In the 13-year-and-ongoing process of grieving the suicide of our oldest son, I continually have to step back into silent-heart places, to simply “be still and know” that God is still God.
I also had my rawest grief bubble up in a season of stability. I realized that when you truly grieve or allow yourself to feel the depths of pain there is a vulnerability, a certain kind of falling apart and being out of control that you just can’t allow yourself to experience unless you feel safe. If you still feel endangered or are waiting for another wound you can’t go there yet.
I just listened to Sarah Clarkson’s interview about that book (on “The Habit” podcast) before I read your writing today. I love it when God makes so evident where I need to focus my attention next! But I do have to be listening and watchful….and that takes quiet.
I spent many years trying to be the person I felt God thought I should be. This was after my early 20's, where I finally processed childhood trauma/abuse and mental illness. After my son, I was the mom who was always at play dates. I brought meals. I was active in every way. I thought this was who God had made me, what I was created to accomplish.
However, I did all of this under the burden of absolutely debilitating pain. I would weeks recovering from all these things, but did not know how to stop. If I stopped, I would be failing.
I came off of pain management to give my body a chance to reset, but I also made the erroneous decision to stop my bipolar meds.
The result was a year of cationic darkness. I felt completely forsaken, unwanted, and alone. I had no tether. I was so gone I contemplated getting a divorce, because all intimacy was anathema. I could not figure out why God would do this: Why allow everything to be stripped away, and make me unable to be THAT person anymore.
Eventually I recovered, but I still spent several years completely bedridden. During that time, I listened to silence. It was in silence that I found hope. It was in silence that I found my foundation. It was in silence I began to identify as having a disability. In silence I became assertive of it, allowing myself to ask for needed accommodations. In silence I became exactly who I needed to be.
Thank you for your writing today. I’m struck by the all beauty and terror in quiet—I long for it and avoid it at all costs—and you describe this experience so well. Oh! God bless our capacity to submit to quiet as we move towards wholeness. Your words serve as a beautiful invitation to that end.
PS: I think I first encountered your writing in the poem Red Sea. Thank you.
That last line really hit me. I way to quickly fill my head up with noise and distraction when hard things are happening to me. Thank you Rachel! I am encouraged to let the stillness in.
I have read this a few times over the last 2 days...reflecting on Jesus' time in lonely places, and in the wilderness, is giving me more courage as I face much grief. Thank you.
Such a good reminder. I’m going to be more intentional about this. We don’t have a chance to exercise focusing our minds on God if we never have silence. You put it into words so beautifully.
Your wisdom has left me pondering. I do enjoy solitude and silence, though sometimes it feels harsh and loud. When it lingers these days I fill it so my thoughts don't keep churning the same things over. I've been aware for a while but not yet sure what to do with it. That's you for sharing your perspective.I
In the 13-year-and-ongoing process of grieving the suicide of our oldest son, I continually have to step back into silent-heart places, to simply “be still and know” that God is still God.
Charis, I will pray in the stillness for your heart in this continual grief.
Prayer in the stillness is a gift we can give each other, isn’t it?
I cannot even fathom that kind of loss. I am so sorry.
Oh Charis.... that must be one of the Very Hardest of hard things, and the Saddest of sad things, to be confronted with.
May our gracious Lord continue to soothe, comfort, heal, and speak to you -- in the silence of His presence and His being.
Thank you, Naomi, for your pray-full response. It is a gift.
There’s a reason Scripture tells us to be still - and know He is God.
I also had my rawest grief bubble up in a season of stability. I realized that when you truly grieve or allow yourself to feel the depths of pain there is a vulnerability, a certain kind of falling apart and being out of control that you just can’t allow yourself to experience unless you feel safe. If you still feel endangered or are waiting for another wound you can’t go there yet.
So true
I just listened to Sarah Clarkson’s interview about that book (on “The Habit” podcast) before I read your writing today. I love it when God makes so evident where I need to focus my attention next! But I do have to be listening and watchful….and that takes quiet.
Thank you ❤️
I needed to hear this - I love the part about God being merciful in giving us seasons. Thank you.
I spent many years trying to be the person I felt God thought I should be. This was after my early 20's, where I finally processed childhood trauma/abuse and mental illness. After my son, I was the mom who was always at play dates. I brought meals. I was active in every way. I thought this was who God had made me, what I was created to accomplish.
However, I did all of this under the burden of absolutely debilitating pain. I would weeks recovering from all these things, but did not know how to stop. If I stopped, I would be failing.
I came off of pain management to give my body a chance to reset, but I also made the erroneous decision to stop my bipolar meds.
The result was a year of cationic darkness. I felt completely forsaken, unwanted, and alone. I had no tether. I was so gone I contemplated getting a divorce, because all intimacy was anathema. I could not figure out why God would do this: Why allow everything to be stripped away, and make me unable to be THAT person anymore.
Eventually I recovered, but I still spent several years completely bedridden. During that time, I listened to silence. It was in silence that I found hope. It was in silence that I found my foundation. It was in silence I began to identify as having a disability. In silence I became assertive of it, allowing myself to ask for needed accommodations. In silence I became exactly who I needed to be.
Rachel,
Thank you for your writing today. I’m struck by the all beauty and terror in quiet—I long for it and avoid it at all costs—and you describe this experience so well. Oh! God bless our capacity to submit to quiet as we move towards wholeness. Your words serve as a beautiful invitation to that end.
PS: I think I first encountered your writing in the poem Red Sea. Thank you.
That last line really hit me. I way to quickly fill my head up with noise and distraction when hard things are happening to me. Thank you Rachel! I am encouraged to let the stillness in.
Oof this hit hard
Goodness, this is so good. ❤️
I have read this a few times over the last 2 days...reflecting on Jesus' time in lonely places, and in the wilderness, is giving me more courage as I face much grief. Thank you.
Beautiful, Rachel. This is written with substance, clarity, and depth. And I, for one, am appreciative. Thank you!
Such a good reminder. I’m going to be more intentional about this. We don’t have a chance to exercise focusing our minds on God if we never have silence. You put it into words so beautifully.
Your wisdom has left me pondering. I do enjoy solitude and silence, though sometimes it feels harsh and loud. When it lingers these days I fill it so my thoughts don't keep churning the same things over. I've been aware for a while but not yet sure what to do with it. That's you for sharing your perspective.I
Thank you for sharing this wisdom. ❤️
Strong work, Rachel.