Project: Suffering

I’ve read the entire book of Job in one sitting twice in my life.

The first was on a plane. A window seat in an aisle to myself was the setting for my anguish and my desperate reading.

I was pregnant.

But not for long. The day before I’d been told that my hormones would not sustain the pregnancy and that I would lose this child.

It would be my second miscarriage.

Such weighty knowledge to carry, the child that made me nauseous, gave me silly girl laughter, and started me tentatively dreaming of baby clothes again, would not live.

I would spend the next two days in a training session, in another town, with no one close enough to share my suffering.

I would eventually miscarry after returning home. On my birthday.

I was suffering.

Fast forward

Eight years later.

We now had three children. Our third was diagnosed with a degenerative rare disease and was expected to live another ten years, all the while losing the skills he had learned. His innocent laughter just made the realization even more unbelievable.

I wasn’t sure how to go on.

I wasn’t sure how to even get out of bed, much less function.

Every night was filled with tears and every day with a pretense of normalcy, if only for my children.

Only God’s hope kept me alive. Let’s be very honest here.

I read Job while he played, laughing, in the room with me. He had no idea that he was slowly dying while each piece of cellular waste continued to build up in his body.

Job reminded me that it could be worse. And for a long time, that realization was one of the few things I could cling to.

But five years further down the road, reflecting on suffering as part of Jennie Allen’s Restless Bible Study this week, brings me to several conclusions about suffering.

1.     Suffering is universal

In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world.

John 16:33b

I struggle to name anyone in my inner circle who has not suffered or is not currently in a place of suffering. From cancer to loss of a child, from infertility to divorce, everyone I know has felt suffering in their life. Probably those in your circle have as well.

To the extent you think they haven’t, I pretty much attribute it to their youth (let’s hope the young don’t have to endure too much suffering, although I know many who do), or their discretion. We don’t know everyone’s suffering, as we shouldn’t.

2.     Suffering is individual

So if your next thought is, “But my or her suffering is so much greater than _____’s, if they have any at all…,” we should remember that suffering is unique in all of us. The same set of events causes different reactions, feelings, and transformations in each of us. So therefore, how we suffer, and how we change as a result, is very individual.

And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

Romans 5:3-5. The path of our individual suffering may weave and turn and double back in the course of bringing us to perseverance, character, and hope.

And not only that, but it creates in us an ability to minister to others in the same affliction, whether that is what some consider “great” or relatively “minor” suffering – it is all purposeful and comforting to others to share their grief and sorrow with those who have walked the same path.

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our affliction, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

2 Cor. 1:3-4.

3.      Suffering is relative

The suffering I felt 14 years ago, sitting on that plane, felt like more than I could bear. No one wants the foreknowledge of death, much less of the child inside you. I also carried the weight of the possibility of never bearing children. For a young wife, that felt like a heavy loss.

That weight would grow with even two more miscarriages after that one.

But only that suffering could serve as a buffer when I was told our child would likely die young.

That suffering had to withstand the knowledge that this child could have never come into being were it not for the relieved suffering of bearing these three children.

Suffering – yes. But suffering smack dab in the heart of abundant blessing?

How could I not see that I was still blessed? God had poured out these children to me and in their dedications, I had pledged them to the Lord. Was I really to question His purpose for my child's life? Or my life through the course of it?

Hard questions to work through. It doesn't happen in a day, that's for sure.

Suffering is never relative to the suffering of others, but instead, within the course of our own lives. Within our personal history, within our future to come. Within the blessings that have already come.

Suffering will continue.

But so will hope.

And not to be a spoiler, but….

Hope wins.


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Is suffering or hope winning in your life right now? What is it teaching you?

Life is short. Ask ... anyone.

Yesterday our community, and our family personally, felt the horrific loss of Sharron Cantrell, the principal of Spring Hill Elementary School, Case's school. It was a shock to everyone.

Case's fave pic of "Cantrell."

I know that there are many, many people who feel the loss in a greater and more personal way than me, Case, or the rest of our family. Maybe they are more qualified to write about the impact she has had on them and the contribution she has made to her family, our school, and our community.

But I know this for certain. She will be greatly missed. She will be missed by a child who would yell "Cantrell!" when he'd run toward her office. And by a child who loved the picture of her dressed up as the Cat in the Hat in his yearbook. "Cantrell," he'd say "she's the Cat in the Hat!" And when we'd see an actual Cat in the Hat statue at Vanderbilt Children's Hospital, he would snicker to himself and say, "Cantrell, Cantrell, ha, ha, ha, Cat in the Hat...."

How do I explain a loss like this to a child who doesn't understand death? I tell him she is in heaven and he says, "Okay, Mommy. Why?" Oh, were it that simple to accept. Or to explain to him.

Case has attended SHES since 2010 when he was three years old. He started there for two years of inclusive preschool and then even though we weren't zoned for SHES, Mrs. Cantrell signed off on an out-of-zone request since the staff there knew his unique circumstances so well by then.

This was her picture in Case's communication app.

She met our family when we were still in the throes of learning about life being short. When we learned that Case's prognosis was maybe ten more years of life. But not ten years of happy-go-lucky. Ten years of watching your son lose everything he knows and can do and then be ushered to an early grave.

She bought into my plan to save Case's life from the first IEP meeting. Preserve as much as we could while he was declining until we get him into the clinical trial. And so we did. And four years later, he is doing far better than we ever thought possible.

The realization that she won't be around to see all that he'll become is heartbreaking.

Over the last five years, we've sat together in about twenty-five hours of IEP meetings. While we may not have always agreed, she was always kind, empathetic, and respectful. And she loved Case and cared about his future. Some private discussions with her involved great emotion, discussions of our faith, and a greater understanding of her passion for teaching and guiding children.

I've seen some capitalize on tragedies such as this one, Sandy Hook, and others as an opportunity to pronounce the evils of guns or something else.

But sadly, bad things happen more often than we like to admit. And even more sadly, they will continue to happen. Children die. People do terrible things. The world is full of heartache and loss at every turn. I shouldn't have to watch my friends' children slip away and die, but I do. And pray every night there is a way to stop it. But eventually, we will all die.

While that reality doesn't excuse us from acting responsibly (wearing seatbelts, eating healthy, etc.), it also shouldn't shroud us in the illusion that we can ultimately control our own lives. Rarely will any of us go to bed knowing that tomorrow we will die. Tomorrow we will be diagnosed with cancer. Tomorrow we will be in a car accident. Tomorrow that any of this will happen to our loved one. Our child. Our child's principal.

A singular day five years ago taught me that we are never promised tomorrow. For me. For you. For Case. For Sharron. For anyone.

The only assurance I have is in knowing who holds my future. Who knows my future. Who knew Sharron's future and who will now seek to comfort her friends and family.

For you created my inmost being;

you knit me together in my mother’s womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;

your works are wonderful,

I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you

when I was made in the secret place,

when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;

all the days ordained for me were written in your book

before one of them came to be.

Psalm 139:13-16.

We will miss Sharron, "Cantrell," "Cat in the Hat," every day that we walk into school. Every day we look at the yearbook. Every day I see Case look for her, not understanding that she's not coming back.