Buddhist Catholic Contemplative Evangelical General Christian Hindu Jewish Latter-day Saint Muslim New Visions Progressive Christian

Beliefs

Topics

Columnists

Resource Library

Research Tools

Video

Podcasts

Thought Readers

Faith In Media Tracker

Newsletters

Ad-Free & Subscriber Log-In Subscription Support

Follow Patheos

Good Letters

Home
Catholic
Gethsemane Companions

Gethsemane Companions

Last updated on: August 25, 2015 at 9:51 am by Dyana Herron

Gethsemane Companions 2015-08-25T09:51:09-07:00 Dyana Herron

LOGO Patheos Explore the world's faith through different perspectives on religion and spirituality! Patheos has the views of the prevalent religions and spiritualities of the world.

By Dyana Herron

Over the past couple of months, facing two family crises that impact the whole relational web of my tribe down in Tennessee, I’ve learned something about myself: I’m not very good at fessing up to my own needs.

Instead I am attentive—sometimes over-attentive—to the needs of others.

Instead of saying, “I need help,” I ask, “How can I help you?”

Instead of saying, “I need someone to talk to,” I ask, “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Instead of saying, “I don’t want to be alone,” I say, “I am here for you.”

I say these things to my relatives, my husband, and my closest friends—those who know me best and love me most.

This may sound like a virtue, but it isn’t. It’s cowardice.

I’m afraid that if I reveal the full, monstrous face of my brokenness, they will turn away in fear or disgust. I’m afraid that if they see the part of me that isn’t funny or clever or helpful, but rather is sad and unsure and weak, they will find no use for it. I’m afraid they’ll tire of my grief, and wish I would just move on already. I’m afraid they’ll say, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

I should clarify that not once have my loved ones given me reason to fear this will happen.

Knowing my tendency to separate myself when the going gets tough, but also how much better I feel when I talk to someone, I make an effort to email and call my friends to give them updates. I try to be explicit about what is bothering me most. Without fail, they listen with patience and care. Without fail, they love me.

And without fail, after our conversations I still question whether I should have brought it up at all.

A therapist might say this has something to do with my childhood. Children of alcoholics and those with bipolar disorder (I am a daughter of both) grow accustomed to the role of caretaker. They learn to work for love and security, and when that doesn’t yield results, they think it might next time if they work a little harder.

It’s a difficult cycle to escape, even if you’re aware of it.

During my recent trip home, I tried to hold myself together, but in the end came unraveled. I could feel it happening, so I left the house and sat down on the steps of the back porch. My mother followed me out. I knew on this day I would have to say goodbye to two of my closest family members—one for the final time, and the other likely for many years—and this seemed impossible.

While I sat sobbing into my hands, my mother stayed standing, until finally I looked up at her. “Mom,” I said. “I don’t think I can do this. I think I actually may not be able to do this.”

“You can do it,” she said, level-voiced, without stepping closer, “because you have to. People do things they don’t think they can do every day.”

She was right, of course. My grief, no matter how particular it felt to me, was not peculiar. The despair and anguish and desperation I felt were all common as weeds.

The fear that we are ultimately alone is, it turns out, something that binds us to every other human. Even Christ, in his perfection, wanted friends close by in his greatest time of fear and sorrow.

Before his arrest Jesus took Peter and James and John the sons of Zebedee with him to the Garden of Gethsemane and asked them to watch while he prayed to his father to “let this cup pass from me.”

He told his friends, “My soul is heavy with a sorrow that is like death.” Twice he returned from prayer to find them sleeping. The third time he woke them to stand beside him as he was betrayed.

If I had a garden to kneel in to call out to God, it would be my mother’s yard. Lined on three sides by pasture, the ground is ribbed with roots from an oak tree that towers by the fence, and is patched with dirt from where the grass never properly went to seed.

At night it is so dark you cannot tell the oak branches from the sky, and cannot see the horses in the fields even if they are grazing close by. It is eerie to hear them breathing, chewing, or most startlingly, running, just a stone’s throw away, but not to be able to see them in the blackness.

Once, when I was in middle school, I lay awake long into the night listening to a mare running furiously through the pasture. That day her colt had been taken and sold, and all night she galloped madly and whinnied. The next morning my mother, brother, and I found her dead at the edge of our lawn, neck broken and tangled in the barbed-wire fence.

When people we love are taken from us, there is something wild and unfettered, something muscular, about that kind of grief.

It makes us feel separated even from ourselves. It makes us suspect that we, too, may not survive.

My mother tells me, “You can do this because you have to.”

My husband says, “You are not crazy. And you are not alone.”

My friend tells me, at my request, the happiest parts of his day: How when walking his dog in the morning he met a little girl. The story she told him.

These are the people at the edge of my garden, watching. They are awake and waiting for me.

If ever they sleep, I will forgive them, for it is only because they have already walked with me such a long, hard way.

Originally published in Good Letters on Aug 16, 2012.

Dyana Herron is a writer and teacher originally from Cleveland, Tennessee, who currently lives in Seattle. She is a graduate of Seattle Pacific University’s MFA Program in Creative Writing.

The above royalty free image is attributed to Frédéric Glorieux on Flickr.

Previous Post

August 20, 2015

Exile Among Exiles

Next Post

August 24, 2015 Where’s the Guilt?

Browse Our Archives

Select a Category A. G. Harmon Alissa Wilkinson Allison Backous Art Authors Brad Fruhauff Bradford Winters Bryan Bliss Caroline Langston Chad Thomas Johnston Chris Hoke Christiana N. Peterson Culture D.G. Myers D.L. Mayfield Daniel Bowman Jr. David Griffith Elizabeth Duffy Faith Film Greg Wolfe Guest Contributor Interview Jan Vallone Jeffrey Overstreet Jessica Eddings-Roeser Jessica Mesman Griffith Kelly Foster Lindsey Crittenden Morgan Meis music Natalie Vestin Nick Olson Peggy Rosenthal Personal Reflection Poetry Friday Reflection Relationships Review Richard Chess Richard Cole Sara Zarr Shannon Huffman Polson Sonya Bilocerkowycz Tania Runyan Tony Woodlief Topical Categories Uncategorized Vic Sizemore Writing

Select a Month October 2018 September 2018 August 2018 July 2018 June 2018 May 2018 April 2018 March 2018 February 2018 January 2018 December 2017 November 2017 October 2017 September 2017 August 2017 July 2017 June 2017 May 2017 April 2017 March 2017 February 2017 January 2017 December 2016 November 2016 October 2016 September 2016 August 2016 July 2016 June 2016 May 2016 April 2016 March 2016 February 2016 January 2016 December 2015 November 2015 October 2015 September 2015 August 2015 July 2015 June 2015 May 2015 April 2015 March 2015 February 2015 January 2015 December 2014 November 2014 October 2014 September 2014 August 2014 July 2014 June 2014 May 2014 April 2014 March 2014 February 2014 January 2014 December 2013 November 2013 October 2013 September 2013 August 2013 July 2013 June 2013 May 2013 April 2013 March 2013 February 2013 January 2013 December 2012 November 2012 October 2012 September 2012 August 2012 July 2012 June 2012 May 2012 February 2008

TAKE THE

Religious Wisdom Quiz

Which Christian principle is highlighted in the parable of the Good Samaritan?

Select your answer to see how you score.

Only help friends Ignore strangers Compassion for all Seek praise