Musings on lamentation

I suppose it started with what looked like an impossible summer. Determined to get to whatever bottom existed of our child’s chronic illness, we set forth to see specialist after specialist after therapist after doctor. We loped about from appointment to appointment. It hit about five weeks into summer maybe six when I realized that truly, healing is a slow journey.

And one night, I simply relented to every temptation to despair, put my face on my pillow and cried the deep tears of the full body. It wasn’t just our one child, all the other children have had unexpected medical needs all summer long. Between her and another kiddo in OT and speech, we average 4-6 appointments a week. One kid had a crazy allergic reaction that’s lingering, another two different bad infections, and third a recurring injury flared up.

The crying didn’t really help the issues at hand and did give me a raging headache, but my body simply needed to relinquish the stress it was holding. I had to soak my pillow. I had to face what I desire and face what I know—I need to witness accelerated healing. And yet in my pursuit of healing, it refuses to be captured.

The other day, I called to make four different appointments and sat on the phone for hours both with insurance and scheduling to ensure that the children could be seen by who they needed to be seen by.

I have never considered myself to be an expert advocate for my children, even though my legal training did equip me with the critical thinking skills to advocate. This summer has shown that nearly every experience in my professional life has led to being able to tackle what is in front of us. And yet a very real and valid part of the experience of advocating for children’s medical and therapeutic needs is the step of lamentation.

Socially, I tend to bypass the pause to mourn. I dismiss my own experience and utter a sort of nihilistic acceptance that everything is hard and that’s just life. Mostly I do this because my friend is uncomfortable being on the receiving end of what IS a lot and I want to put her at ease. But also, after saying all of what’s going on aloud, I have no response except a grim bootstrapping. I also find I spiritually gaslight myself by insisting that this is a welcome lesson from the God above, right now! So delighted by it! Never been holier!

And yet before Lazarus‘s tomb, Jesus wept. He who knew He would raise his friend from the dead experienced the fullness of his humanity in the sorrow over his death. Those two words in a short sentence are where my mind has been for much of the summer. To lament and to cry out for mercy while witnessing children suffer is indeed the experience of our bodies and minds and hearts fully integrated.

Healing is union with God who is Love. That’s my lived experience. I would also like my children’s suffering to be abated, but when I’m chasing healing for them, when I’m advocating, my heart of my heart is invited to rest in His Sacred Heart. The Heart of all hearts, He who also desires wholeness and oneness. And those are possible regardless of suffering. There is room in His suffering heart for mine and theirs. Accompaniment and transformation in and through Love.

As usual, I preach to myself, friends. I needed permission to lament that our summer has been heavy. Before jumping in to assure you that it’s been “so beautiful too”—I’m allowed to sit and weep and say, H A R D. I’m giving you permission to mourn, and to invite both of us to believe we are comforted by a mourning God. Lamentation is in our bones. There is weeping before rejoicing. Allow it to happen! And find safe and comforting arms to process with. We cannot and should not do it alone.

love,

Nell

Ps: a project I worked really hard on is coming out early August. I hope you will love it. 🤫❤️‍🔥✨I can’t wait to give you details!

Pps. I was invited to offer reflections for an Ascension Presents series on the Sacred Heart. Listen on their app!