness of night time, surrounded by bewildered doctors, nurses, and loved ones as I agonized for air.  It was not the massive toothache that became my body when the lining of my old heart became infected.  It was not the endless puking, the starvation, the eternal nights of wild-eyed wakefulness. It was not having my chest cut, my rib cage split, the lifting out of my old broken heart or the replacement of it with the healthy heart of another.  It was not post-transplant pain.  I managed that with Tylenol.

It was not even that I was sliding toward dying.  

By far, the most painful aspect of that whole experience was the deep delirium I suffered post-transplant.  It was an awful, awe-filled descent into a grace-filled hell.

What I learned in the throes of that merciless, merciful madness has utterly transformed my life because, whatever its cause, it seemed to be a deep dive into the world as world, a deep dive into a non-real Reality.

It pertains to the topic at hand and I will write about it next.

The Fear of Tears

The sudden death of my first cousin from a cerebral hemorrhage in 1966 was the most traumatic and life-shaping event in my own family’s history.   A 22-year-old college senior with a promising future in physics, he dropped dead while playing basketball in a PE class. 

I was 15.

Ours was a tightly woven extended family. The cousins were more like siblings and aunts and uncles were more like extra moms and dads. To say his death wracked us up would be an understatement.

After many years, I asked my aunt what she found helpful as she experienced her grief.  

“Two things,” she said, “Work and being able to talk about him.”   But, then she added, “I had a lot more of the first than of the second.”

My aunt worked for the Hubbard’s Pants Company as a seamstress.  All-day long, she sewed pockets into men’s pants.  Pocket after pocket,  minute after minute, hour after hour, day after day, week after week.  She lost herself in the rattle of sewing machines and the repetitive ritual at hand.  

But, the opportunities to talk about her son came few and far between. 

“Nobody wants to hear about it after a certain point,” she said. “They just move on and leave you alone with your grief.”

She went on to tell me about the time she introduced herself to the new preacher at her church.   “He walked up to me and introduced himself.  I told him who I was, how long I had been at the church and all that.   He asked me about my family.” 

She mentioned that she had lost her only child several years before.  She told him how it happened. 

“And, do you know what he said?”  she asked me.  “He said, ‘Huh…that’s tough.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. ‘Huh…that’s tough.‘  Then, he just moved on to the next person.”

She leaned toward me and said, “Let me tell you something, preacher…When a bereaved mother wants to talk about her deceased son, you let her talk all she wants to!”

I have thought a lot about why we find it so difficult to allow the grieving to talk about the one they lost.  I don’t think it is because we don’t care about their loss or their grief.  While it may be because we don’t want to get caught up in a long story because ‘we have miles to go before we sleep,’  I don’t think that is the real reason. 

I think it is because we believe that allowing the grieving to talk about their loved one will only open up their box of sorrows and make them sadder as they remember.  But that’s only a part of it.

I think we suffer from a fear of tears.

“What if they cry?  What if they cry uncontrollably?  What would I say?  What would I do?”

If I’m right about that (and maybe I’m not!), then that means that the reason we don’t open the door for the grieving to share the story of their loved one is that we fear that we will feel powerless in the moment.  And why do we fear that? 

Because the feeling of powerlessness is the defining characteristic of suffering.

We don’t want to listen because we don’t want to suffer.

But then how will we ever bring comfort to a powerless, suffering person if we ourselves are afraid of our own powerlessness, our own suffering. 

To truly ‘come alongside‘ the grieving, we must be willing to open ourselves to their powerlessness and be powerless with them.   

I started this series of posts on coming alongside the grieving after one of my long-loved -friend’s son passed away this past Christmas Eve.  The other day she posted something on Facebook that reminded me of my conversation with my aunt, who died 19 years ago.  (She was followed by her sister, my mother, 6 days later.  They went everywhere together.)

My friend posted:

“In this new year,
I promise to keep your memory alive by
speaking your name,  
telling your story,  
loving you.”

That’s exactly what she should do, what she must do.  She does not want her son to be forgotten.  She does not want to be left standing and holding her grief alone while the rest of us just move on.

“Huh…that’s tough.”

I wrote her back, and though I didn’t tell her the story of my aunt and the preacher, I shared with her something I try to say anytime a mother (or a father) tells me that they have lost a child (or anyone for that matter):

“What is his name and what did you love about him?”

I believe we do not simply saunter up to the grieving.  I believe we are led there, called there.  If we let our fear of tears keep us from offering hospitality to another’s grief, we will have not only have failed the grieving, we will have failed our calling.



What Gets Lost (5)

So What?

So, what difference does it make in terms of ‘coming alongside’ the grieving that we consider ‘what gets lost’ after their loved one dies? For me, the key idea is that grief is not a slab of stone with no component parts but an organic whole consisting of living parts, each with a lifespan of its own. Grief is not simply one thing that one has to ‘get over.’ It is not a stomach bug. Grief is an organic experience with a life span all its own.

By using the word lifespan, I am trying to avoid using two other words: (1) progress and (2) journey. For me, those words, though readily at hand, are overused.


The idea of progress presupposes that one moves from a worse place to a better place. That the experience of grief is something on the order of a defect and that one is somehow supposed to move toward being less defective.

However, who is to say that the experience of grief- say shortly after the death of a loved one- is somehow worse?  Worse in what way?   Grief is a natural response to the death of a loved one.   It is what it is.  It is neither better nor worse.   To say that one can progress through grief is to pronounce judgment upon grief itself.  

I know a woman who lost her son in a horrible car accident.   For all anyone can tell she has not grieved her son at all.  (Of course, who knows what she goes through in her quiet, alone times?)  She has grieved other losses, so it’s not as if the lacks a grief neuron or something.   She has shown no evidence that she is sad that her son is gone.   (I don’t know what lies behind that.) 

Now, which is ‘worse,’ if we want to go there:  a mother who grieves the death of her son or a mother who does not grieve the death of her son?  I don’t know the answer to that but I do know that something does not feel right about the latter.  I want to say to not grieve is worse than grieving.

For me, it is better to accept grief as an appropriate response to the death of a loved one than to think of it as ‘worse’ than some future state called ‘better.’   If nothing else,  thinking in that way enables the one grieving to accept the pain of loss as a natural response than simply as something to be gotten rid of or escaped right away. *

Maybe we would be better off if we honored our grief as evidence of our love rather than as an interruption to our neatly ordered, well-planned (fantasy) lives.


As difficult as it is, I think it is better when describing the grief of another to avoid referring to it as a journey- especially for a Christian. The idea of a journey is closely linked, at least in my mind, with the storyline called the Hero’s Journey.

A person (the hero) lives his life when something happens that alters his course, something that creates a problem to be solved, or a conflict to be resolved.

Along the way, the hero faces many obstacles and must find a way to overcome each. Often the hero experiences some kind of death, it’s all over for him, but then by some strange twist, he emerges at his destination a better person for it.

That’s a powerful tool in story-telling and likely sounds familiar to you.

I’ve heard many people refer to grief in precisely those terms.

But here’s the problem: the process of grief, for the believer, is more like being carried along than it is like a heroic journey. While there may be an element of the heroic in enduring, we believe that God is our comfort and that we are carried along by God’s enduring comfort and grace.


Maybe I’m a bit harsh about the ideas of progress and journey as they pertain to grief, but I do think that the idea is helpful that grief is more like an organism, with component parts that have lifespans, and a lifespan itself.

Grief is experienced by living creatures and just as living creatures have a lifespan so grief as a part of life has a lifespan too. In other words, grief is not an interruption to life, it is not a matter of progress from worse to better, and it is not a journey undertaken by a hero, who fights her own battles and endures her suffering with valor and might.

Grief is life and life is grief.

The patterns we lose when a loved one dies eventually seek other patterns- though not without sadness. The all-but-mythic projections we cast upon our all-too-human beloveds are withdrawn or cast onto others. As the finality of death sets in, the prospects of a future together in this temporal realm are exchanged for a hope that just across that gossamer veil we shall meet again.

All that is left is the memory of the beloved and the growing suspicion that the beloved is closer to us in death than they were in life.

As to those of us who are called alongside the grieving, our duty is not to guide or to cajole or to cheerlead the downcast. Our calling is to nurture their grief, to protect it so that grief may live out its life on its own terms. It is to be present, to encourage, and to remind. It is not to dampen its pain.

To nurture the grief of the grieving is to come alongside realizing that the shortest distance across the valley of the shadow of death is a straight line. It is to signify by our presence the presence of the One who is the Father of all compassion and comfort, the ultimate Thou-Art-With-Me, Emmanuel, whose mercy overshadows even the shadows of death.


* Several writers on suffering have pointed out that suffering, here in Western culture, is considered an interruption to how life ought to be. In a culture dedicated to the ‘pursuit of happiness,’ any suffering is seen as an intrusion that must be annihilated as soon as possible. That may help explain the absurdity of physicians prescribing anti-depressants for grief. Rather than endure this natural response to loss, the physician describes a technology that will speed ‘recovery’ along.