Lessons in Loss: "There's a Word for That"

It has been one week since I lost my first TC student.  For days, people kept calling, texting, messaging and commenting: "How are you doing?"  "Are you ok?"  "Is there anything I can do?" and it meant the world to me.  It was comforting that they did not avoid me just because they didn't know what to say or do to make me feel better.  They entered into the discomfort with me and patiently let me be sad, angry, frustrated or whatever else I felt.  They made it ok for me to be wherever I 'was' that day, and they gave me the gift of being allowed to walk through pain, rather than around it.  They understood that in addition to losing someone I care about, many questions and doubts would follow for me, and their simple gestures of love and support carried me for days as I was reminded:

I am not alone.

What I am feeling matters.

I am allowed to go through this.

It is good for me to feel, process and experience all that is in this moment...

A few weeks ago, my pastor sent me a song by Kathryn Scott ("We Still Believe").  Neither of us knew when he first sent that song how I'd be tested to live it before I could sing it.  The day after I find out we lost "E," I pulled out this song and started learning it for church.  I had heard the words of the chorus, but not listened much to the verses.  It begins:

From the thankful heart to the battle scarred

From the comforted to those who grieve...

"To those who grieve..."  Singing alone in my room that night, I finally broke.  I had been speechless, unable to answer the "Are you ok's" and "How are you doing's" from all my friends and family.  I was in a state of emotional shock.  The only response I could muster ("I will be ok.  Thank you for your prayers and support") felt cheap, falling short of the weight of this moment.  I'd been telling myself (unintentionally), "Get up, Tara.  Get up.  You're stronger than this.  You need to be strong.  Your girls need you to be at your best.  It's ok to be sad, but you need to stop being so emotional.  Pick up and move on."  But nothing inside of me was ready to just "pick up and move on."  There was a knot in my throat the size of Texas, a sinking, empty feeling in my stomach, and the constant worry over my other 'prodigal daughters.'  There were swirling doubts about the worth of my ministry, about the sincerity (or lack thereof) of my current students, and the worst wound of all - those 'Job' questions drowning the buoyancy of my faith.  So "pick up and move on" wasn't quite working for me.  

I needed to feel.  I needed to experience the horrible rot and stench of every question, doubt, and re-opened wound in my soul.  I needed to let myself think.  I needed to experience this.  I needed to water the flowers of a frustrated faith, struggling to break through the soil of sorrow.

Then I saw it: "To those who grieve..."  

GRIEVE.

The word itself seemed to thrust itself off a barren chord chart, throwing its arms around my bleeding heart.  "To those who grieve.  To those who grieve.  To those who... GRIEVE."

I had been wondering, "What is my problem?   Why am I so handicapped by this?  Why do I feel this knot in my throat is never going to go away?  Why do I feel like I'm suffocating inside, like the very air I breathe has turned to smog and ash?  Why can't I just shake it off?"

I sang "To those who grieve," and a voice spoke in my heart: "There's a word for it.  What you're feeling, Tara, there's a word for that.  It's definable, it's recognizable, it's affirmed in that there is a word for it, and that word is grief.  You are allowed to grieve - you are right to grieve.  So grieve.  Grieve with the same amount of guts and passion with which you give every other day.  Grieve like it hurts.  Grieve like it matters.  Grieve, though you are hurting, like you still believe.  Don't miss the gift of this regrettable experience by failing to grieve."

In that sentence, in that word, I found comfort knowing there is a word for what I am feeling.  I guess as much as I was hurting and frustrated, I needed some sort of validation that what I was going through was ok.  That it didn't mean I was losing my mind or my faith, just that I was grieving - and I was right to grieve.  

I don't always understand the power of our words, but a word spoken (or sometimes withheld) at just the right time can release enormous healing.  As people struggle around us, maybe they do not need our answers or solutions so much as they need to be affirmed and validated in their pain.  Maybe they need to know they are allowed to experience the heights and the depths of this life with gore and with grace; that although at times life may be ugly and tragic, there is still hope in the pain, and experiencing the pain does not diminish the power of hope.

A week after losing "E," I'm thankful for the companionship of family and friends through the valley of the shadow of death.  I'm thankful that they raised their voice, extended their hands, offered their hope when mine was weak.  I'm thankful they allowed me to be where I 'was,' to not force me past the moment with pat answers, cliches or empty words.  I'm thankful for the hugs, the texts, the messages, the calls and talks that all reminded me I am not alone, I am understood, and there will be more than this.  I'm thankful for a good song at just the right time, and the gift of a soul that, by grace, still sings in sorrow: "I still believe."

The Day I Lost a Student

For the past seven years, I have dreaded the day I might find out one of my students overdosed.  But the dreaded day has arrived.  It did not have to; it crept, deceitfully, upon a young girl who should not be gone from us today.

I spent the earlier portion of this day talking with five classes of middle school students about issues like addiction, self-harm and eating disorders.  It was a beautiful, redemptive day.  We talked openly about pain, loneliness, and the desire within all of us to know that we matter, we belong.  I left each of those classes telling them, "If you are struggling, ask for help.  You are not alone."  

Then I came home to find out that one of my former students died yesterday of an apparent overdose.

Now I sit here wondering, again, if any of this even matters at all.  Is anyone even listening?  Does anyone really care?  Are we frantically pumping at hearts that simply do not want to live?

I don't think so.

I still believe that, although people hurt, they want to heal.  Although people fight, they want to be heard.  Although people run away, close the door and reject help - they want to be loved.  I tell my girls all of the time that I wish there was a switch I could flip in their hearts to 'make' them care.  But there's not.  I can't 'make' life happen for anyone.  I can't make love come alive.  I can't make someone want to change.  

But I can love.

I can listen.

I can be present.

I can see you.

I can remind you - over and over and over again - that you matter, and there is more than this.  

I can tell you that God loves you, relentlessly and compassionately - that He is still with you.  

He loves you, as you are, not as you should be.

Today I'm grieving.  I'm discouraged and saddened.  I'm praying for grace and comfort for a grieving family that has lost their beautiful daughter and friend.  

Today I'm still believing.  I'm still believing that it is worth it to try.  It is worth it to love.  It is worth it to speak up.  It is worth it to get involved, instead of ignore or avoid issues that make us feel uncomfortable.    It is worth it to keep believing the best in others, "right up to the end."

Today, if you are struggling, ask for help.  You are not alone.

E... We love you.  

I am very sad that you are no longer with us.  

I am thankful for the year of life we shared, laughing, crying and growing together.  

You were a lovely girl, inside and out, and you will be greatly missed.

Believing or Behaving?

"Am I really believing or am I just behaving?"

I've become my own worst enemy the last few months (what's new?).  Putting it into words is difficult, but I have felt like I am grinding myself to pieces, trying to crank out "the good life."  Good this, good that, "Be good, Tara.  Make it good..."  God has been teaching me a lot (crazy beautiful stuff) about the word "good" in the Bible.  But for some reason, along the way I find myself drowning in the weight of "the good life."  I'm trying to balance everything I think it means to be good.  Though I probably wouldn't ever say it like this to someone else, in my own mind the track repeats:

"I'm supposed to do this... I'm not supposed to do that..."

Supposed to, supposed to... I'd venture to say those words probably aren't even in the Bible, because I'm not sure they are even remotely biblical.  "Supposed to" indicates requirement or obligation; but the Christ-life is anything but obligatory.  It is surrender.  It is all-or-nothing, free-will, "because I wanted to," giving.  Yet so many times I find myself behaving in a certain way because I am "supposed to."  

God challenged me with a moment of awakening this week when I wondered, "Am I really believing or am I just behaving?"  

A friend of mine quoted this verse tonight from Matthew 9: "Become what you believe."  Become what you BELIEVE... not how you behave, but what you believe.  My behavior follows my belief.  Without my belief in tact, my "good behavior" will always be that of a forced effort.  My behavior the past few weeks has been that of an unbeliever, and if there is anything that really, really infuriated Jesus, it was unbelief.  Yet I find myself doubting Him, quietly and unintentionally, acting out in ways that unveil my unbelief.  I wonder what my life would look like today, if regardless of my emotions or disappointments, I acted like I believe.  What would happen if, instead of acting like I believe, I chose to actually believe?

Believing is not always a natural impulse.  I have students come to me all day long with stories that I must either believe or disbelieve.  I'm looking at them and listening, all the while secretly "reading" them, mentally interpreting their body language, tone of voice, nervous twitches, length and detail of story - all the elements that hint to whether I should believe them or not.  There are times when all the facts and figures come together clearly, and the story is easy to believe.  There are other moments, though, when I have no solid information on hand, but I simply choose to say, "I'm gonna go with you on this one."  In other words, I choose to believe.

I find this with Jesus.  He comes to me with this story that I must either believe or disbelieve.  I'm looking Him over constantly, trying to "read Him," trying to get a full understanding of what He's up to, if anything at all.  Prone to doubt, I'm hunting for hints that I can believe Him...but then I look at HIS body language.  I see a bloody man on a cross - a man that I'm reminded is the epitome of trustworthy.  There's this point where something shifts.  I don't have all of the information, the facts or the figures.  I'm just as clueless as I was a moment ago, but I look at Jesus and decide, "I'm gonna go with You on this one."  

I choose to believe.

Tonight I'm convicted in all the right places.  The goodness and kindness of God has led me to repentance, and I will gladly suffer it.  No, I haven't been out living "la vida loca," so if you're freaking out that I'm calling myself on misbehavior, just calm yourself right down.  But as my dad would say, I've been living like a "practical atheist," forgetting who I'm dealing with as I walk hand-in-hand with an omnipotent, yet fiercely compassionate God.  So today I remember Jesus, and I choose to believe.  

So let my behavior follow my belief.  Let my confident choice in Him as Savior lead me through the valley of the shadow of death into the spacious light of His enduring life.  Thank God I've found a friend in Jesus, who never grows weary of this little girl's prayer: "Lord, I believe. Heal my unbelief."

My Favorite Atheist (And a Little Grilled Cheesus)

Yeah, I said it - I have a favorite atheist.  She may be one of the greatest people that has ever happened to me.  I've been counseling her for over a year now, and yup, she's still an atheist.  By all evangelistic standards, I suppose you could call this a fail - an epic fail.  But by Jesus' standards, I'm finding it's something much more...

My favorite atheist is in a growing relationship with Jesus, she just hasn't said her "I Do's" yet.  I love walking with her day by day, as she struggles through questions and doubts, insecurities and fears.  Occasionally she lets her forces down just long enough to confess that she thinks God may have spoken to her - in fact, she's certain He has, but she is afraid to believe.  She is afraid to trust Him - to be disappointed - to find out that He is just like everyone else who has ever deserted or abandoned her.  

Still, He is with her.  (He told her so :)

This week's episode of GLEE ("Grilled Cheesus") approached this subject of faith and fear, of doubting the existence of God.  Two main characters declare themselves atheists - one, because he is gay and has been hurt by people who claim to follow Jesus, and also because he lost his mother at a young age; the second is our beloved Coach Sue Sylvester.  Sue's sister is mentally handicapped.  When Sue was a little girl, she adored her older sister, so she was heartbroken to watch other kids ridicule and demean her for her illness.  Sue prayed and prayed that God would change her sister, but He never did.  Sue asked something of God; He didn't do what she wanted Him to do.  The not so original result?  Sue became an atheist.

There was a part of me that cringed watching GLEE this week - so many inaccurate portrayals of what it means to truly seek God's direction in our lives, of His heart and character and love toward us.  But I'm glad I stuck it out.  I think a lot of times as Christians, we get so offended on behalf of God that we plug our ears to the complaints of the world around us.  When I read the OT, I see that when God's people complained, repeatedly it says that He "heard their cries for help and came down to save them."  Plugging our ears because we are offended will never result in actually hearing cries for help and bringing salvation to the lost.  Maybe we don't have to get so offended; maybe we can become more like our Christ and become better listeners, hearing the cry beneath the complaint...

So I stuck with GLEE to the end this week.  I endured "Grilled Cheesus" and actually could see many of my students in this episode.  Moreso, I could see myself.  I could see the times in my own life when I've doubted the very existence of God; when I've accused Him of being so many things that He is not; when I've entirely missed the point and given up way too soon; when I've lived like a practical atheist.

At the end of the episode (mild spoiler alert), Sue asks her mentally handicapped sister if she believes in God.  She does.  After a chat at the dinner table, Sue's sister asks her, "Do you want me to pray for you, Sue?"  With tears in her eyes, Sue replies, "Yeah, that would be nice."  

The bottom line of the episode was this: We want to believe.  Help us to believe.   

Sounds like a guy I heard of once who came to Jesus saying, "I believe...heal my unbelief."  

If we plug our ears or run in the opposite direction too fast, we will miss the privileged journey of this sweet redemption together.  So offenses buried, I sat speechless and weepy at the end of "Grilled Cheesus."  I thought of my favorite atheist and the many times she has cried and complained, all the while silently whispering beneath: I want to believe.  Help me believe.

My favorite atheist is coming to believe.  More and more, we are talking about Jesus, because she brings Him up... because He's speaking to her, she's finding Him, and though she trembles to admit it... she wants Him.  Recently, through tears, she shared with me an hour-long conversation she had with God one night.  At the end of the talk, all I could say was, "________, I'm sorry to tell you this, but you're totally in a relationship with Jesus - you're just not holding His hand yet."

And my favorite atheist smiled...

Mother Tara

A while back one of my girls told me, "Tara, you're like Mother Teresa...with mood swings."  Truly, I WISH I was like Mother Teresa, but I'm afraid the latter portion of that [compliment?...insult?...whatever it was], is probably more true of me.  Still, somehow this comment seems to come back to mind over and over again; mostly because I thought it was hilarious, and partly because I hoped it was true.  I hoped that, aside from all of my weaknesses, there might be something special I have to give, or to be in my world.

I've been at TC for almost seven years now.  Wow...seven years.  That is a whole lot of living with teenage females.  But man, it's been an incredible seven years.  I've walked in the mud with hundreds of girls, one on one, heart to heart, soul to soul, and experienced great tragedies and triumphs.  Through the years, I've noticed girls constantly start calling us staff "mom" over time.  Maybe it has to do with the counselor-counselee relationship; maybe it has to do with being the one telling them to pick up their rooms, do their laundry, clean their plates, take their meds and be kind to their friends.  Or maybe it's about something more, something we all burn for - someone to believe in us, to see the best in us and find a way to draw it out; to stick with us through our ugliest days and walk the journey of life, together.

I have to be honest, the moodier side of this "Mother Tara" comes out way more often than I like.  I have literally responded to students who call me "mom," by saying, "I'm not your mom, stop calling me that."  I don't mean it rude; I actually mean it out of respect.  I have a great deal of admiration for the hard work, sacrifice and love that these girls' moms have put into their lives - even if the extent of that was simply bringing them into the world on Day One.  But I've found that there's a part of me that cringes inside when girls start calling me "mom."  To call me a counselor, a coach or a mentor - I can handle that.  I can put time restrictions, boundaries and limitations on that.  But to call me "mom" - that gets intimate.  That gets expensive.

I got a good spanking from Jesus this week about this mothering business.  One of the girls asked me again last week (as she has about a hundred times) if I would adopt her.  As we played and joked about it, the Lord spoke to me, "Tara, why do you think girls keep asking you this?  What do you think they're really asking for?"  I have had multiple teenage girls ask me over the years to adopt them.  They're joking, of course (I think), but often behind the joke there is this hidden cry: "Keep me.  Hold onto me.  Don't let me go.  I need you."  I'm ashamed to say that many times when I begin to feel that request, I draw back.  I'm not a mother.  Absolutely I want to be a mom one day, but for now, I'm a single, independence-loving girl, and when I feel like someone might be asking too much of my independence, I draw back.  

In Paul's letters to Timothy, he refers to Timothy as his son; not his counselee, student, or (ouch), "project."  Paul saw those God entrusted to him as sons, and I'm finding the same to be true of God's call on my own life.  I'm being challenged - painfully challenged - to love beyond my limitations, to go beyond mentoring to mothering. 

God help me with the mood swings...I want to mother well.

Shuttles and Earthquakes

I'm heading home to Florida at the end of the month.  Today my sister called to let me know that a shuttle is scheduled to launch while I'm home.  I shocked even myself at the level of excitement I felt over this.  For eight years I lived in Florida, just minutes away from Kennedy Space Center; shuttle launches aren't exactly a new thrill for me.  But ever since I heard about the soon-coming finale of space shuttles, I've yearned to hear, see and feel just one more launch.  

I was 13 when we moved to Florida, and I'll never forget that first launch.  I was laying in bed, and as I drifted off to sleep, the floor beneath me began to rumble and the walls began to shake.  I jumped out of bed, ran into the living room and asked my parents if this was an earthquake.  Together, our family realized for the first time the wonder of living so close to the space center.  We went outside into our backyard and watched the night sky light up like noonday thanks to a flair of light trailing behind the shuttle.  It was brilliant, awe-inspiring, unforgettable.  For a minute, I felt like I had looked into the face of God Himself.  I stared into the sky and watched as that blaze of light slowly drifted into a smaller and smaller speck among scores of other stars.  Finally I returned to bed, my heart full with the wonder and mystery I could only describe as "beyond me."  

Over the years, I loved shuttle and rocket launches.  But somewhere along the way, I'd find that a launch had happened, and I missed it.  Not only did I not know it was happening, but I didn't even hear or feel it happening.  Visitors to town could ask, "Didn't you hear the sonic boom?  Didn't you feel the rumble?" and I'd realize no, I didn't hear it - I didn't even feel it.  For them it was life-changing, impossible to miss, but for me...I was used to it, so I missed it.

I find this habit in my life with God.  In the early days of knowing Him, I was constantly struck by the wonder, mystery, beauty and majesty of all that He is.  I couldn't describe Him as much other than "beyond me," but "beyond me" was quite enough.  In that "beyond me" was the understanding that He is enormous, wondrous magnificent.  I was moved by Him, inspired by Him, yearning constantly to hear, see and feel Him.  It seems in a way, the more He revealed Himself, the less I appreciated Him.  I grew accustomed to Him, and in essence, could find myself sleeping through the moments when He would love to shake the ground right beneath my feet.  

I still love shuttle launches, and I still love Jesus.  I'm just growing aware that over time and tradition, I run the risk of losing the joy and wonder of all that He is.  I'm asking Him to hold me in the sort of childlike awe that will leap out of bed to watch Him at work.  

My dad often tells me, "God is always working."  I believe that.  Now the question is, am I paying attention?

It is Good...

Read this last week.  Still chewing on it... "I sometimes wonder if we have even begun to understand what is involved in the very concept of creation. If God will create, He will make something to be, and yet not to be Himself. To be created is, in some sense, to be ejected and separated. Can it be that the more perfect the creature is, the further this separation must at some point be pushed? It is saints, not common people, who experience the "dark night."...The hiddenness of God perhaps presses most painfully on those who are in another way, nearest to Him... But perhaps there is an anguish, an alienation, a crucifixion involved in the creative act. Yet He who alone can judge, judges the far-off consummation to be worth it."  (Excerpt from C.S. Lewis, "Letters to Malcolm, Chiefly on Prayer").

God told me a secret this week and I am still absorbing it.  Not quite ready to write on it yet - I think I must live it first.  Still tonight, as I head to bed, I find this verse is rocking me to sleep:  "God created and said...it is good...it is very good."