Show Up

We Mustn't Avoid the Hard Stuff

This little field sparrow was busily gathering food to take to her nest when I saw her a couple weeks ago. The birds are one thing that keeps me going when I am having a rough season.

We keep doing the hard work of living. Some days are harder than others. Our hearts have been bruised, fresh from the memorial service of one who died much too young. We ache the ache of those left behind; we sorrow for those who loved him most; we feel the helpless struggle of how best to live into this new way of being. It’s been one of those kinds of seasons where I’m left wondering how a person can stay vertical in this world when life doles out so much grief. But maybe that’s the point—maybe one doesn’t. Maybe face down on the knees is the best posture for this kind of season. Maybe the grace of showing up is the best we can do sometimes.

To listen to this post:

This type of showing up is a thing that never gets easier. For the better part of twenty years I have been a professional “shower-upper.” My day job is on a medical rehab unit. I work with patients undergoing physical rehabilitation—stroke patients, amputees, those with brain injuries or spinal cord injuries ... Part of my job is to counsel these ordinary people as they go through these extraordinary circumstances. But as so often is the case with these kinds of things, I am usually the one who ends up changed.

This American robin fledgling was still being tended by parents.

Such was the case a few years ago when I entered the room of one particular patient during the spring. Outside of her window was a miniature crab apple tree, all bloomed out in glory. The nurses had arranged her body on the pillows so that when she was in bed, her gaze fell on those twiggy branches weighted down by the plump red fruit. When I sat with her to talk, she told me how beautiful the red berries will look in the winter when snow is cradled in the branches. The birds love that tree, she said. And she told me about the cardinals and finches who peered through the window at her still form.

A few months before, she had developed an infection. She had been away from home, from family, from her familiar, for over four months—trying to recover from the partial paralysis in all of her limbs that the infection left her with. She needed help to roll over in bed, to eat, to get dressed, and to make the slightest movement.

And yet, there she was telling me how grateful she is, how blessed she feels to be right here in this moment. “We take so many things for granted,” she said. “I used to complain about so many little things—fixing the dinner, cleaning up after the kids … . But what I wouldn’t give to do those things now. I used to say I depended on God, but now I really do. For everything.”

When we talked, she would often cry—happy tears, she said, tears of gratitude. She was too weak to wipe her eyes so I would chase her tears with a tissue, gently dab her lashes and cheeks. It felt like a holy thing, this wiping the tears of another—a baptism of sorts. I would leave her room the same way I leave a good church service—quieted, a deep sense of peace settled inside my spirit.

I’ve collected many such stories like this over the years—the man with metastatic brain cancer who told me he will save me a dance in heaven; the young man paralyzed from the neck down who said he’d lived able-bodied for a time and now, “I figure I’ll see what God has for me living this way a while;” the woman who, after a stroke had lost most of her speech but would burst into singing Amazing Grace at any given moment.

One question I must ask all of my patients is this: Have you gotten so down that you’ve felt like giving up? Just yesterday, when I posed this question to one particular person dealing with pain and loss, they said, tears welling, “I would love to give up. But I don’t know how.” We talked about that some, but we still need to talk about it some more. It’s a big part of my job to help people see some goodness in the moments so I usually I follow up that first question with this one: what keeps you going when you have a hard day? Some people tell me it’s their faith, some their family, others say, that’s just how I am. I do what I have to do. Sometimes they’re stumped by this question. They think about it long and hard. I offer choices, possibilities, and still, some cannot answer. Others answer readily, without hesitation. People of faith make this part of my job easier. Most of the time, anyway.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking I need to ask myself this question. I need to ask the people I love this question. If we have trouble answering, maybe we need to talk about it some. There is a kind of pain that isn’t easy to see from the outside. We don’t wear it like a brace or a cast or a bandage. Sometimes talking about it doesn’t help.

But sometimes it does.

What keeps you going when you are having a hard time? Who can you talk to when you are down? What gives you joy? Where do you settle your heart?

If you are feeling hopeless, there is help.