When I was ten I built a treehouse big enough for one. It was my favorite place. I loved to sit for hours belting out loud, enthusiastic songs from Mary Poppins, English accent included. No one bothered me. No one told me to tone it down. My treehouse was a glorious, cherished place to be alone with my thoughts and songs.
I've always been outgoing, but from the time I was little I've enjoyed solitary time too. One year we had enough snow to build an igloo, just a tiny one, and I sat in it until my bottom was numb. Now that I'm grown up I prefer drier, more comfortable places, but I still like to get away to pray and think. Occasionally I sing a Te Deum or A Spoonful of Sugar, depending on my mood. It feels good to be alone, but not lonely.
Alone or Lonely?
Being alone and loneliness aren't the same thing. In the Gospels we see Jesus getting away to pray, choosing solitary places like an empty boat (Mt. 14:13) or up in the hills (Mt. 14:23, Luke 6:12) or simply “to a lonely place” (Mk. 1:35). We don't have any evidence to suggest that when Jesus went away to pray He felt lonely. He was communing with His Father. When I find a solitary place to pray I don't feel alone. God is there and He's listening. Like Jesus, we all need time to be alone-but-not-alone.
And then there's loneliness. When I was 13 a friend of mine died in a traffic accident. One day we were laughing together in my yard, the next day she was gone. I was surrounded by sympathetic family and friends, but I felt utterly alone. Who else in all the world could possibly feel as I did? I thought of my friend's crooked grin, her corny jokes, the plans we'd made. For a few days after she died I'd answer the phone in tears whenever it rang. I knew it wouldn't be her. Each night, after everyone was asleep, I huddled by myself in a corner of the basement and cried until I could scarcely breathe. I could only pray two things. “Why?” and “Where are you, God?” When I needed Him most, He seemed light years away.
Over the years I've experienced my share of grief. My mother died when I was 18. My husband and I have lost two babies. Death of a loved one is always a biggie — certainly the most penetrating grief — but it isn't the only thing that can plunge me into the abyss of loneliness. Death of a dream, or the death of a friendship can do it too. In every case, I end up praying those same two prayers: “Why?” and “Where are You, God?”
Nothing More, Nothing Less
The particulars of “why” almost always remain a mystery. Why did my friend die at 13? I don't know. I do know that good came of it — her entire family converted to Christianity. Why did my mother die of cancer when I was a teenager? Why did I lose two babies? I don't know. But I do know God used the loss of those lives to draw me deeper into His life. Perhaps it was the only way to get my attention. I don't know that either. I can only wonder.
We can't see “why” from God's point of view, but we can sometimes look back and recognize how He brought something good from something bad. In the midst of our worse pain and loneliness, God was at work. He allowed sorrow in order to keep us on our knees — the place we are most human — and from our misery He brought renewal. That's the way God is — He redeems everything, even the tragedy of death. Flowers grow well on a newly-turned grave.
But that's only a partial answer to “why?” We can only know a partial answer because we only have partial understanding. To come to terms with the humanly unknowable nature of the Divine Will means to become as a little child, to admit that our Heavenly Father knows things we can't begin to grasp; that He will let us know what we need to know, and nothing more or less. Admitting and living our child-ness in relation to God puts us one step closer to His Kingdom. It isn't easy for me to be child-like, especially when I'm grieved, but I'm working on it. “Why” may elude me, but the Father's love never lets me go.
Of course it's one thing to know this truth in our heads. It's another to feel it, especially when one of the worst aspects of suffering is the sense of abandonment we may experience. The loneliness of grief can be like a brick wall separating us from any sense of comfort or closeness to our Heavenly Father. For me, “Where are you, God?” follows hard on the heels of “Why?”
If we accept the constant teaching of Scripture and the Church, we know, we believe, we trust that God is right smack beside us in our darkest hour. He doesn't go away, not even when we rant, as I have done on more than one occasion, sounding something like this: “How come if You're here I don't feel any better? Where is that peace that passes understanding? Are you listening, God?” There have been moments when I thought His silence would kill me. Later, I realized it was a two-fold gift.
When we cry out to God and do not sense His nearness, when we receive no comfort or assurance or peace and yet continue to pray (or rant), we make a supreme act of faith which will not go unrewarded. Our whole being declares over and over again, “I believe You are here — I don't feel a thing — I believe You are here…” When we live this difficult act of faith in the depths of our soul, we live reality. “I can't see, or hear, or sense You, but I know You are here. Help me.” It's a prayer He will answer, in His way and in His time, and always, only for our good. God's silence becomes food for our faith.
It gets better, even when it feels worse. The pinnacle of Christ's suffering was not physical torture, it was abandonment. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” He who had said, “I and the Father are one,” was suddenly more utterly alone than anyone in the cosmos. Absolute loneliness was the ultimate price of our salvation.
There is a difference. When we feel abandoned by God, it isn't true. Our feeling doesn't match reality. He's there but He is silent. When Jesus was abandoned by God, it was real and it was dreadful. Jesus took upon Himself the sins of the world and in the greatest moment of his anguish, when He needed comfort and encouragement, the Father turned away. When we experience that feeling of abandonment we share in Christ's agony. And when we offer the pain of loneliness to our Heavenly Father, we become co-redeemers with Christ (See Col. 1:24). We share in the loneliness of Christ and are more fully united to Him. Christ's Passion led to the Resurrection. It will be the same for us. I call that good news.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not there yet. I still ask “Why?” and “Where are You?” But now that I have the fullness of Catholic teaching, some of the pieces of the suffering puzzle are making sense. Each grief brings a gift, that I know for sure. I pray that one day my heart will catch up to my head.
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Discussion Forum
What are your methods for dealing with loneliness and grief?
