Looking for ‘the door’ when you can’t take any more

I suspect we’ve all been there, and many times for that matter. I’ve been there countless times, probably in all reality several hundred times, and usually monthly. It’s funny, even as I typed those words, I was tempted to feel ashamed, unworthy; but, of course, none of us can predict the path our hearts take at times. And even less so if there are triggers. We all have those.

The words of one of our special-needs mothers rang true for me recently: “Today I’m broken. My heart can’t feel anymore,” she said. This is such a common experience for many kinds of people, and especially for those with children with syndromes and disorders. It could have been for any other reason also that she felt this way; I didn’t press her, instead I prayed!

As I read her words, my heart sank. I wondered what had happened. Of course, we know that there is a plethora of circumstances that can provoke such despair.

Sometimes when we hear another person’s account, we completely understand what has tipped them over the edge. Yet, at had other times we secretly wonder why they haven’t coped better. Still, when roles are reversed, we feel comprehensively misunderstood. If only the other person could step into our shoes and feel what we’re feeling, then they would know, and there would simply be the nodding of their head in full agreement at the attack furled against us.

Sometimes there are just no words to describe what we are feeling. With social media we sometimes have the outlet to let out a cry for help. And yet this is no help for those who feel that would leave them too vulnerable. There are many reasons why people feel like they cannot reach out, and particularly, sad as this is, men. But many women don’t have the girlfriends that would simply sit with them, listen without judgement, and be present.

Romans 8 talks about the groans that only the Holy Spirit understands. It’s why some of our prayers are gobbledygook, and yet God still understands even if we can’t. We need to be brave enough to speak gibberish. Call it the gift of tongues!

What we commonly experience when we can’t take any more is the strong desire to bargain for better. It is such a human thing to do, and whether we are Christian or not is irrelevant. Christians don’t normally deal with pain any better than those who don’t know Christ, but they do have the aid of God’s Word that can help encourage them in their despair.

I think I’m a normal person in this way: when I experience pain, I inevitably look for a doorway to relief. I am very sorely tempted to bargain my way there, and yet a long time ago now God showed me the key. The key makes so much sense. It isn’t pretty. It doesn’t sound majestic. It doesn’t even sound miraculous. And yet something miraculous happens when we practice this simple thing.

When I experience pain, like you do I am sure, I want the pain banished. I want it over, because pain speaks of the kind of experience of life that I’m sure feels worse than death. Of course, that cannot be. Death would be far worse, if not for ourselves, certainly for others who care about us. When I experience pain, I am looking for the doorway out. And almost anything will do. Until I realise that there are many doors I could walk through that would take me, spiritually speaking, to death.

Somehow the Spirit of God intercedes in these moments, and a doorway is provided, but it isn’t a doorway we otherwise see of our own volition, nor is it a doorway we even see is attractive. It’s not natural to go through this doorway, but it’s the best thing we can do.

Rather than settling on a bargain, venturing through a doorway that will almost certainly lead to regret, we can choose a different doorway; this doorway is the one we walk through when are we grieve our grief. See, I told you it was simple. I told you it wasn’t attractive. And it isn’t enticing. But it works.

When we can’t take any more, we need to walk through the door. We need to grieve our grief. We need to lament, grizzle and groan. We need to shed tears. And to exhaust ourselves to the end of sleep. For nothing works better in grief than the purity of rest.

Having exhausted our own resources, as the psalmist often did, we reach the end of ourselves and find that God begins there. Yes, there—the power of God! At the end is death at the cross. And what comes after the cross?

Resurrection. God takes us, limp and ready to submit, into divine care, and somehow hope is restored, because we no longer contrive it. But we must first grieve our grief. We cannot avoid it. Grieving our grief is the key.

Now, of course, we can hold God to ransom for ‘resurrection’ too, and what’s that about if not a bargaining? Resurrection always comes, but not always on the third day.

Photo by Jan Tinneberg on Unsplash