I want you to walk with me for a few minutes. This walk will take you back in time a few years in my personal life. I’m going to bring you along for some key moments that make me a bit vulnerable, so be kind. This walk is not for any other purpose than to give you a window into my heart. I could go further back in time, but I think a couple of years will be sufficient.
We’ll start in the early summer months just a couple years ago. I received a phone call that I knew was coming but didn’t really want to receive. My grandma, who had been suffering for years with the debilitating disease known as Alzheimer’s, was moving into her final moments. I jumped in my truck and made my way to their house.
When I got there my family was already inside. They were smiling, crying, laughing, sobbing, reminiscing, and did I mention crying? These are normal reactions in a situation like this, so don’t read that as anything other than statement of fact.
I came in the house and said my hellos, told my grandma I was there, then took my place. That phrase took my place should sound odd because it kind of is. I took my place off to the side, out of the way. My feet were shoulder width apart. My hands tucked behind my back clasping one another. It was my official stance, in my official place. No tears. No emotion. I was there.
I see this moment and many others like it, like a piece of workout equipment at the gym. It’s like a sled that sits on the ground. There’s a picture of one above. It has handles standing up so you can push or pull it across the room. You add weight to make it more challenging. You can even attach straps to it and drag it like one of those strongest man competition kind of events where they pull a semi truck across a parking lot.
As I stood in the corner of the room, my family was talking and crying and wondering when this was going to happen. I stood there with the harness on my shoulders, down in my stance, ready to pull the sled across the room. All emotion was shut down in that moment. Something I’ve grown far too good at doing.
I watched closely as her breathing slowed. I’ve learned that breathing rhythms change as one starts to transition from this life. I felt the eerie presence of what I’ve come to know as death settle in the room. I looked at my mom and nodded as if to say It’s time. I did what we call the commendation of the dying, basically our version of last rights (kind of). When I finished, I told my family they probably had a few minutes to do one last goodbye. Sure enough, the breathing stopped. Everyone knew it. No one wanted to admit it.
The tears flowed. Words were lost. They really didn’t know what to do. The hospice nurse helped contact the funeral director to come gather the body. When he arrived, he didn’t have any help so he asked me to help move the body to the gurney. I’ve done this before but didn’t even think I’d do it in this situation.
I lowered my stance. Grabbed the harness on my shoulders. Dug in my footing and pulled. This is what it felt like. My emotion was shifted to drive. Instead of tears falling down my face, my hands lifted her body from one bed to another. I know they didn’t think this but the looks on my family’s faces were just simple shock. How can you do that and it not tear you up? Are you an animal? Alien? Robot? As long as I’m in my drive stance, there isn’t much room for emotion. My sadness turns to drive. My joy turns to drive. It’s really all I know at times.
Nearly a year later my grandpa died, then my other grandpa, then my wife’s grandma who was like a grandma to me as well. All of them gone within a couple year span of time. I didn’t cry at any of them. I conducted their funeral services with not so much as a tear. And no that’s not bragging. That’s the point of this post. I didn’t know how to cry. I just knew how to push, pull, drive.
A year later a great family of close friends left to pursue new endeavors in a new area. We had grown pretty darn close through our time shared, but now they were gone. My feet dug into the ground. The sled kept moving. As long as my legs didn’t stop moving, the sled would continue. As long as my feet kept churning, the pressure, pain and struggle wouldn’t seem so bad.
In all of that, my son left for service in the US Army. I didn’t know what it would look like or how it would end. I was wrecked inside. When I was in public my feet dug deeper into the ground. I pulled like I’ve never pulled before. But I didn’t realize that all of these things, and so many more I haven’t mentioned, were weights added to the sled. As long as I kept moving, I could pull it.
My wife, unfortunately, bore a heavy load through all of this. She saw me fall apart when my son left. She saw me flat on the ground (literally) unable to hold myself together. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t keep food down. I couldn’t even workout. The weight had gotten too much. I couldn’t keep it together anymore and since home was my safe place I fell apart. She was worried. I was a mess. But when we left the house, I got in my stance, grabbed that harness, dug my feet in the ground and started pulling. I was moving slower this time but I thought as long as I move I’ll be ok.
Ok now take a breath all of you. This is not a post about my ability to push through. It’s not a post about how strong I am. It’s a post about my faults and my brokenness. It’s a post about weakness and a major flaw. I’ve told you all before that I can drive. It’s part of my personality. That theme song from a few weeks ago tells the story of my drive, but what is easily missed in that song is the reason for the drive. But what I didn’t spell out for you specifically is that drive isn’t fed by personal ambition. It’s often fed by an inability to properly process emotion in public. I couldn’t do it because I felt weak. I don’t like feeling like people can’t count on me and when I was feeling broken I felt like I was letting the world down. So I tightened the shoulder straps of that harness, lowered my center of gravity, used my hands to balance, and dug in using power and energy that I really didn’t even have.
Why do I share this? Simple. Don’t be like me. The apostle Paul said to follow me as I follow Christ. I’m telling you don’t do life my way. It really isn’t good. Yeah I can push and pull and drive, but it doesn’t always end well. If you’ve been on the road around me in the midst of one of these emotionally charged moments, you’ve probably seen it. You might have even been hit by the sled I was pulling. It wasn’t intentional. Some days I’m way better than others. Some days are…well let’s not talk about those.
Why do I share this? The power of the church is that you (and I) don’t have to live this way. The church is the body of Christ. It’s the collective strength of every part of who God called us to be. This is likely why the writer of Hebrews says not to give up meeting together. The more isolated we are, the harder life is. The more distance we allow to grow between us, the more challenging life is for everyone. Get together. Find people you can trust and ask if they’ll help grab the sled with you. Maybe they’ll even help you by lifting a weight off of the sled so it’s not so hard to pull.
We all have to drive at times in life. But we don’t have to do it alone. When it’s time to pull your sled, remember there are people around you who want to help you. And if you happen to be one of those people around me, be patient as I try to figure out how to convert some of this drive back into a healthier alternative.
