Trout
January 23rd 2008, 06:23 PM
When Our Bodies Are Frail
by Storico
PUBLISHERS NOTE:
This article became rather profound considering it wasn't simply some ideas penned by a dying woman, but it became a game plan for a life that ended well. Enjoy.
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I received two calls today. One was from the young man I love. His grandmother's unwell. Besides recently having surgery on a hip, she now has to contend with having liquid in her lungs, as well as a blood clot in at least one of the lungs. She's older, she's frail, and her family's obviously very concerned. The second call was from the HIV/AIDS support group I've been to a couple times. One of the guys who helped found the group died this morning. He'd dealt with the disease for nearly 20 years, and it finally caught up with him this morning. With those phone calls in mind, I can't help but think of people I know who are sick. I can't help but think of health in general -- others' health, and mine. And to myself, I ponder "why? Why are we so frail? Why do we break down so easily? Why do so many of us leave this world for the next so soon, and why do so many of us do it in such pain? MOST IMPORTANTLY, why does a loving God let it happen?" Those aren't easy questions. In fact, it's easy to get angry or at least emotional about questions like that.
Why? Well, because we often associate God with love, but we don't associate love with pain. Thinking it through, though, I wonder if we have an incomplete view of love if we see it as being without pain. So much in this life mixes love and pain together, and we accept it. Why is it so hard to accept a loving God who allows pain, then? Let me give a few examples. Childbirth, one of nature's miracles and also an act representative of love and effort and wanting, always involves a mother's pain -- but it's a pain mixed with love. Giving blood or donating an organ to a relative in need is an act associated with pain but also inherently loving. Racing in front of a speeding car to save a person about to get hit is certainly an instance where pain would be a real possibility.... but love would be the motivation for such an action, even if it is only a love of life itself, or love for one's fellow human. The love Jesus showed on a cross, dying so others could live, involved immense pain.... and yet love kept Him on that cross. Whether or not you believe Christianity is true, you'll have to admit that only someone who truly believed his own loving actions could save the world would even attempt to do it. It took great love to even try -- never mind the fact that millions of Christians worldwide believe Jesus succeeded.
So why, when it comes to our own frailty, do we rail against love when love and pain are so linked in life? Shouldn't it be natural to see one being linked with the other? My family and my sweetheart's family do not know WHY his grandmother is in pain and hurting and confused. We're sorry she is, but at the same time, we love her, and I know God loves her. We'd take the pain away, if we could. Medication's doing so much of what we can't. And the call today about the guy who died this morning was also one of those cases -- he was in so much pain, and yet he was surrounded by loving friends when he died, and he was ready to, in his own words, "go home for good". When it comes to men like him, I don't wonder "why did he go in so much pain?" Personally, I'm thankful he went quickly. I saw him last week, as I met him for the first time. He was given about a month. I didn't think he had much more than two weeks, and I was right. He knew it, too. And he was okay with that.
I've been to funerals and I've heard about deaths, and I've learned my own body will break itself down sooner than most bodies will, and the frailty of the human body no longer crushes me and upsets me. It's a fact of life. More to the point, it shows us something about life: how precious it is. We've only got a small amount of time here, where decades are teeny tiny bits that pass into history, and we live through them and in them. We've got our little bits of time, and we've got each other, and we've got God, the author of all time and all people.
And that's where I'm finding myself right now. I'm starting to understand that human frailty is not a bad thing. It is an ordinary thing, and it forces us to lean on each other. It forces us to break down our walls, to set aside our pride, and to make very real contact with one another. Human frailty forces us to get up close and personal with each other, to do all the things for each other that are so basic -- opening up emotionally, holding a hand, saying "I love you", pushing a wheelchair, taking a friend to appointments, feeding someone who can no longer feed themselves. Such contact leaves us open and vulnerable and very aware of pain and need and compassion. It also leaves us more open to God than we could imagine. God comes in when we're in pain, when family and friends are in pain, and He's there. Not always in a religious, "I hear a voice and it is God" sense. It's very often in a quiet, familiar sense. An "I will get through this and I am not alone" sense. We lean on each other. We lean on prayer. We lean on not knowing the answers, but seeking them anyways. We lean on hope, and on faith, and we leave ourselves wide open when we're hurting or when those we love are hurting.
I think, in that moment, we can choose to let God in or we can choose to shut Him out. We can choose to see human frailty in light of eternity, or we can choose to see it as a devastating finality. We can decide that our bodies are all we have, or we can decide that our bodies were never permenent to begin with.
So many choices. So many things to consider. And oddly, I am coming to peace with all the options, because I'm at an age where I'll witness life breaking down just as I'll witness it coming into being. I'll see elderly beloved family members go. I'll see sick friends and acquaintances go. I'll see and maybe experience bodily pain, and I'll have to remember something: human frailty means the chance to lean on each other, and learn, and love, and seek God together. It's an experience I don't want to, and won't, miss. I don't look forward to saying goodbye to people I love.... grandparents, sick acquaintances, family friends with health problems.... but I see it so differently than I used to, and I'm grateful to God for the perspective. I don't just see the pain. I see love there, too. Human love. God's love. That surprises me, and I'm thankful. When our bodies are frail, our hearts and our spirits and our will to reach out to one another and to God can be stronger than ever.
by Storico
PUBLISHERS NOTE:
This article became rather profound considering it wasn't simply some ideas penned by a dying woman, but it became a game plan for a life that ended well. Enjoy.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
I received two calls today. One was from the young man I love. His grandmother's unwell. Besides recently having surgery on a hip, she now has to contend with having liquid in her lungs, as well as a blood clot in at least one of the lungs. She's older, she's frail, and her family's obviously very concerned. The second call was from the HIV/AIDS support group I've been to a couple times. One of the guys who helped found the group died this morning. He'd dealt with the disease for nearly 20 years, and it finally caught up with him this morning. With those phone calls in mind, I can't help but think of people I know who are sick. I can't help but think of health in general -- others' health, and mine. And to myself, I ponder "why? Why are we so frail? Why do we break down so easily? Why do so many of us leave this world for the next so soon, and why do so many of us do it in such pain? MOST IMPORTANTLY, why does a loving God let it happen?" Those aren't easy questions. In fact, it's easy to get angry or at least emotional about questions like that.
Why? Well, because we often associate God with love, but we don't associate love with pain. Thinking it through, though, I wonder if we have an incomplete view of love if we see it as being without pain. So much in this life mixes love and pain together, and we accept it. Why is it so hard to accept a loving God who allows pain, then? Let me give a few examples. Childbirth, one of nature's miracles and also an act representative of love and effort and wanting, always involves a mother's pain -- but it's a pain mixed with love. Giving blood or donating an organ to a relative in need is an act associated with pain but also inherently loving. Racing in front of a speeding car to save a person about to get hit is certainly an instance where pain would be a real possibility.... but love would be the motivation for such an action, even if it is only a love of life itself, or love for one's fellow human. The love Jesus showed on a cross, dying so others could live, involved immense pain.... and yet love kept Him on that cross. Whether or not you believe Christianity is true, you'll have to admit that only someone who truly believed his own loving actions could save the world would even attempt to do it. It took great love to even try -- never mind the fact that millions of Christians worldwide believe Jesus succeeded.
So why, when it comes to our own frailty, do we rail against love when love and pain are so linked in life? Shouldn't it be natural to see one being linked with the other? My family and my sweetheart's family do not know WHY his grandmother is in pain and hurting and confused. We're sorry she is, but at the same time, we love her, and I know God loves her. We'd take the pain away, if we could. Medication's doing so much of what we can't. And the call today about the guy who died this morning was also one of those cases -- he was in so much pain, and yet he was surrounded by loving friends when he died, and he was ready to, in his own words, "go home for good". When it comes to men like him, I don't wonder "why did he go in so much pain?" Personally, I'm thankful he went quickly. I saw him last week, as I met him for the first time. He was given about a month. I didn't think he had much more than two weeks, and I was right. He knew it, too. And he was okay with that.
I've been to funerals and I've heard about deaths, and I've learned my own body will break itself down sooner than most bodies will, and the frailty of the human body no longer crushes me and upsets me. It's a fact of life. More to the point, it shows us something about life: how precious it is. We've only got a small amount of time here, where decades are teeny tiny bits that pass into history, and we live through them and in them. We've got our little bits of time, and we've got each other, and we've got God, the author of all time and all people.
And that's where I'm finding myself right now. I'm starting to understand that human frailty is not a bad thing. It is an ordinary thing, and it forces us to lean on each other. It forces us to break down our walls, to set aside our pride, and to make very real contact with one another. Human frailty forces us to get up close and personal with each other, to do all the things for each other that are so basic -- opening up emotionally, holding a hand, saying "I love you", pushing a wheelchair, taking a friend to appointments, feeding someone who can no longer feed themselves. Such contact leaves us open and vulnerable and very aware of pain and need and compassion. It also leaves us more open to God than we could imagine. God comes in when we're in pain, when family and friends are in pain, and He's there. Not always in a religious, "I hear a voice and it is God" sense. It's very often in a quiet, familiar sense. An "I will get through this and I am not alone" sense. We lean on each other. We lean on prayer. We lean on not knowing the answers, but seeking them anyways. We lean on hope, and on faith, and we leave ourselves wide open when we're hurting or when those we love are hurting.
I think, in that moment, we can choose to let God in or we can choose to shut Him out. We can choose to see human frailty in light of eternity, or we can choose to see it as a devastating finality. We can decide that our bodies are all we have, or we can decide that our bodies were never permenent to begin with.
So many choices. So many things to consider. And oddly, I am coming to peace with all the options, because I'm at an age where I'll witness life breaking down just as I'll witness it coming into being. I'll see elderly beloved family members go. I'll see sick friends and acquaintances go. I'll see and maybe experience bodily pain, and I'll have to remember something: human frailty means the chance to lean on each other, and learn, and love, and seek God together. It's an experience I don't want to, and won't, miss. I don't look forward to saying goodbye to people I love.... grandparents, sick acquaintances, family friends with health problems.... but I see it so differently than I used to, and I'm grateful to God for the perspective. I don't just see the pain. I see love there, too. Human love. God's love. That surprises me, and I'm thankful. When our bodies are frail, our hearts and our spirits and our will to reach out to one another and to God can be stronger than ever.