You’ve heard the old saying, “No pain, no gain.” The older I get, the truer those words ring. We spend most of our lives, if not all of our lives, resisting the hardships, the challenges, and the pain. And understandably so. Who wants pain? I’m not about to raise my hand when asked that question. Short of putting up with the physical pain of a strenuous workout because we know the results will be worthwhile, or (for some women) accepting the pain of childbirth because we know the prize is miraculous, we do everything in our power to escape pain.
These past 4 years have been a journey, and that is an understatement. I found myself, early on, deciding to figure out not only how this could possibly have happened to me, to my family, but how to stand up and live again. What do I do now? I had no control over this. I had worried about this worst-possible-thing-that-could-happen-to-a-parent since my first child was born, but all that worry didn’t stop it from happening. I was plunged into the depths of despair, floundering like a person without swimming skills who had just been thrown into the water, spitting and sputtering and gasping for air.
This is how it goes. This is grief. No one is expected to escape the pain. The grief fills every part of you. It holds you and caresses you, then pulls you under and back to the surface again. Sometimes the waves take you for a ride, and you are completely powerless to control your emotions as you are helplessly tossed and turned. Then the waves subside and you rest, catch your breath…until the next wave. No point in resisting. This is the expected tumult of unwelcomed change. My family and I went through this for many months.
During the rest periods, I voraciously read book after book after book about death, afterlife, near death experiences and spirituality. I listened to a multitude of podcasts about these same subjects. I found Helping Parents Heal, an amazing online support group for parents whose children have passed away. I found a wonderful grief specialist and went to therapy once a week. I developed a newfound spirituality, an understanding of a God who does not punish and take away, but of a God who is the Creator and the Source of all Love. I found people, beautiful souls, who are beacons of that pure and loving light who could surround me and support me. And at some point, I began to find my sea legs and was able to stand up again, shaky, but upright.
And so now here I was with a choice. I could choose to suffer for the rest of my life. I could play the role of a victim, of “Why me?” and I could tell myself daily that I would never get over this, that I would never find joy again, and that life was horrible. I could hate God, hate my life, and hate all people who still had all their children. I could force myself to never laugh, or smile, and if I accidentally did either, I could feel guilt and become angry at myself for daring to feel good when my son was not here.
Or I could choose to live. I could choose to find the joy in life that my son had found in his. I could choose to honor him by caring about others, helping others, and showing compassion to others as he did. I could choose to see the best in others, forgive others and love others, just as he did. I could choose to find adventure and joy in life. I could choose to look around and find the beauty, the amazement, the miracle, in everything around me. If I found something to be funny, I could choose to laugh wholeheartedly and full-bellied, just as he would have. And in doing so, I would feel him laugh along with me. Not that the longing in my heart for another hug from him doesn't bring me to tears on some days. But little by little, a new understanding of my purpose here began to unfold. Yes, no one is expected to escape the pain of grief and loss. But maybe, just maybe, one can grow from it.
Viktor Frankl, psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, wrote, "Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose that response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom." When I read that, I was struck by the depth of wisdom that resounded from those words. Here was someone who had survived the atrocities in and around the extermination of millions of Jews during World War II. Yet, Frankl found he had a choice in how to respond to that. Those words gave me great pause. As I contemplated this teaching, I found the truth in it.
Dare I say that pain can be a teacher? My growth as a soul since the worst pain I have ever experienced in my life has been phenomenal. It is something I never expected, could never have predicted. But now I look back and I see. The perspective from where I am now enlightens me. I see a bigger picture than I ever could have imagined, one that I never was able to see before. And it is good. It is all good.
This is a world of contrasts. This is a world of opposites. If we don’t know the dark, we can’t know the light. If there is nothing but light, we eventually won’t even notice it anymore. Thich Nhat Hanh, the inspirational Vietnamese Buddhist Zen master, poet, scholar, and peace activist, teaches this same concept. He says, “If there is no left, then there can be no right. If there is no down, then there can be no up.” This is how it is on this Earth. That is why we have good times and bad times. If we only ever have good times, we would not be able to appreciate them. When everything is just the way we want it, there is no need to grow. But when things are not as we want them, then we seek to make them better. And in that search, we become more of who we truly are.
Pain pushes us down a path of expansion. We can fight that growth, or we can flow with it. Grief is often compared to a river. We are pulled along, experiencing the turbulent waves along with the smoother rides. To fight the river would be exhausting. To flow with the river will eventually bring us to peaceful waters.
So my choice is to flow, to allow, to take what has happened to me and to see the rainbow. I choose to take the pain I am given and grow from it. I choose to surrender control. I have learned to trust. And I have found that when I do these things, I find peace.
May you, too, find that peace which surpasses all understanding, even if only glimpses of it each day. In the words of 16th century Spanish mystic, Teresa of Avila, “It is there for each and every one of us.”
(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.)
