I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) in 1984. It was so aggressive that my doctor doubted I would live more than a couple of years. Disease rampaged through my brain and brainstem with terrifying neurological symptoms and horrible creeping paralysis that rendered my legs useless and my right arm heavily compromised. For many, many years, I was in a full electric wheelchair. Had it not been for the love of God and my family, I might have given up on life.
Still, there are some griefs that cannot be expressed. They are unique to the sufferer. So too, there are some griefs unique to their loved ones and they cannot be expressed either. What bridges these two solitudes is the transcendence power of love. Yes, I learned early that the embrace of a loved one, during times of deepest sorrow, was more effective therapy than any psychiatrist. It is the embrace of a loved one that gives us entrance to what Helen Keller called “the great family of the heavy-hearted". She said,
When it seems that our sorrow is too great to be borne, let us think of the great family of the heavy-hearted into which our grief has given us entrance, and inevitably, we will feel about us their arms, their sympathy, their understanding.
I have an old photograph. It is a picture of my grandson comforting me with a hug in my sorrow just before he had to leave me.
Two kindred hearts that just knew. But knew what? We both whispered to each other “I love you." That's what. He waved goodbye and was gone. I wept. Life and creeping paralysis seemed less lonesome when he was with me.Soon, he would need love’s courage as a salve for his own young broken heart. He’s autistic. The world can be so cruel to those who are different. During his carefree days as a tiny child, life seemed safe. He would sit on my lap as we whirred in my electric wheelchair to explore our little town’s playgrounds.
Twenty-two years have passed since that photo was taken. Our warm little town grew into a city where people do not know each other anymore. My small grandson grew into a young man. He has come to know the hard edges of life for people with challenges. I know that pain.
He knows the ache of loneliness when old friends stop calling. It’s not that they're unkind, just hard to find. Yes, I know that pain too.
He has discovered the frustration of not being able to do things other young people do with ease and his question that seems to echo into empty air: Why? Through my many years of paralysis, I asked that question too. He knows the bewildering isolation of being socially awkward—always being the odd man out, a round peg in a world of square holes, looking into a void of a tenuous future of a solitary existence that weighs heavy on his broken heart—a heart that yearns for the solidarity of human companionship. I weep again because I wish he did not experience those pains that the great family of heavy-hearted people have known throughout the ages.
I will soon be gone; my life in this world is almost finished. I am an old man. My body has been ravaged by 40 years of devastating neurological disease that has left my brain with too many scars to count, a mini-stroke and cancer (as I write these words, I am about to have more biopsies). I worry for my grandson. I take comfort in knowing he knows Christ.
God is the Father of the great family of the heavy-hearted to which my anguishes have been given to Christ’s salvific suffering. The great family of the heavy hearts can be an anteroom to heaven's divine love. With God we are never alone.
Long ago, I gave my defeat and sorrow to Him who took my broken, heavy heart into His broken body. His words came to me: "Be still and know that I Am God." (Psalm 46:10)
I remember again the hard-won wisdom of Helen Keller’s words: “When it seems that our sorrow is too great to be borne, let us think of the great family of the heavy hearted into which our grief has given us entrance, and inevitably, we will feel about us their arms, their sympathy, their understanding.”
There is a greater family of the heavy-hearted that Jesus’ grief gives me entrance, through faith in Him as my saviour. He has been my companion through mountains of grief. I have felt about me His arms, His sympathy, His understanding.
Lord, be with my grandson in his solitude of sorrow. Show him the divine consolation You have given me. Let him also feel about him Your arms, Your Sympathy, Your understanding. Show him he is not alone in his autism. You are with him. Teach him (as You taught me) to use his disability as a witness for You. He will discover, like I have, that there is purpose and meaning to be found in our suffering. My every Why has been answered in the truth and reality of Jesus Christ. — Mark
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” — Jesus Christ (Matthew 11:28-30)
