I'm guessing we've all felt like "the bad thing" at one point or another.
We've been through something awful, unbearable. And we start to share about it with others. So we start to talk about it. And then suddenly we can't stop.
And then we feel even worse, like it's too much, like we are too much. Does anyone else really want to heard about this? Maybe this is too much. Maybe I'm too much. (p 92)
Perhaps our instinct to pull ourselves out of this rut is to think positive, pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, look on the bright side.
But maybe there's more to it than that.
Kate and Jessica write, "Our faith is the promise that we will learn something about a great mystery, how we can be loved and saved and changed by a God who shows us what it means to be human. It is beautiful and terrible, but it is not 'positive'" (p 93).
In fact, "Seeing pain up close [your pain or someone else's] can give you an incredible experience of awe. It's like seeing a garment turned inside out and all the rough seams are showing. You see someone's absolute humanity shine through all the pain, and that vulnerability makes them more - not less - beloved" (pp 93-94).
These are words to cling to when life snaps, grief surprises us, when we start to feel like we're the bad thing.
But we are not the bad thing - "we are simply living our beautiful, terrible days" (p 94). There's nothing shame full or embarrassing about that.
There are times when I, with my seizures, feel like "the bad thing." I suspect that people pity me when I ask for a ride somewhere because I haven't been seizure-free for six months yet and can't drive according to Ohio state law. Or seeing me makes them think, "Wow, if it could happen to her, it could happen to me." Or worst of all, being pitied by people.
And so I am grateful for the first part of "A Blessing for When You Feel Like the Bad Thing" -- maybe these words will be a balm to your heart like they are to mine:
Blessed are you who feel like the bad thing. You are everyone's reminder of their frailty, of life's cruelty. Your chronic pain or depression or regular scans remind those around you that life isn't as fair or easy as they had hoped.
...
But, dear one, blessed are you because you are not the bad thing. Your illness or grief or despair or addiction is not too much. It's just your humanity showing" (p 95).
Pastor Allison
I'm curious:
Check out the "A Good Enough Step" on page 97:
Do you know someone with a chronic illness or an autoimmune disease like fibromyalgia or lupus? Someone going through cancer treatments? Someone weighed down by the burden of depression?
How can you practically remind them they are not "the bad thing?" Write them a note? Pray for them? Offer to do something concrete for them that is simple for you but a burden for them? Do something that will remind them they are not alone - that they are seen and loved even in the midst of the struggle.
