Between

There's a Sesame Street segment called I'm Between where a man sings mournfully about being "between" as he's hemmed in on either side by two other monsters. There's a monster on his left and a monster on his right, they push on him day and night. One tries to make him go one way, and the other tries to make him go the other way. These monsters gleefully bump him going, "Ha, ha, ha" while he drones, "It's the saddest thing I've ever seen."

I feel like that Between Man, with Monsters on my left and right trying to make me go one way or the other. There's what I should do on one side and what I want to do on the other side. One Monster is bumping me one way, the other Monster is shoving me the other way.

It would be easy to categorize things that I "should" do as good, Christian, emotionally healthy things, and what I "want" to do as bad, selfish, broken things. But these categories are surprisingly slippery. Sometimes, what I should do is angry and feels selfish while what I want to do feels gracious and kind.

What is common in both my shoulds and my wants is that both seem impossibly out of my grasp. I shun the dark, angry and selfish, but find myself unable to hold onto the gracious, giving and kind. I think evil thoughts that I quickly dismiss, but don't have "better" thoughts to take their place. I resist acting out the anger and disgust, but can not take the step to move into grace. Instead I find myself stuck, and, as the poor muppet man notes, "It's not a happy scene to be between."

The Very Expensive Therapist is on vacation (which I inevitably have contributed to) but I can imagine her asking me, "What do you think this is about?"

I would like to believe that I am between broken and whole, that this conundrum between shoulds and wants is one representation of me climbing out of this pit. I would like to believe that I am a very, very small version of the "here but not yet" nature of the Kingdom of God. That God's work in me is here and evident, but also in progress and incomplete. I would like to believe that between is as valuable a place as "here" or "there."

Yet this between stage is no more hopeful than the pit itself. I don't feel any better. Thankfully, I don't feel any worse. I just feel stuck -- between two furry monsters going, "Ha ha ha" as they head butt me to the left and to the right.



Watch I'm Between on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOcK6is7tCE

My Grief

My grief has many colors. Sometimes it is red and hot, sometimes it is yellow and warm, and other times it is grey and cold. I long to use these colors to paint a picture, but these colors do not seem to match.

My grief is very small. I do not grieve over the world, over wars, over global injustices. It is just about me, my problems, my tiny realm. And yet my grief feels very big. It is about me, my problems, my realm. I wake up every day feeling my grief. There is no escaping this grief of mine, it follows me around, demanding my attention. If I try not to think about it, it simply ups the ante and turns into physical pain.

My grief sits on my chest, squeezing my lungs and my heart. No matter how deeply I breathe, the grief will not abate. Oxygen only makes it grow and spill -- out of my mouth, out of my nose, out of my eyes. My grief flows freely.

I want nothing more than to hide my grief. Not so much to protect myself, but perhaps to protect those around me. Grief makes all around me feel so helpless. For there really is nothing to be done -- there are only so many words to be given, so many prayers to be uttered, so many sympathetic looks and hugs to be doled out. Every one of these little efforts provides a welcome, but momentary comfort. I long to reward each effort with signs of getting better, with signs of life, but I find myself unable to.

I fear my grief will bring rejection. It is an ugly fear, one that when voiced will bring great protests. How could one be rejected for their grief? And yet, it is not a fear unfounded. For grief does not bid drawing close. I will more often than not appear closed off, negative even. Mostly, I will appear a little lost, as if I am somewhere else rather than with you. For some, the rejection will come naturally, it will even feel justified. "It's too much," they will tell themselves, "She needs more help than I can afford to give." For others the rejection will feel more helpless, "I don't know what to do. Perhaps she needs to be by herself."

For the most part, no one rejection will come completely from one party. My friends will phase in and out, each taking turns walking me through my grief as they are able. For this I am grateful. I know the weight of my own grief and no one should have to bear it alone, not even me. But for some, my grief will be the catalyst that births a goodbye. I will never know whether to dismiss them, or release them, both feel equally painful and disappointing. Such is the reality of my grief.

My grief often confuses me. In many ways I feel like I have a choice not to grieve. Afterall, whatever has been lost, been broken, been damaged is not permanent. There is always an opportunity for redemption, no matter how seemingly impossible. So why not cheer up, chin up, move on with the full knowledge that whatever happens, happens for good? And yet, when I take a deep breath, it feels like stepping off a cliff. My heart, no matter what I tell it, remains stubbornly sad. It can not be happy. It wants to grieve.

I ponder about laying my grief at the foot of the cross. It seems to be the right thing to do, the solution, if you will, to receive comfort from God. But it occurs to me that I am quick to lay only the negative things at the foot of the cross -- my pain, my grief, my selfish desires. I am also quick to lay down hopes and dreams at the cross, but in a way that bargains, "God, if I lay it down, will you let me pick it up again?"

I wonder if I should instead be laying my whole self at the foot of the cross, no questions asked, no quid pro quo. Here I am, God, grief and all.

I wonder, what would happen then?