The Silent Scream
There are times in my life where I just want to scream. I want to pick something up and throw it against the wall. It happens unexpectedly—and it is usually related to pain. The pain of grief.
And….the anger of grief.
I can be going about my day, doing some menial task–like sorting socks–and I will come across one of Sean’s old socks. The loss of Sean hits me. It just hits me out of nowhere. This blinding pain. And then comes this rage. And I want to throw something.
Inside my head, I scream. I call it the silent scream.
Sometimes, I come across a photo that I don’t usually see of Sean, (we have photos all around the house of Sean, and I’m used to seeing them–they don’t surprise me or hurt me anymore), but sometimes, I’ll unexpectedly see a photo of him—and it is like a hit in the stomach, and inside my head, I silently scream.
It’s funny—I’ve heard about the five stages of grief, as though once you’re through a stage, you are done with it. That hasn’t been my experience. Grief still has the power to knock me down. Grief still has the power to elicit anger inside of me. A pure instinctive reaction—-that says, “no, this can’t be my reality. This beloved son of mine, can’t be gone.” And when I have to acknowledge once again that he is gone, I just want to wail and scream.
Why am I writing this? Well, I suppose because I want other people who are in pain, to know they aren’t alone.
After Sean died, I would try to find blogs or pieces written by others who had lost a child. It helped me to have someone to identify with. However, after awhile, the ones I read–they didn’t talk about the pain anymore. Perhaps they thought they needed to put on a brave face and go on.
However, the people who didn’t deny the pain, who would refer to it—those were the people I appreciated. They are the ones who helped me the most.
I think our society is uncomfortable with pain. I think we are uncomfortable with suffering. I think we like to deny its existence and pretend it is not there. It is too big for us. It is too hopeless for us.
It is NOT too big for God. It is NOT too hopeless for God. This is what I have found—over, and over and over again. God is with me in the pain. God is with me in the suffering.
Here’s what I wish for each of you reading this—that in your pain and in your suffering—that you would experience the reality that God is with you as well. And I pray that in that reality–we would experience God in a way we never would have otherwise.
May We Be Encouraged!!