I’d like a refund for this cup of suffering

(originally posted in an edited form on A Life Overseas)

“It’s not fair,” I whined in the backseat of the car, my sister next to me. 
“It’s not fair,” I moped from the end of the line. 
“It’s not fair,” I mourned, overlooked for a role I wanted. 
“It’s not fair,” I gasped, taking the fall. 
“It’s not fair,” I wailed, watching everything I’d built fall apart. 

“But look at what God is doing through this,” they point.
“It’s not fair.” 

I consider it to be one of the most awful things ever that wonderful things come out of terrible things. I hate that you have to bury seeds for them to bloom. I hate that pearls come from irritants. I hate that delicious strawberries come from fields fertilized in manure.  And I hate all of those things because I hate that I know: going through tragedies comes with post-traumatic wisdom.  Yeah, I guess if you have to go through hard things, it’s nice that something good can come from it. But what about the flip side? I can point to the traumas and tragedies that have brought me to a place of being able to weave words into stories that present hard truths in soft ways. I cherish the times people tell me how these words altered the trajectory of their homes in ways that brought them closer to the unconditional love of the Father. 

And doesn’t it seem fair that only through that trauma and tragedy could I have ever stood in this space?  Surely, there can be another way to learn this wisdom, so that I might pass it on.

“Everything is possible for you, Father. 
Take this cup of suffering from me.”

And thus begins a sacred journey. 

We all know that life’s not fair, but it makes it a bit easier to not have to go it alone. To know that the Lord has gone before us even in this. To know that the journey through unfair trauma and tragedy can take us to glorious destinations. To know that we have a comforter, a counselor, and a light to guide our path. 

I have a journey before me, but I’m standing at the front desk with a complaint, “Excuse me, sir, I specifically asked that this cup would be taken from me.  And yet, behold, still there is a cup. I would like this to be rectified.” And Jesus comes alongside me to guide me. “ ‘Yet not what I will, but what you will’, ” He coaches me. 

“I’m sorry, what?!” I’m doing double-takes as Jesus leads me forward on the journey. I am a reluctant follower. But I follow, nonetheless, and I see how the path I walk isn’t new or novel but a well-worn road. 

Look: 
My soul has been overwhelmed with sorrow.
I have felt betrayed. 
I’ve stood silent against accusations. 
I’ve had friends abandon me.
I’ve experienced pain.
I’ve had tragedy happen. 
I’ve survived it. 

But it’s interesting, isn’t it? That’s not the end. The story, the journey, it isn’t over yet. Jesus isn’t yet at the right-hand of God, and I’ve no wisdom to offer anyone. 

I wonder if it’s meaningful that after the death of Christ, we stop focusing on his humanity. We talk extensively about the agony of the cross, which makes sense because – thanks to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John – we have engaging narratives that draw us into this tragedy. The curtain is torn. Darkness falls. And the focus shifts from Jesus to the perspective of those left behind. That makes sense for the Gospels. What was Jesus doing at this point? We only hear about the work of Jesus conquering Death in the epistles, so we shift into cognitive and theological spaces. 

Even on Easter morning, the focus doesn’t shift back to Jesus. We continue to follow the story of the women and the disciples. Jesus just appears and disappears until he finally ascends. That’s how the authors wrote their gospels so it makes sense that we would follow along that way. 

We receive so many emotion words from the disciples and women. I can imagine Luke interviewing people and hearing from their perspective, “we were so frightened; we thought he was a ghost. Even when we saw he wasn’t a ghost, we still couldn’t believe it. We were amazed and overjoyed.” (Luke 24:37-41) How was Jesus feeling during this? The eye-witnesses were too gobsmacked to notice and give account. 

Thus, the sacred journey continues. 

My eyes fixed on Jesus; I see how my journey overlays His. 
I’m aching and weary. The moment of trauma is over, yet my body is still activated, on high alert, so much so that my skin feels electrified. Every brush of my own clothes sears my skin. I feel like my back’s been flayed. 
And I look toward Jesus. I don’t know how his back is doing, but the wounds of his hands and his side are still gaping. Honestly, it’s a miracle he’s even alive.  

We each come across a couple of our friends, but they don’t even recognize us. 
Our friends recount our own story to us, but they totally miss the point. 
I’m furious. “How foolish you are!” (Luke 24:25) I explain to my friends, and He explains to His, in a way where they don’t miss the point. And then Jesus walks away. “No, no, no,” I call him back. “These are our friends, our people.” I cling to what’s known. He keeps walking until his friends urge him to stay, even though they still don’t recognize him. There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere. Something about being willing to grow out of relationships. It’s not a lesson I’m ready for. 

They eat together. 
Finally in this common monotony of everyday life, his friends recognize him again. 
But it’s only two people. 

So it happens again. Different people. More cherished friends. They don’t understand what’s happened either.
“You’ve changed,” they tell me. 
“Why are you troubled? Look at me. It’s me!” I implore them.  (Luke 24:38-39) My words echo His, as Jesus tries to convince his friends he’s not a ghost. They believe. We’re each still who we are. Now what? 
“Do you have anything to eat?” Jesus asks. He invites us back into the common monotony of everyday life. We eat, we talk, we tell the story again. It’s hard to tell every time. 

The hardest part is reconciliation, so I hang back and watch. 

Jesus comes to Peter. Peter recognizes him, and dives off the boat to greet him. Classic Peter. Jesus invites them to eat. I take notes. Always start with food. It brings people together.
Three times, Jesus asks Peter if he loves Him. 
I love this model. I don’t have to be content with one apology and be expected to get over it. I can request reassurances in proportion with the damage rendered. 

Finally comes the conclusion, finally comes the ascension, finally the journey ends. 

Trauma is like any other story. It’s got a setting and rising action before the conflict and climax. And it ends with cleaning up all the leftover messes. Often the leftover messes of a trauma are the relationships: reconnecting, repairing, reconciling, and settling back into normal rhythms. This is a hard part of trauma that is often overlooked. Many times this hard part takes a lot longer than we expect. 

It’s Not Fair

In this time following Resurrection Sunday, leading up to Ascension Sunday, we hold sacred the long journey through trauma and tragedy to the good that God has in store for us: the wisdom that these experiences give us. And as much as I cherish that wisdom and goodness God has for us through the hard things, I’m going to stay mad about the awfulness of how this broken world functions. I can do both. 

I refuse to get over how awful it is that good things come from hard things. 

I will hold this space for those of you still in the early stages of your journey, for those of you banging your fists on the front desk, demanding a refund for this cup of suffering, insisting that it’s not fair. I’m here to say, “You’re right! It’s not fair! And most importantly! You’re not alone.” 

For those of you further along who are emotionally activated and who feel disconnected from their communities, who wonder why it had to happen like this, who wonder why it’s not getting easier in the wake of tragedy, I’m here to say, “You’re right! It’s not fair! And most importantly! You’re not alone.” 

For those of you who have seen the beautiful things that the Lord has wrought out of the awful things you’ve lived through, who are turning back and grieving for themselves that they ever had to endure that, I’m here to say, “You’re right! It’s not fair! And most importantly! You’re not alone.” 

And I can point out to you The Way, the Truth, and the Life. He walked with me through the valley of the shadow of death and He will walk with you. 

It seems agonizingly unfair that much of wisdom, strength, and personal growth comes from difficult and painful journeys. Not just the hardship, but the recovery, coming back to people and them not recognizing you, being met with doubt, and having to convince people of the journey you’ve been on. 

In this season, we remember the sacredness of this journey, a trauma-versary that changed the world forever. The Lord has gone before us. But moreover, he goes alongside us, today, at whatever stage of the journey we’re in. 

Trauma doesn’t make us stronger, but continuing onward through the hard things to heal does. 

And I hate that for us.