Last week was my family’s annual camping trip up the north shore of Lake Superior. Every year, for as long as I can remember, we’ve gone to the same campground at the end of the summer. I’ve always felt like I could breathe easier up there, as if 51 weeks of the year I was unintentionally holding my breath.
But since my dad’s death, the north shore has felt more like a scab - I itch to go there but when I indulge the urge, I just end up bleeding.
Because the house burned down and the land was sold, there is nowhere to go that is full of my dad’s memory. No items that were his. No backyard where we played. No dining room where we had family dinners. The north shore is the closest thing I have to being tangibly near him.
Its one of the only places where I feel like I could turn around and he will still be standing there next to me. Like my dad is just out of reach… a word on the tip of my tongue; there and yet not there at all.
How is it that something can feel so dear and at the same time so incredibly painful?
All week I battled a cruel version of deja vu - as if I’d lived this trip 26 times before but in versions where he was still alive. And there were so many moments I wanted to cry… but I just couldn’t. As if somehow remembering my childhood there made me revert to my childhood habit of stuffing my emotions deep, deep inside.
But just like when I was a kid, the emotion had to come out sometime.
A couple days after the trip, I got home from work and was just so angry.
Angry at the dirty dishes in the sink. Angry at the medication I still have to take to function normally after my world imploded. Angry at the pile of laundry in the corner, the cats rubbing against my black pants, the soap bottle that was empty in the shower, the dinner I still had to make.
Angry that my dad is dead.
I walked in the door and straight down to the basement, wrapped my hands, put on my boxing gloves and started to beat the crap out of the heavy bag we have hung there. And each time I punched with my right hand, I saw the edge of a tattoo on my wrist that says, “it is well” peeking out from under my glove.
If I could’ve punched that statement in the face I would’ve.
I’m not even sure when I realized I was crying, the tears were so mixed in with sweat. But when my arms gave out, I sat on the concrete floor and wept like I did the day he died.
I always feel like I should be further along by now. Like I should miss my dad less, like I should be stronger, braver, more put together. Like grief is a weakness and joy should be easy.
But its not, and it isn’t.
As I slowly unwrapped my hands I thought about those words on my wrist, the song they came from.
“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul”
Thou has taught me to say. Taught. As in practiced skill.
Because the truth is, a lot of the time it isn’t easy to say “it is well” and it sure doesn’t feel like “it is well”. No… it is an intentional, every. single. dang. day. choice. to claim that God is still good even when my circumstances aren’t. It’s a fight.
And sure, some days I feel “eye of the tiger” pumped - it’s near effortless to fight the fight of faith. And other days my spiritual arms feel like jelly and my sweat is mixed with tears because it’s so hard to keep going.
But isn't that what makes a mediocre fighter into a great fighter? The tenacity to keep on when everything in you screams to give up. The showing up every day. The gritty determination to finish when you are battered, bruised and bleeding. The refusal to give in to the odds.
There is no such thing as an easy boxing match. There is no such thing as an easy life.
Jesus said:
“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you WILL have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world. ”
You will have trouble - its a guarantee. No one gets to go through life without taking some punches. And some of those injuries don’t heal quick, some don’t heal at all.
BUT TAKE HEART.
“We also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance character; and character hope. And hope does not put us to shame...” ”
So hear this: if today you found yourself down on the metaphorical concrete floor crying and weary, broken and battered, remember - it takes courage to wrestle with grief. It takes strength to get up again. It takes perseverance, practice, and most of all prayer to cultivate a well soul - a hope for the future.
And the future will not disappoint.
Every fighter, every soldier, every warrior is fighting not to win the round or battle - but to win in the end. And dear friends, we do win in the end.
Death, heartbreak, depression, hardship, hurt, disability, loss, weariness - these do not get the final say. They don’t even get the final hit.
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. ”