A Meditation on Suffering

Over the past two weeks, we've been inundated with opinions on how our president has cared for Gold Star families. Rarely have we had a word spoken concerning how these sorts of conversations are supposed to go. Why? Because no one really knows. That's what makes these conversations so hard. We're great at critiquing those who try to care but so rarely offer care ourselves, and when we do, it often sucks.

I know.

In the past week, I inadvertently found myself caring for a Gold Star wife. Her husband died years ago, yet the pain still felt fresh. It always feels fresh. Most Gold Star families lose loved ones in the blink of an eye. It's hard to believe that someone can be here one moment and gone the next. No gradual surrender to a terminal illness. No heartfelt goodbyes.

What did I say to this Gold Star wife? Well, I cried with her a bit. I asked her about her husband. I spent most of my time asking her about the present--the good, the bad, the ugly. We talked about hope and love. And while I think it went well, I really don't know. Is there such a thing as a good conversation in these moments?

Here are some of the typical responses I see to suffering:

1) Avoid it at all costs. We don't visit the dying friend or comfort the persistently ill loved one. We avoid hospitals, funeral parlors, cemeteries, and disturbing thoughts that remind us of suffering. Alcohol and television both become wonderful aids in this quest to construct a wall between us and the real world. We just hope there's enough in the bottle and the Netflix queue for the next night.

2) Don't talk about it. If we're suffering, we cloak ourselves in privacy and forced cheer. We don't want to impose on others, after all. If others are suffering, we politely respect their privacy and only speak of their ordeals in hushed tones and vague terms. We don't want to pry, after all. Everyone can suffer on their own terms without feeling exposed...or loved.

3) Slap a happy face on it. We see this a lot in contemporary evangelicalism. Romans 8:28 and hollow cliches about "victory in Jesus" stand ready like an enclosed fire extinguisher. When the suffering comes, all we need to do is break the glass. God will make it better. God has a purpose. You believe these things, right? Then you shouldn't suffer. If you're suffering, then we should call your faith into question.

4) We morbidly dwell upon it. It's as if we go the graveside and never leave. Sometimes trauma locks into a semi-permanent state of grief that will likely require counseling. At some point, we treat others' suffering as our own opportunity for cathartic release. We squeeze the sponge of their grief a bit tighter, hoping for bit more of a release. Often, they don't have any tears left to expend.

Now you expect me to give you the list of four things you can do for sufferers, right?

Wrong. Again, it's a messy process and those who critique others for their responses have often never seriously reflected on their own responses.

Yet, here are a few of my comforts.

1) Suffering is not contrary to God's plan. God still rules over our suffering. That means that it is not accidental or unforeseen. He intends for us to walk that valley, but not alone. He draws near to us and accompanies us.

2) Suffering drives the greatest truths deeper into our hearts. Our confessions are mere abstractions without the refining fire of suffering. It is one thing to say "Jesus cares for the needy." It is quite another to say "I am needy, and Jesus is caring for me." In my experiences, our tears reflect the brokenness of this world--and the truths that will bind it back together.

3) God did not spare His own Son. Jesus suffered. In fact, Jesus suffered worse than any of us will ever know or experience. He was betrayed, abandoned, condemned, and tortured. He bore the hellish wrath and judgment of God. He drank from a cup that we will never have to taste. And He did it willingly. He bore the worst suffering imaginable, not to spare us of our own suffering, but to atone for our sin. In so doing, He gave meaning to our suffering and hope to our grief.

These comforts inform my constant care for sufferers. I grieve with them as they grieve and hope with them as they hope. When their suffering comes out in scream of silence, I grieve and hope for them and stay silent with them. And in all these things, I lift them before the God of grace, who alone has the power and love to care for the broken and bind their wounds.