Why God did not answer our prayers for peace

 We prayed. Oh, how we prayed.

When my dear husband came to me in October of 2017 and told me that his job was killing him, and suggested a complete upending of our lives, I went into high-level stress. I was appalled at the idea of leaving our home of over twenty years, our lives in the wonderful small town where we'd raised our four kids, our son who still lived in town, and our daughters and other son who were a short day's drive away- the youngest still in college and coming home for summer and winter breaks, my work in ministry at our church, and my community of wonderful friends- women who were true sisters of the heart. I had a whole rich, rooted life there; a life of connection and purpose. I was known and loved and welcomed there. I had not imagined we would ever leave. I pictured growing old together in that same house with its worn-out carpet and its view of sunsets over the western hills. I could not fathom leaving all this, but when my husband asked me to consider it, I said that I would. I committed to praying about it. I believe that my exact words were, "I can't leave my whole life because you're having a bad day at work...(what a sweet, compassionate, loving response, right?)...but if God tells me to, I will and I'll do it without complaining." That was my bottom line: if this was God's plan, not just my husband's, I would agree and I would not fight it or complain about it. I had learned to trust God, at least that much.

Thus began months of intense prayer. I could see how the unbearable stress of the job was tearing my husband to pieces. I also hated the idea of leaving. I pounded on the floor of heaven, begging God for peace for him, for wisdom and strength to endure; for the godly character to persevere in a challenging situation.

It didn't come.

When I speak of that time in our lives, I have had people respond in ways that disparage the character, strength, or faith of my husband. That makes me so angry. Anyone who was not actually inside that situation has no idea what it was like. He did, and does, have strong faith. He diligently sought God, prayed earnestly, and continued to show up faithfully to this job that was destroying him. There were a number of fine people in that place, who were good to work with. He was just put in a position where it was nearly impossible to do his job, based on decisions made by other people. He cared deeply about the well-being of those who depended on his role, and having his hands tied so he could not do what was needed...was unbearable. His integrity was the very thing that made it so hard.

We had more than one conversation about the tension of not knowing whether he needed to dig deep into God for the grace to carry on, or whether God was using the stress as a sharp stick to prod us out of our nest. For those first months, we honestly didn't know which it was.

Years ago, my childhood pastor told a story about how eagles will line their nests with down from their own bodies to make it soft and warm and safe for their babies. As the chicks grow, and the time approaches for them to leave, the parent starts removing that comforting fluff. Soon, sharp ends and elbows of sticks emerge, making it less and less comfortable to sit in the nest. Only this discomfort could get the babies to leave their life of ease and comfy provision and embark on their adult lives.

Now, I don't know if what I've remembered is ornithological fact, but the framework of the story has stayed with me and it came back to me in those months of desperate seeking. Did my husband just need to take it to Jesus and trust him more? Or was God really using this intense discomfort to pry us out of our settled rut and move us in a new direction?

A few months into this ongoing conversation, two things happened that gave me great clarity. First, my husband told me that he'd started having chest pains every morning before work. This was a classic symptom of heart attack and it scared me. He went to our doctor and had a thorough work-up. The conclusion? There was no sign of heart disease. It was "just" stress. The stress of his job had become that unbearable. The second turning point was when I realized that my appalled horror at the idea had faded away and I had peace about it. I had exactly zero desire to agree to any of this. When I realized that I, rather suddenly, felt a measure of peace about it...I knew that was the work of God on my heart.

 Why did God not answer my desperate prayers for peace and all the other things my husband needed, in order to survive his job? Well...because him staying in the job was no longer God's plan. He allowed it to become aggressively uncomfortable for my husband, to prod him in a new direction. He allowed the stress to have a serious effect on my husband's health, to move my heart out of its selfish clutching of the familiar and comfortable, to a place of willingness. For the first few months after he shared his idea with me, I raged against it in my heart. I was resentful and very scared. We had told very few people, only our kids and a few others, what we were considering. Of course, there were lots of thoughts and feelings about it, and I was the one having all those conversations. It was hard. There I was, trying to find answers to questions about something I had no desire to do or to defend. 

When I learned that not only was my dear husband feeling the pain of a heart attack every morning, but that it was tied directly to his job stress, my own heart changed abruptly. I contacted our kids, told them what was happening, and said, "I care very much about how this change affects all of us, but Dad just shot to the top of the list. I will do whatever it takes for him to be okay." Of course they agreed, because they love their dad. We talked about how our family is one that makes sacrifices for one another; about how their dad had stayed in the same place and the same job, even through times when it was the last thing he wanted to do, solely for their sake. We both wanted them to get to grow up in one town, not having to move around and be the new kids in new schools, trying to find new friends and places to belong. He did that for them. He gave twenty-four years of his life so they could have that stability. As I said to the kids, "It's his turn."

As my heart changed, we moved forward with our plans. It was still hard, and scary, and full of blistering unknowns, but at least I now believed it was, somehow, God's plan for us. We got our house ready and listed it for sale. We moved ahead with research and plans for the new shape our life would take. 

This is the year in which we lost our older son. In the midst of unbearable stress and immense change, we got the news that he had taken his life. The timing made it, yet again, abundantly clear that this new plan was God's doing. We got this devastating news four days before my husband had planned to give his notice at work. Basically, after we were leveled by the nuclear bomb of this heart-breaking loss, my husband never had to go back to that job. He did go in a few times, and tied up the necessary loose ends, but that road came to an abrupt end. All those months of discussion and earnest prayer and slow acceptance and preparation led to this great mercy- him not having to go back to work after our hearts shattered.

In the five years since that time, I have thought that God did not answer my prayers for my husband. I knew God used those unanswered prayers, and the extreme discomfort, to pry us out and move us in this new direction. I thought that his answer had been productive silence.

Suddenly, this morning, the lights dawned. Actually...God did answer my prayers!!!!

I begged God for his protection and help for my husband; for wisdom and safety and peace and integrity and direction. I thought God didn't answer my prayers...because I was looking for the answers in the wrong place! I kept looking at our current situation, expecting God to pour his provision into it and fix everything!

As I thought about it this morning, I realized that God did answer every single one of my prayers. The provision of peace and wisdom and every other thing I begged God for did come. It came when I asked, but it came where I wasn't looking. It came on the new road, poured out to carry us well in the new direction God had given us.

I picture me, standing at a Y in a gravel road. My back is turned to the intersection, and I'm staring back the way I've come, yelling at God, "Where are you??!!!" Behind me, standing on the new road that branches off of the old, stands God, smiling with gentle love, "I'm right here," he says.

 

Grief is weird...a.k.a...My address book is a mess.

 

Who would have thought that a simple tool could hold such emotional weight?

I'm sure we've all been through that moment when we go to the address book and see the name of a dear one who is gone and feel yet another edge of that loss.

This is always a sad moment, but after our son took his life in 2018, flipping the pages to check the addresses of family members became almost unbearable. 

I could certainly not erase his beloved name from the page. 

I may never be able to do that.

I also could not keep having my heart lacerated every time I wanted to send a card to any of our other family members.

It was too much.

I found a little pocket-sized address book that I think my mom gave me one time and decided to use it. I went through the pages of the old book, transcribing names and addresses to the new one. Our last name falls early in the alphabet, so I was in rough shape for most of this project.

This is why the book is a mess.

I was still in shock, exhausted, and battered by the pain of passing by Michael's name; not carrying it forward.This was, of course, the whole point of what I was doing. It was still heavy and hard.

In the four years since that day, I have found strings of names in the wrong sections, and worse, names and addresses I somehow failed to transfer. I have had cards to dear people come back to me, because I'd jumbled the address in the new book. I lost the addresses of two long-term friends, and only re-found the through roundabout means in recent months.

I look at the mess I made of this much-needed information and I feel frustration, but also...compassion for the sad and battered self I was on that day.

Grief is messy and hard and it complicates our lives. It shows up in weird ways, throwing wrenches in unexpected gears.

May we extend gentle grace to ourselves and to others in similar state.

When broccoli feels aggressive

[I wrote most of this post last year, on June 25th of 2022, the fourth anniversary of the day we learned of our son's death. As it turned out, I did have Covid- for the third time- and it laid me flat. I didn't have the mental or emotional wherewithal to come back and finish this post at the time. Now I do, and I have, and I think it's worth sharing. As I post this, we are staring down the straight stretch at a weighty fifth anniversary of our loss. It is a good time for me to revisit what I learned last year. May we be gentle with our own hearts, and give them room to just...need what they need.]

 

Is it because I'm sad?

Because I'm sick?

Either? Both? 

In the face of this fourth "deathiversary," four years since our beloved son took his life, being sick feels just plain insulting. 

Yet here we are.

My dear husband has Covid again, given to him by an inconsiderate co-worker. (People! Seriously! Stop going to meetings and events, feeling ill, and *then* going to the doctor!) I have had three negative Covid tests, but I definitely have ...something. Maybe a cold? Not sure. 

I already have feelings about what food to eat when I'm passing a heavy emotional milemarker. These foods need to be gentle...comforting. Comfort food is a gift. It is a simple, tangible way to be gentle and kind to our physical bodies as they carry the weight of our emotions.

Knowing that this deathiversary was on its way, I planned ahead for what I would cook; gentle old favorites, made ahead so I could subsist on leftovers through these couple of hard days.

Chicken soup with gluten-free noodles. Homemade biscuits. Creamy noodles with broccoli and ham.

Leftover from earlier in the week, everything-free waffles with link sausages.

 

That all sounds delicious, doesn't it?

Well...not anymore. My waffles, made from a recipe of my own development, are one of my favorite foods. In fact, four years ago as we reeled in shock and pain over the news of Michael's death, my waffles were one of the few foods I could (barely) stomach.

They seemed like a shoo-in for this week. Nope. Yesterday morning, I had to force myself to finish my breakfast...because I am sick, on top of sad, and my body objects.

The idea of protein right now, or vegetables, is not only unappealing. It feels...aggressive. My body is deeply offended at the very idea of sausage or chicken (or heaven forbid- beef!) and the thought of broccoli? One of my all-time favorite veggies? Horrible. 

 My body assures me that any attempt at eating broccoli will be taken as an act of aggression. It has issued a firm request for what earlier generations would call "light fare." Since toast is not an option for me, this will look like...broth. With gluten-free noodles. And fruit. Fruit sounds acceptable.

People have asked me how the anniversaries of Michael's death go; how we observe them and how they feel. Here is my answer: inconsistent and reliably unexpected. 

I can plan and prepare. I can consult the deep places of my heart and arrange my world around what feels comforting and safe. 

For all my planning and care, though, there is no way to prevent "life" from rudely intruding into this sacred space. 

Three years ago, on the first deathiversary, my dad was admitted to the nursing home. He still lives there. The weight of that, on an already painful day, was a lot to carry. This year, it is the nagging weight of illness, and all its added implications and stress, that has twisted these days out of shape.

These hard anniversaries, like death itself, hit in unexpected ways.

I think we all, as our own hard dates approach each year, try to anticipate what will be the "right" way to handle them. Some plan heartfelt observances, or parties overflowing with love and memories. Others plan seclusion and rest. What I have learned these past four years, and especially this year, is that, no matter how well we know ourselves and our grief, and how carefully we plan, the reality of the hard days can still come at us sideways. 

Sometimes, waffles are soft comfort. Sometimes, they feel like soul betrayal. The best we can do is listen to our own hearts, prepare for what we think might help...and be ready to roll with what we actually end up needing. A gentle willingness to adapt is one of the best gifts we can give to our own hearts.