I'm just going to speak from my own experience here; if it doesn't fit yours, that's fine. As the old saying says, "Take what you want, and leave the rest."
I think what is interesting about having a more or less permanent stable disability is that I take steps to transcend the particular challenges that I face, and once I do that, to me, my experience is "normal". I don't deny my disability, but I've gotten used to it. I've also talked to several friends in a similar situation, and when we lose the ability to do things, we react very much like an able-bodied person would. Anger, denial, and all the other stages of grief. It's a human tendency to have expectations for how life is going to go, and then when we face a major disruption to that plan--at least as we visualize it in our minds--it's a challenge.
In a certain sense, being a Christian at the same time as all of this is taking place is the worst, because we have these notions about how a Christian should act, and how a Christian should feel, especially in regard to suffering.
The first thing I want to say in response to this is that a feeling is just a feeling. I am not an expert in the bright lines between temptation and sin, but we do have such distinctions for a reason. A loss of hope in the experience of suffering is far more serious than a momentary frustration, or an outpouring of emotion.
My own experience with a serious health crisis in the form of a car accident was not as serious as some other things that friends have faced, but I was able to discern a distinction between my experience of suffering, and my basic outlook toward my life and its meaning. It is almost the same distinction between faith, and lament. If my suffering causes me to lose faith or hope--and I mean in human terms, and not necessarily limited to the theological virtues--then it has become something that threatens my fundamental identity, and therefore, my destiny.
My encouragement to all of you is this: learn to say and feel that you want the suffering to end. Learn to say out loud that you are not enjoying whatever is taking place. It is not your job to manufacture the image and likeness of God which others will see in you. It is your job to endure, and to not lose hope. The temptation against hope will come, and probably no one else will know it, or see it. You may think that you are doing a terrible job enduring suffering, and being a terrible witness for the goodness of God, but the truth is, most people that will meet you are wondering how they could endure if they were in your place.
A person who loses hope doesn't look like what you think she does. And a person who has a ton of hope may grieve like a three-year-old, in the middle of a meltdown at her birthday party. There is something about sorrow that is a cousin to hope. Despair is the opposite of hope; grief is not, nor is anger. Anger is dangerous, of course, but we make a distinction between anger, and rage or bitterness. Bitterness becomes a permanent feature of our psyche, by its very nature. Bitterness threatens hope and love, because it does not believe in better things; God is the Better. Joy is the active fruit of hope. I'm not exactly sure why I know the things I know, but I have touched or seen all of these things. Maybe you can take something from this, and think about it, and perhaps apply it somewhere in the present or the past.
The root of anger is thwarted plans or designs, in the midst of suffering. It becomes harmful if it becomes bitterness, or we openly question God's goodness. That is different than being bewildered at a situation, or unable to see its goodness in the present. Of course; your most immediate experience will be the experience of your suffering. If you can see goodness in that itself, you're greater than me.
Jesus wept and suffered. Jesus is the man of sorrows. If I'm the man of sorrows too, I'm closer to Jesus than I thought. I return again and again to the image of Jesus on the crucifix. This is something I understand: suffering and love. Not separate things that follow each other, but two things that happen at one and the same time. That's the mystery, and that's the glory. It might be hidden in our pain, but it's there.
I think what is interesting about having a more or less permanent stable disability is that I take steps to transcend the particular challenges that I face, and once I do that, to me, my experience is "normal". I don't deny my disability, but I've gotten used to it. I've also talked to several friends in a similar situation, and when we lose the ability to do things, we react very much like an able-bodied person would. Anger, denial, and all the other stages of grief. It's a human tendency to have expectations for how life is going to go, and then when we face a major disruption to that plan--at least as we visualize it in our minds--it's a challenge.
In a certain sense, being a Christian at the same time as all of this is taking place is the worst, because we have these notions about how a Christian should act, and how a Christian should feel, especially in regard to suffering.
The first thing I want to say in response to this is that a feeling is just a feeling. I am not an expert in the bright lines between temptation and sin, but we do have such distinctions for a reason. A loss of hope in the experience of suffering is far more serious than a momentary frustration, or an outpouring of emotion.
My own experience with a serious health crisis in the form of a car accident was not as serious as some other things that friends have faced, but I was able to discern a distinction between my experience of suffering, and my basic outlook toward my life and its meaning. It is almost the same distinction between faith, and lament. If my suffering causes me to lose faith or hope--and I mean in human terms, and not necessarily limited to the theological virtues--then it has become something that threatens my fundamental identity, and therefore, my destiny.
My encouragement to all of you is this: learn to say and feel that you want the suffering to end. Learn to say out loud that you are not enjoying whatever is taking place. It is not your job to manufacture the image and likeness of God which others will see in you. It is your job to endure, and to not lose hope. The temptation against hope will come, and probably no one else will know it, or see it. You may think that you are doing a terrible job enduring suffering, and being a terrible witness for the goodness of God, but the truth is, most people that will meet you are wondering how they could endure if they were in your place.
A person who loses hope doesn't look like what you think she does. And a person who has a ton of hope may grieve like a three-year-old, in the middle of a meltdown at her birthday party. There is something about sorrow that is a cousin to hope. Despair is the opposite of hope; grief is not, nor is anger. Anger is dangerous, of course, but we make a distinction between anger, and rage or bitterness. Bitterness becomes a permanent feature of our psyche, by its very nature. Bitterness threatens hope and love, because it does not believe in better things; God is the Better. Joy is the active fruit of hope. I'm not exactly sure why I know the things I know, but I have touched or seen all of these things. Maybe you can take something from this, and think about it, and perhaps apply it somewhere in the present or the past.
The root of anger is thwarted plans or designs, in the midst of suffering. It becomes harmful if it becomes bitterness, or we openly question God's goodness. That is different than being bewildered at a situation, or unable to see its goodness in the present. Of course; your most immediate experience will be the experience of your suffering. If you can see goodness in that itself, you're greater than me.
Jesus wept and suffered. Jesus is the man of sorrows. If I'm the man of sorrows too, I'm closer to Jesus than I thought. I return again and again to the image of Jesus on the crucifix. This is something I understand: suffering and love. Not separate things that follow each other, but two things that happen at one and the same time. That's the mystery, and that's the glory. It might be hidden in our pain, but it's there.
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