This morning I woke up feeling the weight of the world. It weighed on my shoulders and on my chest.
It felt heavy. A jumbled mess: kids in new schools, aging (and declining) parents, a home in a state of disrepair. Add to that my grief that ebbs and flows. And my children's. And their hormones. And, and, and....
I felt overwhelmed by our many challenges.
Clearly, today started as a glass-half-empty day.
Then I remembered that today is a dear friend's birthday, and so I picked up the phone to greet her...
...only to find out that she had been laid off 2 months ago... and didn't tell me.
Because one apparently doesn't share this kind of news to a new-ish widow.
(Go figure. I wrote about this in a previous post. Never fails to surprise me. Or drive me up the wall.)
I got over my annoyance within seconds. (One develops a well-toned muscle with how frequently this happens with people I care about.)
And I found myself listening to her story: The struggles of the last couple months. The feelings of hurt and betrayal. The irritations of dealing with unemployment and the bureaucracy of her work termination. The added challenges of being a single mom with a kid in his senior year in high school.
Her list of daily stressors is extensive.
"Pray for us," she asked, as we hung up.
I felt overwhelmed by her update, so I did exactly as she asked. I started praying.
And I found myself praying for her and her son. For my kids and my parents. For me.
I didn't stop there. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I prayed for:
the friend with a new diagnosis of a chronic condition;
the friends who are simultaneously caring for an elderly parent and an adult child with serious health issues;
other friends who have taken on the role of caretaker for their loved ones;
the friend whose health and household are in crisis;
the friend who has been in recovery from a traumatic brain injury;
the friends who are suffering from undiagnosed health problems;
all my friends who have recently lost jobs or have been notified of impending lay-offs;
my friends who are dealing with cancer and terminal illness;
my friends in marital turmoil;
all my friends who, like me, are raising children in such a volatile world.
My God, my God, my God!
My heart hurt as I prayed. So much suffering. So much uncertainty.
Too much.
I felt utterly helpless.
On days like today, my internal monologue usually goes like this: "Good Lord, how can I help? I am only one person with my own mountain to climb."
This is the trouble with being an empath: one tends to take on the world's problems.
And the trouble with being a fixer: one tends to want to fix things even when one is not asked and even when a fix is beyond her means.
Of course, these tendencies of mine directly conflict with Me on Survival Mode. Which, if I am being honest, is my default mode these days.
In Survival Mode, my brain is quick to draw boundaries. "No," she says, "put that down. You cannot fix that."
And so I do the thing that most people in my life ask for: I listen. And I pray.
Also? I feel. A lot. So much, sometimes, that tears come unbidden. Other times, I carry my feelings in my body, and I lug it around as I move through my day.
But I am learning to let go. Because I have to.
In prayer, I find myself saying, "I feel helpless. I do not know what to do. But You do. And You are not helpless. Help us all."
And also?
"Help me to trust. To let go."
And, "Thank you, Lord, for your steadfast love for us all," knowing that God answers prayers in mysterious ways. That is, not always in the ways we expect.
Then I breathe out my "Amen" as I simultaneously breathe out the weight of the world... right off my chest.
I read a book* recently where the main protagonist criticized Faith as "a simple solution to... complicated problems. It is a lot easier to have faith in... [God] rather than to have faith in... oneself..."
I obviously do not ascribe to the idea that I can fix my impossibly complicated problems by myself. Even if I am a fixer.
Why? Because as smart and capable as I think I am, I am never going to be enough to do it all. At least, not without creating other messes.
And I certainly do not have the capacity to carry my life's burdens all by myself. Or others'. Not without running out of stamina. As much as I might be inclined to.
So I am working on letting go. And letting God. Because Survival Mode tells me that I must.
And Faith tells me that this is not only enough. It is, actually, everything.
*Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus
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