Taking it personally

Lately I have been thinking about my situation and how it has affected me in a new way. I'm realizing the personal impact like a kick in the face. I have no control, no choice over what has happened, but I can't take it personally either.

My husband died at his own hand in response to a severe depressive state. He loved me, but he was not thinking of the impact his actions would have on me. In the process, he left me with burdens and a broken heart. It was not personal. He was not himself. But I am left with the clean up job, and now I struggle to move forward into a life that no longer includes him.

My daughter left, but I am being treated like I have kicked her out. A neighbour judges me for separating sisters (even though they will do far better apart than they would do together). A social worker cannot understand and produces reports that give me absolutely no credit for all that I went through. Even at my worst hour I stayed committed to a child who fought me on every angle, and missed few opportunities to manipulate things. But it wasn't personal. I took the flak because I was trying to mother her. I wanted her to be my daughter. She simply cannot and will not give to any relationship in that way. She is damaged and can't trust. She refuses to allow anyone in to the role of mother again.

I can't take either choices personally. Yes, my family has been cut in half, and the wounds are fresh for all of us. I bear the personal stigma: death of a spouse by suicide, adoption breakdown. It cuts deeply, on a personal level, no matter how much I try to spiritualize it.

How do I get to the point where I do not take things personally? Where do I realize that people make choices and see things the way that they do. We each live in our own little world, and don't consider the impact our actions have on others. My husband chose. My daughter chose. I chose. Each choice had a ripple effect on some, and a tidal wave tsunami impact on others (me and my younger daughter).

It wasn't personal, but I am left with the guilt that I brought this upon myself, guilt that I didn't do more, guilt that I could have changed the outcome if I had done.... what? It wasn't personal, but I went into the adoption with my eyes open, not really knowing what I would have to go through and how little support would be provided to me. It was almost like it was destined to fail.

It wasn't personal, but I knew that my husband was struggling with the tension in our home, the constant drama, manipulation and bullying. He couldn't keep going, and I kept going, choosing to hope that it would be better around one more corner. In the end, he chose, and I lost both him and my daughter.

No wonder I'm angry.

Here and now, in the middle of all this mess, God asks me to give up my right to honour, dignity and my right to be angry. The guilt is not mine to carry. Jesus died for it. The shame of failed adoption is not mine. It is the accusation of the enemy that makes it shame. I did everything, tried everything, learned all that I could learn, poured out all that I had in the very worst possible circumstances of my life. I have nothing more left for this child. But I also planted as many seeds as I could inside her, and I will accept that it did not work, but that she did the best she could do.

I can see my husband's death as "I lost my husband" or "he died". I realize now that, unconsciously this is why I have chosen to never say that I have lost him. Partly it is because he was not mine to keep, and he wasn't a set of keys that I misplaced and found again when I went through the house more carefully.

He tried the best he could. He lived with this monkey on his back for I don't know how long. He struggled. He suffered and, as much as I am suffering now because of his actions, I can't blame him for wanting to escape and be free of it all. It was too much to bear.

And, let's face it, he's not lost. He's more found than he's ever been in his entire existence on earth. He's more alive, more full of joy and grace and hope than I can even imagine.

However, my loss is personal. These events have a personal impact on me. Accepting that is part of the challenge. I take it personally because I'm human and because I care and because I was involved deeply. Somehow I have to balance this with forgiveness. I was personally hurt, so I have to forgive in order to keep moving forward. Forgiveness is an "in the trenches" hard core process. It comes, like grief, bit by bit and with every inch of you. Sometimes it is in word only. Sometimes it is at the cost of desires to give in to anger, bitterness and resentment.

I need to turn this around. I need to do this by an act of will, and an act of weakness. I cannot do this in my own strength. You know it, but it is not a trite saying. It is a moment by moment surrender. I don't consider these trials joy. Joy comes from another source, but it arises from the ash heap and out of the cry of pain.

God will redeem my life and bring gold out of these trials. He did not intend this path, but he allowed choice, and this is what we must all do for those we love. I wanted my daughter to choose to be my daughter - but she didn't. I wanted my husband to choose to stick it out a little longer, a little farther and then see things change - but he couldn't. I need to be able to choose for myself as well. It's the anger and barrenness of heart that make it difficult. Joy evades me.

My joy is in the word of The Lord, the presence of the Holy Spirit and the love of the Father. And God is a personal God who knows my heart. He is here, eternally, with me, for ever.

And that is something I can hold to my heart every moment I have breath.