Once upon a time, in a land long ago (called my thirties), I still retained a significant amount of optimism, even about the smallest things. I have always been a pragmatist, but a cheerful one.
Fast-forward to my 50’s and though I still work toward positivity, I’m not the Pollyanna sort. Life takes its toll on all of us in some form or another, grounding us in reality. The decades pass and we collect a few scars from surviving major wounds during battle. The combat and general life events mold the formerly carefree human into a sturdier, more sensible version of themselves. So, when it came to losing a couple friends to illness, my inner refusal to accept what all deemed inevitable came as a surprise.
Why can’t they be the exception? I thought. The one that you read about who beat this thing? I prayed fervently for their healing. After all, God has zero need for the prognosis per the MRI. He can do anything and has a long history of miraculous healings.
I have deep empathy and compassion for those experiencing difficulties. Sometimes, those struggling can’t pray for themselves and need others to be positive. They are too angry, tired, confused…too drugged on “healing” chemical cocktails to think straight. “…I am too distressed even to pray!” Psalm 77:4
Is standing in faith for a struggling, fellow sojourner Pollyanna-ish? Should it be considered denial of the situational gravity?
If thoughts and attitudes affect our health, why wouldn’t we offer hope for the best and be an encourager, surrounding the person with light? They are delivered plenty of dark every time they enter the hospital and physician office doors. When prayer partners, friends and relatives choose optimism, that lifts the already-down person. If we think of our most painful times in life, how blessed were we when someone lifted our spirits when we couldn’t do it for ourselves?
About eight weeks before my bestie left us, she had a couple of powerful brain radiation blasts that provided her the ability to rejoin the world temporarily, getting her out of bed and interested in discussing a few “final” things.
She asked my help with gut-wrenching requests that were my deepest privilege. Cutting and using her wedding dress to make baby blankets for future grandchildren she would never meet. A boutonniere for her son’s wedding tux, though he was only 23 with no prospects just yet. Buying some of her favorite things to be given to both her children prior to their weddings and when they would someday be expecting their first child…
Prior to receiving the high intensity waves, all knowing this was a final act, my friend was always looking to the next treatment, discussing the next thing to do, surviving fifteen years after the first diagnosis. Despite utter resolve and the strongest mind, her body was tired, cells weary from the endless poison. The wretched, joy-sucking, dignity-destroying disease was winning the years-long battle. During her last wishes trip that we all went on together, she called me into her bedroom, sharing her fear…her eyes different this time. Family and friends milling around a massive beach house, her in a head scarf, she knew. Three weeks later she was gone.
Our other sweet soul we lost last year never spoke of his impending, earthly death. Post funeral, we were stunned at how overwhelmed his wife was with nothing handled prior.
Coming alongside someone who remains not necessarily in denial but never opens the door to their private acceptance is delicate. If you haven’t walked that path, experienced that physical, emotional and spiritual brutality, who is to say if there is a right approach? Holding steadfast in prayer and positive conversation have their place. Later, preparing ‘ifs’ and ‘whens’ is appropriate. People who have newly diagnosed souls in a grave before the first treatment is underway are detrimental and should never have a seat at the table.
In the last weeks for both of my friends, the faith-filled words I’d whisper in prayer had expired and I’ve lived enough to know when to pivot. Later, I struggled between profound sadness and moving on. Doesn’t everyone who loses a precious soul? Sadness seems right. Moving on in joy initially feels sacrilegious and dishonoring. The closer the soul, the more heartbreak and temporary inability to breathe, let alone embrace life again. Some loved ones are so devastated, they possess an earthly body but never regain their inner light.
Ultimately, the earth’s rotation, the rise and setting of another day forces us to choose. Months, even years for some go by before the broken fully live again. Everyone’s grief schedule whether it’s death, divorce, or other life-altering event involves respect. Even for those recovered from illness, there is sometimes grief from having endured such misery.
With the everlasting love of Jesus leading the way, I pray all battered hearts be once again open to life. To love. Dare I even say become optimistic about the future…
Tales from a Mid-Lifer 
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