Yesterday I saw a magnet quoting Winston Churchill: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Of course, his “hell,” well, I’m assuming he meant it metaphorically as he was still alive and able to speak. I’ve thought a lot about that word, “hell,” and how frequently I use it, just as WC did, to describe difficult situations in my life. I think, perhaps, I need to stop using that word, because what do I truly know about Hell other than that it involves separation from God, and He has yet to let loose of me.
I’ve always considered the awful or difficult things in my life to be “hell”- things I never thought would happen or never thought I’d say or do. My list of “impossibles” grows by the day. Actually, I’ve started measuring them by decade, the same way I have decided to age (i.e. at 30, I celebrated the first anniversary of my 29th birthday, but as I crossed that 35 threshold, I decided that was just, uhm. . . stupid. So, now, I will be “35” until I’m 40. Just go with it, so much easier than trying to figure out my brain.)
The bottom line is that (so far) I have survived – survived things I thought would kill me – both literally and metaphorically. But that survival , well, it’s not on my own strength, but on the strength of One who is much greater. How can I be sure? Because when I lie prostrate on the floor, tears streaming down my face, there’s no way these weak human knees have the wherewithal to get me back on my feet. You’d think I’d have learned enough by now to stand on my own, but in fact the opposite is true. I’ve been battered and beaten enough by life to know that standing on my own isn’t even an option. I’m lifted and held by my Creator – day by day and moment by moment.
When I was a little girl, I’d climb trees to the very top, jump off the high dive, play in the dark Florida woods alone without a care. That little girl was practically fearless. I believe that spark of fierce fearlessness never burned out, and that little girl is buried somewhere deep, deep inside of the layers of falling down that came with “growing up.”
The summer after college graduation as I waited for the results of my nursing board exams (which I was sure I failed – full on wailing, tears, images of myself working the midnight shift at McDonald’s. Thank you, God, I passed.), I was blessed enough to teach 2 and 3-year olds at a nursery school. I loved being with these itty bitty folks because their priorities, their messes, were so much easier (to me) than the things I had seen or perhaps suspected I had yet to face.
I know you’re not supposed to choose favorites, but there was a tiny 3 year-old with a cloud of red puffy hair around her heart-shaped face. With the biggest green eyes I’d ever seen; she looked like an adorable leprechaun. This magical creature’s name was/is Emily.
One late afternoon, Emily was quietly coloring at a table all by her lonesome. This was unusual as she was normally quite the little socialite. I pulled up a chair next to her, you know, those tiny plastic yellow preschool chairs, my knees practically to my nose, and watched as she conscientiously sorted through the crayons in front of her. Soon her precious face scrunched up in the sheer agony of defeat. Emily melodramatically threw herself back against the chair, tossed her head back, and placed one little pale hand – palm side up – to her forehead and heaved an enormous sigh. Clearly, she had been watching William Shatner re-runs.
What I wanted to do was laugh, but, as I strive to be a sensitive individual, I restrained myself, and instead asked, “Emily, what’s wrong?” Profound, I know.
And then in her little voice she cried, “I’ve had a rough day,” letting loose a stream of childhood tragedies: someone stole the purple crayon (Suggesting Harold would’ve been inappropriate.), “Natalie” wouldn’t let her play on the swings; her Mommy packed her the wrong kind of pudding for lunch, etc.. And sitting there, looking at this emerging diva, all I could think was, Please let these be the worst things she ever experiences.
I don’t know where or what Emily is now. It’s been 18 years since I’ve seen her, and by now she could have finished college, or become a mommy, or any number of things. I like to picture her working somewhere at a job she loves, doing life with someone she loves and loves her equally. But I’ll never forget the drama of her “rough day,” because it puts life into perspective for me. “Rough days” are defined differently by all of us.
When I knew Emily, I had yet to experience the true devastation of heartache and divorce, being left for my own infertility, or the betrayal of infidelity. I had yet to experience true illness, or the undulating tapestry of abuse a man can inflict upon a woman. I had yet to break, to shatter. But over the years since Emily didn’t get her purple crayon, I’ve had ample opportunity to explore my own fragility, my own “rough days,” -something I suspect we all do.
What I’ve come to realize is that while whatever I’m facing might feel like hell on earth, it does, inevitably, get better. And as W.C. said, I keep on going, plodding one foot in front of the other peppering each step with strangled, whispered prayers to the Lord who created me. And eventually, I come through the other side of my own personal tragedy, each and every time.
Now, you’d think I’d be wise enough or smart enough to learn from my own mistakes, to not repeat the same behaviors leading to the same or similar consequences. And sometimes it’s true, but more often than not, I find my behaviors echoing back to me through the canyon, and I know I’ve missed some important lesson. So, in some variation, I take the remedial lesson God sets before me.
In other words, I fall down (everyday), and maybe someday I’ll beg to stay there, too exhausted to stand against the rapids of the canyon river rushing around me. But really, it’s not the falling that really matters, but the Grace that reaches down to lift me back up. Every single time.
The Unexpected Life 