And the theme of March will be grace. Grace upon grace.
grace [ greys ]
noun.
Freely given, unmerited favor and love of God.
So often in our human minds we tie grace down with self-inflicted strings suffocating its power. We can’t just accept it as a stand-alone, separate of behaviors, expectations, shame, pressure, perfection because we’ve been conditioned to think that we’re never allowed an inch cuz we’ll just abuse it and take the mile…or that if something offered is too good to be true, we must be suspicious of it because, gosh, there’s just no way it can actually be true….. Maybe you’re like me where you’ve learned that grace is ‘IF this-then grace.’
By considering this kind of grace, we then run into two issues: 1. We struggle to accept grace because, well, it’s going to require just too much from us to actually make up for the gift that it is meant to be, soooo….why bother. And 2. We struggle to offer grace because we’re continually let down when we do, getting hurt over and over again because of all of the knots tied in all of the strings that are forced upon grace because we think we are owed something in return (because we were originally taught that we owed something in return).
Somewhere along the way I heard from a pastor (or 5) that “because of the greatness of God’s amazing grace, you should want to live a life pleasing to Him.” …….hmmm. At the time I had no way of debating him (or the others), no understanding of a grace-fueled life (and a life-fueled grace), so the “you get what you give” sentiment took root and wreaked all sorts of havoc. On myself. On my people. On my faith. On my understanding of Jesus.
Until cancer. It is here, in this massively broken human experience, that I get a glimpse of the supernatural, astounding, unbounded reach of God’s grace. Cancer, my diagnosis and treatment and my proximity to heaven has challenged my understanding of grace…or whatever it was that [they] were calling “grace.”
Gratefully, I’ve been confronted with all that is wrong with the devastating blight of reciprocal grace. To think of grace as reciprocal… equally exchanged… correlative… immediately cheapens the purpose of Jesus’s very LIFE. It makes His gift about me and what feeble attempts I have to “match” it instead of the awe in WHO He is. Jesus did not go to the cross for me holding back, holding at ransom any percentage of His gift only to be doled out based on my own efforts. If that was truly the case, His death was ….. can I be so bold to say this …. a lie?! His death would have been a selfish act and not a selfLESS one. He would have been pretending. And my salvation would therefore be dependent on me, rendering His gift useless.
How tragic that we teach grace like this.
Grace is not to be suffocated by reciprocity. It is NOT “God’s grace is so beautiful a gift that you shall want to live a pleasing life.” How manipulative. . .
Grace stands alone. Please, I’m begging you, let it be that simple.
Oh, and PS. If you consider “too much grace means that people will just abuse the gift and just keep sinning,” you’re bought into a weak God. Bold statement, I know. But think about it: The power of Grace, which is the inherent PURPOSE of Jesus’ LIFE, means that Jesus IS Grace which means that Jesus IS Power which means that Grace is Power (NOT weakness).
*Post 1077
All of This :: 3/14/18 :: Post 190
Every day when I sit down to write for the day, I ask myself, “What and how are you feeling?”, “What was today for you?”, “What do you want to remember from today?”
What/how am I feeling?…
Tired. I’ve never experienced tired like I have now. Yes, it’s tired like sleepy-tired. Like I could fall asleep soon and sort-of sleep through the night. But it’s different, too.
My heart is tired. It’s tired of hurting.
My body is tired. Everything feels heavy. It feels like molasses is being poured on my head and slowly overtaking my whole body. I feel like I slump over under the weight of exhaustion. I feel like my muscles can barely hold me up. I feel like Mr. Incredible when he is getting pelted by the balls of tar that weigh him down so Syndrome can capture him. I feel like I’m at that moment of having to relent my strength because the tar is just too heavy to fight. (That is not me saying I’m giving up and my well-being is in danger, it’s describing how my body feels as I lay down in bed after a long day…I just sink into bed as if I cannot manage any more of any thing).
My spirit is tired. I know good is happening, I see moments of good in my day-to-day, I am grateful for so much…but it’s tired. Succumbing to darkness would be easy…penetrating dark with light is hard….but I will not let darkness win.
What was today?…..
Emotional. A long radiation appointment. Worry. Laughter. A delicious sandwich that I enjoyed for the first time since chemo started…and a pickle. A new colleague and friend. Hurting skin. Moments of grumpy. Traffic. Irrational fears. A sad friend. Hugs from my girls. A bloody nose. A difficult project at work. No end in sight.
What do I want to remember?…..
This. All of this. The hardness of it all. The heaviness of it all. The moments of joy and hope and yummy food. All of this.
“At least…” :: 3/14/19 :: Post 548
“At least you got the ‘easy’ cancer and not a worse one.”
“At least it’s not Stage 4.”
“At least you’re young and strong to fight it.”
Sometimes it can feel really difficult to know what to say when someone close to you is hurting. And the crisis of a cancer diagnosis is, no doubt, a circumstance that leaves people in the I-don’t-know-what-to-say space. But when people are in that I-don’t-know-what-to-say space, they often try too hard to say something. Because, well, it makes themselves feel better…whether or not it actually is helpful for the person in the crisis. And often times it, the something-that-is-said, begins with ‘at least…’
“At least you have people to support you through it.”
“At least your kids are older and can be self-sufficient while you go through this.”
“At least you were diagnosed with the most common cancer that has the most research because that means you get the most experienced medical care and you’ll have a better chance of being cured.”
“At least it’s only hair…you know it’ll grow back, right?”
“At least you won’t have to shave, I’m kinda jealous!”
“At least you’ll get new amazing boobs outta the deal, since your real ones tried to kill you.”
“At least you’ve already had kids before having to take out your uterus.”
“At least you’ve experienced breastfeeding before losing your breasts.”
“At least you won’t have to have periods ever again now that you don’t have a uterus. That’s gotta be a perk, right!?”
The fact of the matter is, that sometimes the ‘at least’ statements do have some truth in them. And it’s probably why most everyone use them as they are grasping at straws to figure out what to say to make the crisis all better. But the reality is that the ‘at least’ statements do far more harm than they do good. Anything that starts with ‘at least’ is bound to be heard very differently than it is likely intended. The inside of a crisis is astoundingly difficult and while the person in the middle of it desperately wishes to be rescued from it, they are also aware enough to know that that isn’t possible. So the words–the empty ‘at least’ platitudes–which are meant to save someone from the reality of their reality, are actually devastating blows to the resilience needed to accept and persevere through the crisis. Because, well, the harsh truth is that no one can be saved from their crisis. It’s not possible. And it certainly isn’t possible with empty words.
Those loved ones of yours who are in a crisis must ENDURE it. And they need someone to sit with them in it, not save them from it.
Now, I don’t appreciate when I read things that tell me a whole bunch of what-not-to-do without the why’s or the what-to-do-instead’s. So, my take on the why:
1. The attitude behind ‘at least’ is one of replacing the real s#$@ with a seemingly better alternative but what happens is that the seemingly better alternative isn’t actually better. It is maybe someone else’s really hard reality. It might be something else that is actually equally as hard. It could be that it is too harsh a truth. It may even be so fickle a statement that if said to a different person, the words would be changed to a seemingly better alternative that is the exact opposite of the seemingly better alternative said to me…which in my mind is heard as completely in-genuine, uncaring and fake. And then let’s not forget the potential for it to cause a shame-spiral or an internal identity struggle, both of which are exact opposites of helpful in the midst of a crisis.
2. The ‘at least’ attitude certainly shows the inherent values of the one saying it rather than providing support for the one in crisis to be reflective of their own.
3. And while the ‘at least’ attitude can most certainly help the person saying it to feel better about the crisis (that they are actually ancillary to), it’s shallow, short-sighted, limiting and minimizing for the person in the crisis.
4. Finally, inherent in the ‘at least’ attitude is invalidation… How vain of me to be upset that I am going to lose my hair because I should already acknowledge that it will grow back. How dare I complain that I have to have my breasts surgically removed because the alternative is death. How could I be upset about having to tell my kids that their momma has cancer because, well, I’m lucky enough to have kids in the first place….kids that are old enough to understand and kids that I was lucky enough to breastfeed. For further understanding, let’s take all of the ‘at least’ statements I said earlier and this time, I’ll put my thoughts with them in italics:
“At least you got the ‘easy’ cancer and not a worse one.”
Um, but I still have cancer. And what constitutes ‘worse’?? Chemo and radiation and amputation are pretty “worse” to me… And as far as an ‘easy cancer’ goes, %$#@ that. What’s wrong with you?
“At least it’s not Stage 4.”
Right, because you understand cancer-staging. Stage 1, 2 or 3 HAVE to be better than 4, right? I haven’t had to look at the possibility of dying? Oh wait, yes I have. I haven’t experienced the betrayal of my body like someone with stage 4? Oh wait, it doesn’t matter what stage – there is still the “c” word and so much more to that than you’ll ever realize.
And what about those people who do have stage 4? If you are saying this to me, what, in heaven’s name, would you be able to say to them?
“At least you’re young and strong to fight it.”
But I’m only 37. And I don’t know if I’ll win. And if I do survive this, I have a long time to live with the battle-wounds….and the constant fear of recurrence. You have no idea how hard it is to survive cancer.
“At least you have people to support you through it.”
Watching them hurt is killing me and it’s because of me and my inability to care for myself. And it’s so hard always needing help. When will I ever be independent and strong again?
“At least your kids are older and can be self-sufficient while you go through this.”
They are still watching their mother battle cancer. And their father take care of her. And they see her cry. And be in pain. And sometimes they want to be taken care of and mom isn’t strong enough. And it doesn’t matter how old someone is when their mom is diagnosed. And what’s the alternative…the kids being under 5? That’s not easier… or better… or advantageous for anyone.
“At least you were diagnosed with the most common cancer that has the most research because that means you get the most experienced medical care and you’ll have a better chance of being cured.”
True. But it’s devastating all the same. I still have cancer…common or not. Possible cure or not. Ask anyone with breast cancer…we don’t want to be a part of the “Survivor Sisters Gang” or whatever stupid name you want to pick any more than you would. Wanna take my place? And again, you have no idea how hard it is to live with cancer, let alone survive it.
“At least it’s only hair…you know it’ll grow back, right?”
Of course I know it will grow back. I guess that makes me really vain. But I still have to look at myself without hair. And I like my hair. And hair grows really slow. And I’ve also had to lose literally ALL of the parts that make me a woman…and those DON’T grow back. And I was told that if I want successful reconstruction, I have to keep on the weight because they need fat. Oh, and it’s not actually guaranteed that it will grow back…
Your shortsighted statement totally disregards that I have to redefine EVERYTHING about being a woman.
“At least you won’t have to shave, I’m kinda jealous!”
You’re jealous? That’s a stupid thing to say. Why would you be jealous of cancer and chemo and the reason WHY I won’t have to shave? But, believe me, I did notice that you were aware enough of YOUR feelings to put the word ‘kinda’ in there because you don’t REALLY want to be in my shoes because you know how sh#$$% it would actually be.
“At least you’ll get new amazing boobs outta the deal, since your real ones tried to kill you.”
Oh right. Perky fake boobs are what I really wanted anyways. I wasn’t happy with my natural ones, no… Instead I’ll ‘get’ to have cancer take them and I’ll ‘get’ what I always dreamed of…..because you seem to think that all women really just want big huge fake perky boobs. Oh, and did you consider that this is nothing like a boob job…one that enhances what’s already there. No, this is a literal slicing off of what is natural and trying to recreate something from nothing while ALSO losing nipples and calling misshapen, scarred, man-made lumps of fat with plastic fluid-filled sacs in them ‘every woman’s dream’… *eye roll
Oh, but you ARE right, these ones DID try to kill me so yeah, take ‘em off and throw them away. Good riddance, right? I, of course, don’t want the source of the cancer anymore on me, so I guess it is good that they can cut ‘em off. And they did try to kill me so I guess I hate them and hate my body for betraying me…… I will miss them, though.
“At least you’ve already had kids before having to take out your uterus.”
Yup. At least I’ve already had kids. You’re right! I made my life happen in the right order! I totally had control over that……
Of course, they do get to watch their mom battle for her life.
But I do love them and I’m grateful for them and I know we will all make it through this together.
I wonder what you would say to someone who doesn’t have kids? “At least you don’t have kids to watch you suffer?” What about those sweet women who want kids and can’t have them? What is your solace to them?
“At least you’ve experienced breastfeeding before losing your breasts.”
Again, you’re so right. I SHOULD be grateful I’ve gotten that chance in life. Thank you for putting me in my place. Thank you for giving me perspective. Thank you for reminding me that I shouldn’t be sad about having cancer because all the life of my breasts was lived and that’s all they were really good for, anyways.
“At least you won’t have to have periods ever again now that you don’t have a uterus. That’s gotta be a perk, right!?”
Wow, you are on a roll. You’re right again! No more periods! No more accidental pregnancies. No more birth control when having sex. No more tampons or cramps. Yes, that is a ‘perk’ of having cancer. Cuz ‘perks’ are necessary to point out so I can be okay with having cancer. Also, I get to have hot flashes now and those are super. And the night sweats, oh mmmhmmmm. And don’t forget the osteoporosis that I get to be worried about at 38 years old. Oh, and the lack of hormones helping with libido…that’s really good for a marriage already strained because of the whole having-to-fight-for-life situation.
And since I actually admit that it is nice not to have periods, am I a hypocrite for being all pissy that you said this ‘at least’ crap to me to begin with?
While it might seem like these responses are all really defensive in nature, they are all of the things that ran through my crisis-laden-head when the ‘at least’s’ (well-intended, I’m sure) came flyin’ at me.
This is a difficult thing to write about because what I don’t want is for people to be so scared to say anything that they say nothing or this makes them feel like they have to walk on eggshells around me or other people in crisis. That is not my heart – both from the cancer patient in me but also from the crisis counselor in me. So, what do you do instead?
1. Consider how valuable your genuineness and authenticity are in addition to considering the power of your words.
2. Avoid saying anything that comes to mind when it starts with ‘at least.’
3. What you could try is, “Wow. That sounds really difficult” or “I am sorry you’re hurting, I can see how hard this is for you.”
4. You can even ask them to describe more about the difficulty, hardship, crisis or how they are feeling.
5. You might even consider admitting that you have no idea what to say because you really don’t have any idea what to say. In general, if you’re working really hard to find something to say, you’re working too hard and what ends up coming out is probably not what you’re really intending to say anyways….
The reality about why this is hard is because it takes honesty and humility to admit you aren’t able to save them even though you really want to. This is hard because it takes vulnerability to connect with someone when they are hurting because it hurts you, too. This is hard because it takes faith to trust that something purposeful is going to come from it even when no one can see it yet, because faith is intangible and faith is hard.
I hope that this insight helps you as you live life with people. Choose to sit IN the muck with them instead of using words to try to make the muck seem un-mucky.
*Important Note: I was asked to write a patient-perspective article about What Not To Say. This article describes my experience alone and is not meant to speak for everyone. Additionally, I must give credit to Brene Brown for her take on empathy as it has influenced me both personally and professionally.
No post for 3/14/20