I’ve been talking about the necessity of being present with others in posts three weeks ago and additionally two weeks ago, and I also shared Nouwen’s idea that God-with-us gives us the ultimate example of being present with another in struggle. I want to continue with the idea of presence this week but in a confession about my hesitance to join in with others in their suffering.

I had to read the book A Grace Disguised by Jerry Sittser, a professor of religion at Whitworth, a couple of weeks ago for class. I think I highlighted half of the book, added stars next to really important highlighted sections, and dog-eared the corners of the most important highlighted sections. Basically, I wish I had read this after cancer, or even before writing my book because it touched on so many things that I felt and went through during and after the diagnosis. (Although actually, I’m glad I didn’t read it before I wrote my book because Sittser discusses things that I discussed, but he does it so well and eloquently that, had I read A Grace Disguised earlier, I don’t think I would have written my book because I could never say it as well as him.)

I would highly recommend the book–it’s about his story of catastrophic loss when his mother, wife, and four year old daughter were killed in a car accident caused by a drunk driver. Though it’s definitely heart-wrenching, it’s also really good and deals with so many aspects of grief–and even foundations of faith–that I think it’s a great read for many people. I suspect this won’t be the last that you hear me quoting Sittser and A Grace Disguised, but I’ll stick to my topic for now: the challenge that being present with others means to us as we enter in with them.

Sittser describes some friends who flew in after the car accident and their reaction:

“The meeting of their weary eyes said it all in a language too deep for words. Questions confused them; answers eluded them. They decided in that moment simply to be present with me in spite of their helplessness and brokenness…. They chose to make themselves available, vulnerable, and present to our suffering. They became a part of our community of brokenness.”

He explains that, ultimately, being present with another in suffering is a risk because it may change us–when we suffer and when we stand by others who suffer. Sittser writes,

“…it requires a choice on the part of those who want to provide community for suffering friends. They must be willing to be changed by someone else’s loss, though they might not have been directly affected by it.”

And he adds later,

“[People] feel uncomfortable in hospitals and squirm at silence because they do not know what to say. So they remain distant, wanting to help but fearing vulnerability. They are put off by the illness or disability and are threatened by the ominous reminder that it could happen to them just as easily. Or they avoid the pain of others because it threatens to dismantle their well-built defenses against their own losses. They become protective of the self that resists facing mortality.”

So, I broke from the “Present in the Struggle” title for this post because I think more important is the fact that I must confess something (or a few things):

Confession #1: I am (apparently) still wounded from my whole cancer “adventure.”

You’d think since I’ve written a book on it and have readjusted to normal life seemingly well, I’d be fine. That’s what I thought. But then I read Sittser’s words and knew they were getting at something I had been long avoiding.

Confession #2: I have avoided the pain of others because it threatens to dismantle my well-built defenses against my own losses.

I am passionate about encouraging others going through cancer…or at least I thought I was. Honestly, every time people pass on names of others with cancer, I get excited (not in a happy way…maybe “fired up,” though that seems outdated…). I genuinely would like to encourage them; I received so much encouragement that I feel like my job is to pass that on. However, when it comes down to it, I am not great at responding to people’s emails, Facebook messages, or texts about the subject. I’ve chalked that up to being busy with grad school and marketing my book or my A.D.D., but I think Sittser touched on the truth of the matter: Facing someone else’s loss or pain means we come face to face with our own mortality, our own vulnerability and fragility. That’s a scary prospect; it’s not fun to suffer someone else’s loss–for many reasons, but especially because when we do, it becomes clear that we, too, are prone to loss and suffering.

I am so guilty of being present on the surface but distant in following up with people and their suffering. I think deep down, hearing about someone else’s cancer may rub my wounds–wounds that I like to imagine are now just scars but are apparently still vulnerable to how fragile life is whenever I hear news of someone’s cancer diagnosis. Really, my failure to respond to people is a fear that entering into their struggle with them might threaten the semblance of stability I’ve regained in my life post-cancer.

As I write that, I know that’s crazy because I know firsthand how unpredictable and uncontrollable life is, how unstable it is. And yet, a big part of me still wants to think I can control it. Entering into another person’s cancer diagnosis–or really any trial–does threaten my sense of “stability,” the defenses I’ve built to keep from being reminded that just because I had cancer five years ago, my life is no more “safe” from pain and loss today than it was in early November of 2008. I am still vulnerable, too, and to enter into another’s suffering means opening myself up to that reality and being willing to be changed by their pain and reminded of my own past pain and almost certain future pain that is to come.

I’m not sure if that resonates with anyone or even makes sense, but when I read Sittser’s words, I think I had a bit of a breakthrough. So, to sum up, here’s a rapid succession of confessions: I still fear cancer. I fear it returning or I fear getting some other type of cancer. I fear other tragedies happening to me or especially my family. I would rather ignore the truth that I am still vulnerable to pain; conquering cancer didn’t make me immune for life, and I know that deep down, but I’d rather sidestep that reality.

And, because of all of this underlying fear of my own fragility and vulnerability, I have not “suffered with” others as I should. So for that, I am so sorry. If I have not responded promptly to you, followed up with you, or entered into your trial with you, please forgive me. I want to (at least I think I do, though my actions have not always affirmed that), but I’ve been afraid that the reality of others’ pain and suffering might rub off on me, and cancer was hard, so I’d rather not go through something like that again. It’s funny, though, because it’s not like I won’t talk about pain or suffering or like I’m in denial about my own cancer. (See What in the World Are You Doing with Cancer? if you don’t believe me.) Still, I’d rather that whole experience remain in the past where I can talk about it from the present, unscathed and having moved on from any suffering or pain.

So, my goal is to do better. What that actually looks like, I’m not entirely sure, though I think it starts with owning up to my fears and accepting my vulnerability to pain and loss. I think once we acknowledge that we are not immune to suffering and might have to bear the pain of others in their suffering, we can better enter in and be present in their struggle.

On Christ the solid Rock I stand,

Hannah