Hello from the Outside

I was listening to “Hello” by Adele earlier today and for some reason, the thought of how many times I’ve been on the outside hit me like a ton of bricks. Throughout the years, I’ve lived through family and friends struggling through their share of loss of health, loss of freedom, even loss of mental stability.

None of us is immune however, there’s something about being on the outside of these, particularly when someone you are extremely close to is the one on the inside.

I’m speaking for myself, but I would imagine that I’m not alone in feeling what I’m feeling. I’ve been on the outside of a seemingly devastating cancer diagnosis, have been on the outside of the struggle with depression or anxiety, on the outside of a prison cell and on the outside of the struggle with addiction. I’d like to clarify that when I say ‘on the outside’ I really mean, ‘inside, outside, upside down’.

I would never dare even attempt to compare the difference between being on the inside to that of being on the outside of any of these. I would however like to elaborate on what the outside feels like, to me anyway:

The outside feels like blaring and overwhelming helplessness – the hands-tied wanting to do something but knowing there’s nothing you can do but try to comfort your loved one. The knowing full well that anything you say may sound cliché and come across as pity in lieu of comfort; knowing full well that anything you do may come across as implication that they are unable to do for themselves in lieu of simply wanting to help. In addition to knowing full well that even if all the money in the world were available, it still couldn’t fix it.

The outside feels like paralyzing shock – wanting to move in any direction that would be beneficial to them but not knowing which direction that might be. The feeling like you were standing in concrete which dried all of a sudden. The wanting to say that you feel scared too but understanding that the last thing you want to do is add to their burden.

The outside feels like desperate confusion - crying to yourself – in your car, in your shower, anywhere they won’t see you do it. Then the not knowing whether it would be better for them to see you cry or not see you cry. Then the wanting to hold them and let them know that everything is going to be okay. Then add the not knowing whether they are going to trust that statement enough to make them feel better or feel worse assuming you just don’t get it.

The outside feels like overwhelming guilt – the wondering why them and not me. Knowing wholeheartedly I would trade places in a heartbeat if I had the chance. The understanding that they are too good to be going through this and the realization that “there but for the grace of God, go I”.

I’m not a walk-on-eggshells type of person however, the compassion/tact component sometimes raises the ‘think about it first’ little angel (or devil) on my shoulder. This has, in the past, kept me from saying what I’ve needed to say to any of these loved ones and that’s where I realize that.......

The outside feels most like unconditional love and unwavering faith. I’ve wanted on so many occasions to say things like:

I know you have this diagnosis and I’m sorry and I’m here and I believe there’s a reason and I know you can beat this and I know you’re going to come out of this stronger than you went in. I want you to know that although you’re the one suffering through the chemo, feeling nauseous, throwing up, having the surgeries and fearing the test results, God is in control every step of the way. Know that I love you and I am here for you to hold your hand, hold your forehead, to tell you jokes while you're cutting your hair, be your shoulder, run your errands, cry with you, laugh with you and everything in between.

I know you are feeling hopeless and frightened and lonely and feeling like the world can seem like a mean place sometimes. I also know you are better than this anxiety and this depression. I wish for one moment that you could see yourself as I see you – as this amazing person, who is capable of accomplishing so much and fulfilling all of your dreams. You are someone who can beat all of this, who deserves to live on the brighter side and that I love you. If you could see the world as it truly is or truly can be, instead of through the eyes of this distortion, I promise you, you will be able to lift this cloud and be all that you can be.

I want you not to worry, that we know the real you. That you are so much more than this sentence which does not define you for one minute. I understand you are in the cell, battling the loneliness, the frustration that comes with the lack of freedom and struggling to contain yourself with every blow to your dignity. I want to say that I love you and I am here, crying myself to sleep, trying to feel what you must be feeling and knowing that I wouldn’t be able to ever come close.

I beg you to choose not to take that next hit or that next drink. I want you to tell me how I can convince you that you deserve to be sober and clean. I want you to remember the kind of clean and sober before whatever lack of connection you felt, triggered you to make that choice, then again and then again.

I understand that you are struggling and I am struggling with you from this inside, outside, upside down and God is with you, every step of the way. That we all, those of us who love you, want the best for you. We BELIEVE with all our hearts that you CAN and WILL overcome this. We are cheering you on and praying on your behalf like warriors at war with whatever ails you, knowing God is on all of our sides. I need you to believe that we have more faith in you than you know.

I will say that I love you and that I am in your corner, no matter what and will see you through this. I’m here for you, in any way you need for me to be.

And so, I’m saying it now.

Joshua 1:9 "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.”