A few years ago, I wrote a story entitled, “It’s Okay, You’re Safe With Me.” I reflected on a time we took our kids to an amusement park to take our minds off the harsh realities of our son’s fatal diagnosis. At the time, tiny Mitch clung to my hands as we sat in a small pirate ship that swung back and forth like a gentle pendulum. It was the mildest of rides, but to little Mitch, it was thrilling.
“Among the agents of change, there’s the passage of time, however fast or slow. Then, alas, there’s the furnace of affliction – and it’s in our damage that we truly grow.”
A few years passed and we visited that same theme park. Within eyeshot of the kiddie pirate ship towered a much larger pirate ship – this one designed for adults. This ride, too, swung back and forth like a giant pendulum; only the back-and-forth was on a much grander, vertical scale. In fact, that ride always had me somewhere in the middle of trying to catch my breath amid butterflies and wanting to take a nap from being rocked to sleep.
On this day, a much older Mitch sat next to me. When he was tiny, he had to hold on to almost every part of my body to feel safe. By this age, sitting next to me was enough. I thought to myself, “My, how things change.” I was so proud of this little boy and all that he was becoming.
So, as the ride began, Mitch tightly grabbed the bar in front of him and smiled. “This is so much fun, Dad,” he said with a smile. Not only was Mitch older and unafraid, but he had also grown an appetite for the rush and thrill of roller coasters.
Quietly, I admired him. My little boy learned to face his fears in his youth in ways I wished I could as an adult. Despite being young in years and physically weak, Mitch was dauntless. Like most young boys, there was part of Mitch that wanted to be like his dad. If only he knew how much more I wanted to be like him.
A few short years would pass from the moment of this photo, and things would change even more. I’d find myself kneeling at my son’s bed as he neared death. Whatever bravery he demonstrated earlier in his life, none compared to the bravery he had then. Not only was the loss of my son about to change my world, I was changing on the inside, too.
Just today I read a post from Jackie, a friend of mine, who was reflecting on a great difficulty she’s endured. She quoted a friend and mentor who once told her, “I hope we make our pain worthwhile.” I loved that sentiment – because we’re all going to get hurt in life, so we may as well grow instead of gripe.
That isn’t to say we become flippant or callous toward the suffering of others. In fact, there is a certain sacredness to suffering. I’ve discovered that suffering has drawn me closer to God than any sermon I have heard. At the same time, I reverence the suffering of others because I know what it’s like to tremble in the dark – looking for hope or the faintest spark.
Japanese writer Haruki Murakami observed of suffering, “Once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in.”
Yes. Life has an interesting way of changing us. I don’t believe we’re meant to stay the same. Instead, we are [spiritually] designed to change and grow. Among the agents of change, there’s the passage of time, however fast or slow. Then, alas, there’s the furnace of affliction – and it's in our damage that we truly grow.