One of my girls from my treatment center took her life while I was gone. I found out one hour after getting home.
I was alone in my room when I got the message from my supervisor. After making sure she was okay, and the other girls, and asking about the family and other staff, I hung up and I immediately found myself rocking in pain. I love my girls. I was aching for her family and my other girls, her friends, the other staff that were particularly closer to her. I was aching for her with compassion, but also so very angry, and then guilty for the anger and not wanting to understand what don't want to make any sense. I also felt guilty for understanding completely why she did what she did. But not liking that I understand, wishing I didn't, and wishing I was more angry than I was. But not. It's complicated.
Here's the gift part, though. Rocking when I'm in pain used to be a way that I could shut down and wrap up in a safe cocoon and not let anyone in. This time was different. On the last night of my trip, apparently at the time that this girl took her life, our leader led a powerful discussion among us all and then he said that it was tradition that on these trips, two people are chosen to be "rocked" by the group. Two special friends were rightly chosen and I was so honored to hold arms with my other buddies as they fell back onto all of our arms and we rocked them back and forth and sang them a lullaby. After those two, my leader began to close, but stopped and said, "No, wait. There is one more that needs to be rocked this time. Jill." I was overwhelmed with emotion and fell into them and they rocked me back and forth and sang me a lullaby.
I took the time partly to cry and close my eyes to be enveloped in the feeling of being held. I spent the rest of the time looking into the eyes of each of these incredible divine beings that dared to reach out to me expecting nothing but the opportunity in return.
Rocking back and forth in my room was no longer a lonely way to shut out the world and the pain. Rocking was a way to feel those 11 people around me, holding me still in their hearts. And to know, the strength in their arms all comes the same One who has been holding me the whole time. It reminds me of what Elder Holland said in "The first and great commandment" Once we have an encounter with Christ, we are never meant to be the same again. I will never "rock" alone again.
Since the initial shock and pain, the road has been bumpy, and I have fallen a lot and pushed people away and sought hope and relief from the wrong places. In desperation, I fell into old patterns I've been trying so hard to kick out. But I can just turn around and walk back in the right direction. I did it before.
On the topic of healing, I got the incredible opportunity to listen to a fireside by Kathy Clayton, a new friend of mine. She told a story about how she was looking for a home in SLC and needed to find one within a couple days. Her mother's house was available, however, she said that her childhood wasn't sunshine and roses and she was afraid to go back to living in that house because of the skeletons that she feared were lurking in the closets. She prayed long and hard about it and decided that she didn't have to, but that it was right. So she bought her mother's house and they redid some things like the floors and the paint. She went in to that house, unsure of how she would feel or what would come up, and she opened the blinds of the front room. As she did this, the light from the sun flooded the room and flooded inside her and as she stood in the sun, she felt whole. She said she had been living with scars. They didn't hurt anymore and they pretty much healed. But when she stood in that house where she had gotten those scars, the sunlight lifted them. "There were not even any scars at all. I felt completely made whole."
I don't know how to become whole yet. I want it. I got a taste of it in her talk and it filled me and I want it for myself. But I don't know how much I want it. I have scars that have healed and don't necessarily bother me day to day anymore, but they constantly remind me and keep me from doing things I maybe should do. But when I feel like wholeness might be there for the taking, I snatch back my scars and say, "wait, wait, please! not yet," just like I do when jumping into a pool of water or right before I have to have a shot or needle poked into me. "Wait, wait, not yet. Just let me do it. Don't do it yet." I know it is possible to "jump in" and feel and become whole, but "something" is not yet ready. Will I ever be ready? I don't know what is holding me back from embracing the feeling of being whole. I don't know what I'm afraid to leave behind, or why. Yet. I'm working on it.
It brings me comfort to know that Kathy did not receive this wholeness until 30 years after the time she got the scars... Maybe I'll be ready someday, and I don't have to jump yet. Like I did not jump from the 40 foot cliff. Or maybe I must give up my timetable and jump when life counts to three, whether I am ready or not, like I did from the 15, and then the 30 foot cliffs. Maybe wholeness will not be an event for me, but line upon line. Or maybe it is all building up. Maybe I'm waiting to feel the hand grab mine before I jump like I did from 30 feet above the water. I just have to wait and do my best in the meantime.
And in the meantime, sitting in fear at the top of the cliff, I don't have to rock alone.
