An Unexpected Pain

Saturday Ginny and I shopped on the other side of the river where we seldom venture. I imagine it’s been a couple of months, maybe two years even, since we crossed the bridge into Southside.

When we finished our errands we decided to eat lunch at Blue Boy’s Sandwich Shop in Arlington.

Back about 30 years ago we used to eat at Blue Boys often. Back then they were on our side of the river not far from our home. We took the four children there as a special treat and had a slightly more than nodding acquaintance with the owner, his wife and several of the waitresses.

Then we moved to Riverside and they moved to Arlington and our contact lessened, although our family still gathered there for special occasions like birthdays and college graduations.

But, as I said time and distance lessened our contact with the staff of Blue Boys.

When Ginny and I walked in the door yesterday, the owner’s wife welcomed us profusely as did one of the waitresses who still works there after 30 years.

We enjoyed one of their fabulous sandwiches for lunch and wrapped halfs for supper. Ginny had the Italian Veal and I had the Mushroom Omelet sandwich. These sandwiches are so huge that Blue Boys bakes their own bread because normal bakeries don’t make loaves that large. We can only eat a quarter of a sandwich at a time, so buying one sandwich is actually buying four meals.

When we walked up to the register to pay our bill, for a few minutes we talked with the owner’s wife. She told us that a couple of weeks ago they became grandparents for the first time.

She asked about each of our now grown children whom she has known since they needed boaster seats to get up to the table.

We told her about the successes of our eldest three.

Then she asked about our youngest daughter, the one we may have lost to drugs.

I mumbled something or another about her.

And this near-stranger lady said, “I will pray for her”.

I started crying.

And I couldn’t stop.

The surprising thing about my reaction was that it caught me completely by surprise.

I thought I was coping with the pain.

I thought I was dealing with it.

I thought I was managing.

Apparently I’m not.

I could not stop crying. Ginny and I went out into the parking lot to shelter under a shade tree and smoke. I began trembling and I still cried.

Later in the evening — we were watching some stupid zombie movie on tv — and tears still streamed down my face.

I certainly didn’t expect that.

This does not mean I’m cracking up or loosing my mind. Doesn’t everybody cry when paying a bill or while watching a zombie movie? I’m not ready for a straight jacket.

I’m no crazier now than I’ve always been…

Er, that didn’t come out quite right, but you know what I mean.

For the past couple of weeks I’ve known something undefined was wrong with me. Even more trouble sleeping than usual. Impotence. Lack of spirit to work although I normally love my work. No interest in Bible reading. Rote prayers if any at all. Cursing people who bug me by crossing my path. Irritability with Ginny. Inability to plan ahead. Slinking around reading murder mysteries when I should be working. Looking at naked ladies on the web. General malaise. Letting the yard grow un-mowed. Not shaving as usual in my daily routine. Letting e-mails go unanswered. Paying little attention to my blog. And a host of lesser symptoms.

I thought all these were just symptoms of aging, I did not identify them as manifestations of grief.

I had no idea that I have been in pain.

After all, we’ve been dealing (I thought) with our daughter’s drug thing for over a dozen years now. I thought I had it in perspective, pigeon-holed in the back of my mind. Written off.

I thought I had desensitized my self into a state of not caring. I feign an aura of indifference. Of taking it as it comes. Of blessed numbness. Of positive thinking and cognitive therapy techniques. Of hardening my heart.

Apparently, I’m not very good at that stuff.

I’d just managed to paste a thin veneer of coping on the surface of my soul.

I had the pain and grief nicely bottled up and sealed.

When that lady at the cash register said, “I’ll pray for her”, her concern triggered something inside me; the bottle shattered and my tears flowed.

This unexpected manifestation of pain caught me completely by surprise.

I’ve heard of people in a bad traffic accident walking around with a ripped and broken arm dangling by a thread and saying in shock, “I’m alright. I’m alright. I’m not hurt at all. I’m alright” while their blood dribbles on the pavement.

Maybe I’ve been in that sort of shock too.

“I’m alright. I’m handling this. I can cope. I can function,” I say daily.

Part of my problem is a background attitude, not a deliberately taught doctrine, that as a Christian, I should be able to deal with anything the world, the flesh or the devil throws at me.

I quote St. Paul’s statement, “I can do all things through Christ, which strengthens me”.

I believe that.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Not because I am strong, but because He is Lord. He is love.

That doesn’t mean I don’t hurt.

Thanks be to God — anyhow.