I broke one of my own rules.
The whole thing started on a Friday afternoon when a high-priority meeting had been called for the staff of the organization where I worked. Attendance was mandatory, a hint that big news was coming.
Once we were all seated, the CEO stepped to the microphone and quickly ripped off the bandage; he announced that we would be relocating our office to Florida. We would have as long as a year to make the move, but only two months to make the decision. (That’s more time than many get in similar situations, so I’m not suggesting this was an unfair timeframe.)
Up to that moment, I’d been enjoying a normal day and looking forward to the weekend. But in the span of five minutes, I was facing a huge decision and the possibility of a major life transition.
During what turned out to be a two-year season (I chose not to make the move), I encountered staggering disappointment and feelings of uncertainty second only to those I had known in the days of my wife’s dying. The familiar sensation of despair stalked me day and night for weeks.
The way I handled that disappointment, and the way it handled me, is what led me to the rule breaking I mentioned. You see, through my writing and speaking, I had sometimes described the contrast of grief and disappointment like this:
Grief is the sadness we feel when we lose someone we love.
Disappointment is the sadness we feel when we don’t receive something we hoped for.
These are incomplete descriptions, for sure; they are simply the basis of how I understand grief and disappointment. But . . . I had let this tidy bundle of wordplay lull me into breaking my own rule against comparing my sadness to that of others. Before my harsh bout with disappointment—which proved to be a valley of shadows in its own right—I had essentially seen the community of the brokenhearted as having senior partners (the grievers) and junior partners (the disappointed). I had reasoned that if your sadness hadn’t taken you to the cemetery, you just weren’t as bad off as I was.
How foolish.
So, to the disappointed ones, to those who are bleeding internally because of some devastating blow to your hopes, I am sorry that I ever belittled your pain. I am sorry that I looked past you. After all, if anyone should understand the need to be heard, to be seen, to have pain acknowledged, it is we who have traveled a similar road.
I see that now. I see you now.
I see that disappointment is sometimes even more troubling than grief, because there is no visitation for departed hopes, no memorial service for dead dreams. There’s no formal way to let the world know that a terrible thing has happened to you and you’re not okay.
If that is you—stunned by a broken engagement, shaken by a diagnosis of infertility, confused at being passed over for the job, betrayed by a friend, threatened by false accusations, . . . (Oh, the many horrible ways we can get hurt in life)—I extend my sympathy to you and sincerely hope that someone will care enough to see you and to acknowledge that your pain is real.
Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.
—Proverbs 13:12
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
I’ve been thinking a lot about legacies, probably because last Friday marked the seventeenth year since my dad’s passing. He still means so much to me; I’m still learning from him.
Like all father-and-son relationships, ours was spotted with a few imperfections—but not too many and none that ever drove us apart. My memories of him are 99% positive. Thomas Grissom was a good man.
Some people try to establish their own legacies by putting their names on buildings, scholarship funds, and city parks. There’s nothing wrong with any of those, but in my opinion the truest form of legacy is an extension of the life the person lived, not an addendum to it. It’s a continuation of a reputation earned, not a salvage operation.
So, when I think about Dad’s legacy, it‘s all about how he lived in his small corner of the universe. In his case, it’s pretty basic stuff, really: work hard, live within your means, try fixing it before replacing it, be honest, be helpful, don’t retaliate, and make time for fishing and watching baseball. Quietly strong. Humbly influential.
I loved that man.
➢
I read a story about a store clerk who was known for being lazy. Whenever there was hard work to be done, he’d conveniently disappear. When a regular customer noticed that the clerk wasn’t there one day, he asked the store owner:
“Where’s Eddie? Is he sick?”
“Nope, he ain’t workin’ here no more.”
“Do you have anyone in mind for the vacancy?”
“Nope. Eddie didn’t leave any vacancy.”
One way that grief serves us well is by putting us in touch with our own mortality. The death of a loved one reminds us that our days will come to an end too, that our lives will become legacies . . . and will hopefully leave vacancies.
It is better to go to the house of mourning than to go to the house of feasting,
for this is the end of all mankind,
and the living will lay it to heart.
—Ecclesiastes 7:2
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.
“God gives grace for what actually happens to us, not for what we imagine might happen to us.”
I overheard a colleague make that statement years ago, on her first day back to work after giving birth to a stillborn child. Someone had said to her that they couldn’t imagine how they would handle that situation and the grieving mother responded with those insightful words.
As soon as I heard her say it, I thought, I’m going to remember what she said. Someday I’ll need to share it with someone who’s sad and afraid.
That “someone” turned out to be me.
➢
Imagination is a double-edged sword; it can help us or it can hurt us, it can stir up either fear or faith, it can drive us into dark places or draw us out into the light. Imagination is the genesis of most of the inventions, conveniences, and entertainments we enjoy. But it is also a cold and hostile invasion of our thoughts that convinces us to expect the worst possible outcome.
When it comes to grief, imagination can work against us in a couple of ways. It can:
tempt us to borrow other people’s circumstances, or
shove us too far and too fast into our own circumstances.
When I put my former colleague’s insight about grace alongside the downside of imagination, I came to these conclusions:
We don’t have the grace to face other people’s struggles.
Though we will have grace when it happens (whatever “it” is), we won’t have that grace until it happens.
To be clear, in this context I’m using the word grace to refer to the God-given ability to endure suffering without being overcome by it.
Borrowed Pain
When we watch someone we love suffer, I can’t imagine! is an honest response. Their pain is so disturbing that our minds want to reject it. And as it goes on day after day, month after month, we begin to question whether we would survive if their circumstances became ours.
This can bring about a crisis of belief, a time when we, from the outside looking in, have to dig deep into our own faith even as we wonder what God is doing. Does He see? Does He care? Will He really carry my friend through this? Will He carry me when something like it happens in my life?
Here’s the point: If we truly believe God gives us grace to endure, then the ones who are experiencing the pain have access to a form of grace that those who are only observing their pain don’t. Those on the outside of our circumstances do not fully share our pain, but neither do they fully share our grace.
When it comes to grace for suffering, we get it when we need it.
Not There Yet
One of the toughest battles I fought during my wife’s illness was with my own emotions. Sometimes fear would try to take over.
I worried about how I would take care of her when she could no longer walk, or when she lost the use of her hands and arms. I worried about her breathing and her swallowing. I feared the approach of death.
Niecie always wanted to know how I was dealing with things, so one day we talked about my fears and we realized that I was mostly afraid of things that weren’t yet true. Even though the day would probably come when those things would be true, that day had not yet come. Imagination was tormenting me. I was forfeiting joy, letting tomorrow’s maybes spoil today’s realities.
So I began arguing against imagination with truth—something I picked up from Paul’s instructions on how to think (Philippians 4:8). The first point he made was: think about things that are true (real).
The day did come when Niecie could no longer be left by herself, and many more difficult days followed, each one bringing its own challenges. But facing those days as they came, in the realm of reality, was better than shadowboxing the “what ifs.” Accepting reality brought grace. Grace brought courage. Courage brought peace.
© 2022 by Tim Grissom. All rights reserved.