I haven’t blogged in over a month and part of the reason is that I’ve been processing some thoughts during a difficult time. My best friend was killed in a motorcycle accident on July 12th and we didn’t have his memorial service until July 26th. I found that I lost my voice, so to speak, for a while. I had no words to offer anyone. Even preaching–my regular job–was difficult.
I didn’t prefer the long delay between Chris’ death and the service, but it might have given me a chance to find my voice again. I was asked to be the emcee for the service. I had the honor of opening the service and then facilitating the process of many others sharing their thoughts. By God’s grace, all went well.
Still, I didn’t have anything new to say to the chronically ill/chronic pain community. I was dealing with a very different kind of pain and I couldn’t find the common ground between the grief of the loss of a loved one and the kind of pain I usually address here. I’ve come to the conclusion that that is the point. They are two totally different experiences and one does not inform the other very much at all.
If I had never known chronic pain, the death of my friend would not have hurt any more or any less. And the experience of chronic pain did not necessarily prepare me for the type of pain related to losing a loved one. And that’s okay. I don’t expect that somehow going through one kind of pain makes you stronger for another type of pain.
The lesson is that grief and loss visit all people. We are not different because we hurt physically. Life is still life, and death is still death. This brings me an odd sense of comfort. Having chronic pain is a different kind of experience than what most people have to endure. It makes us different enough.
When I came together with Chris’ family and our mutual friends, I wasn’t thinking about my physical pain (To be honest, it has been much less lately anyway). I was thinking about how much we all lost when Chris left us. Just this day, I had some heavy things on my heart, the exact kinds of things that I used to always call Chris about. I couldn’t call him and it made me grieve all over again.
I do not grieve like those who have no hope. I know I will see Chris again. I believe in the resurrected Jesus and the complete victory he gives us his people over death. But deep inside me is a void created by the absence of a brother I will always cherish. And in this way, we (those of us with chronic pain/illness) are just like everyone else. I’m not glad for our losses, but I am thankful that we aren’t so different after all.
P.S.: Chris was a graphic designer and he is the one who created the Broken and Mended logo.