I’ve been going through my Dad’s stuff. He lived with me for the past two years of his life, so his presence still lingers in literally every corner of my house. It’s been difficult, but cathartic.
One of the best parts of this final task has been discovering his notes. For as long as I can remember, Dad had a habit of writing his thoughts — mostly spiritual observations — on whatever little scraps of paper he could find, and leaving them around the house. Honestly, I sometimes found it annoying, as the “scraps” piled up everywhere.
Now I realize what a treasure I have.
Right around Good Friday, I stumbled on one that said “Thank God most of all for difficulties, trials and tribulations, sleepless nights.” Then he went on to add “Ain’t dead yet. Might yet eat those words.”
He never, ever ate those words. He suffered more courageously than I have ever seen anyone suffer. We siblings have all, at various times, discussed how we want to suffer like Dad did — to be joyful in difficulty, to avoid complaining, to accept whatever comes with serenity. And we have all realized that it is much more difficult than he made it look.
I was particularly struck by his advice to thank God for our sufferings. I mean, on a good day I can muster up sufficient sanctity to grudgingly “offer” a white knuckled prayer to God. But to thank him? To rejoice? To be grateful for whatever horror I am facing?
I know I have been talking about suffering a lot lately, perhaps because Dad’s suffering is still fresh in my mind. But I wanted to take the opportunity this week to talk a little about this aspect of it — this idea that we are called not just to passively endure suffering, but to actually embrace it with joy.
Full disclosure: I am not good at this. I am terrible. When suffering comes into my life, I have one thought: How do I get rid of this? What distraction, what doctor, what device will shut this misery off? Of course, there is absolutely nothing wrong with seeking relief from suffering. We need to do it, to the extent that it is practical. But how easily does that become its own source of suffering? My desperation, my obsession with relief can easily hijack my brain and completely overtake my thoughts, crowding out my willingness to hand it to God and to trust Him. My prayer, instead of surrender to His will, becomes a bargaining session where I beg Him to “remove this cup from me.”
In a word, I try to take control. Instead of trusting the providence of the Father who loves me, I usurp his role. I say “Thy will be done, unless it’s that this pain continues. In that case, I’m cutting you loose and taking the wheel myself.”
The saints, and those like my Dad whom they influenced, saw it much differently. Therese of Lisieux, in particular, welcomed suffering because she saw God’s hand in it. When I first read her Story of a Soul, I was taken aback by her abandon in embracing suffering. It sounded like “Tuberculosis! Oh goody!” I couldn’t relate to that.
Angel de les Gavarres, in his book Therese, the Little Child of God’s Mercy, writes: “The fact is that, for her, suffering was the tool which dug out the void that was destined to receive the Mercy of God.” In other words, it wasn’t suffering for suffering’s sake. It was God using the suffering to bring her closer to himself, to pour his mercy into her. That was what Therese desires — greater intimacy with the God she loved, and everything that flows from that intimacy.
But why does it have to be suffering? It seems kind of cruel. Can’t God use other ways to draw us closer to him? Gavarres goes on to say: “How could the waves of infinite tenderness have been able to overflow in her, if they had not found a real misery, that is to say, a pressing need to be saved at every moment?” This really hits home. I don’t know about you, but when everything is going swimmingly in my life, I am not particularly inclined to turn to God. I don’t feel the need for him. Of course, I need him in every second of my existence. But it’s easy to forget that in the good times.
In suffering, not so much. When I am suffering — really suffering — I feel a “pressing need to be saved at every moment.” I am reminded of my utter reliance on God. If — and that is a big “if” — if I continuously turn to him in my suffering instead of turning inside of myself, trying to take control, giving in to despair, turning to all of the devices and distractions I usually turn to — he will use my suffering to create a space in me, a space for his love and mercy to abide.
I want to be holier than I am. I want to be holy like the saints. But when we look at the saints, we see that they suffered. I don’t think it’s universally true that the saints suffered more than the rest of us. Some certainly did. But they all suffered better. They saw that all things, even their sufferings, work for good for those who love him (cf Rom 8:8). They turned to God. They trust him — not necessarily to take their sufferings away, but to use that suffering for their own good and for the good of the world.
Does this mean that we just give in to whatever suffering befalls us, without seeking relief? Of course not. It means we take Jesus in the garden as our example. “Father, if You are willing, remove this cup from Me; yet not My will, but Yours be done” (Lk 22:42). We do what we can to find relief. And we entrust the rest to God. And, because we’re generally no good at this without a lot of grace, we do it over and over again. Even when we don’t feel it.
I suspect that the saints, who were good at it, are still surrounding us, willing to help if we only ask them. I suspect that Leo Bonacci, who was also good at it, might be up there waiting to do the same.
Ask them. And ask him. And while you’re at it, say a prayer for the repose of his soul.