“It told me what you most want is what you most can’t have. What you most can’t have is what you already had and lost. And most, it was the song of all the promises I failed to keep.” The Odyssey
Perhaps no person has penned words more true outside the written scripture than Homer when Ulysses describes the song of the sirens. The sirens do not age with time, nor does their song need to change with the advancement of society or the changes in our culture. When The Odyssey was revived and portrayed recently on the big screen, the film captured the torment of the enchantment of false hope in hearing their song with the disenchantment the truth delivered. The opening quote above, midway through the movie, landed heavy on the hearts of many viewers. We can understand why, because we have lived it. That moment where we expected our lives to continue to deliver the ultimate that ultimately let us down is the loneliest place on earth. Before we can biopsy our past and point fingers or take ownership, before we can discuss our phases of grief and recovery, we must start right here at our lowest point. That point where we no longer know how to exist and overwhelmed with pain becomes an understatement. That point where the last thing you want to hear is that it will get better, it’s okay to move on, God has a plan. That point where what you most want is what you most cannot have. Let’s validate that you are feeling the greatest pain imaginable.
The difference between expectations and reality is often disappointment. When we suffer a traumatic loss, a great failure, an unnecessary public judgement of shame, there exists no reality in the present to stand upon. There is no thermostat to control our emotions. Reality feels relative and expectations seem out of your control. The difference created equals a great deal of disappointment. As we pile disappointment on top of our fear, and our loss, and growing anger, well, we are left with hopelessness. Hopelessness creates disappointment, fear, loss, anger…we get the cycle. But today isn’t about how to break the cycle or even survive the cycle. It’s about proclaiming that this cycle hurts and I am not okay! And that is okay.
In my suffering I feel myself disappearing: as if I am bleeding out onto the floor my soul, my heart, my will to live. Self preservation becomes selfishness for survival sake. It was difficult during this time to hear that God cared and more difficult to hear that he understood my pain. For if he understood my pain, and loved me so, held the covenant to which I had belonged so high, then surely he would save me. Surely, he would say suffer no more, I am busy fixing your loss right now. Rewinding time and rewriting my script. Erasing the mistakes and the damage. Surely. But my wound would not close, the bleeding would not cease, my pain grew. Eventually, amidst the pleading and arguing with God he allowed enough space in my thoughts to offer me a point of insight: a glimpse into the prophecy of the past and the silence of the garden where he suffered the greatest grief.
“He was despised and rejected- a man of sorrows, acquainted with the DEEPEST GRIEF. We turned our backs on him and looked the other way. He was despised, and we did not care” Isaiah 53: 3. He suffered grief. Not just physical pain. The agony of the deepest grief. Loss. Hopelessness. Fear. Regret. Bloody grief!
“He prayed more fervently, and he was in such agony of spirit that his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood.” Luke 22:44. “He told them, My soul is crushed with GRIEF to the point of DEATH.” Matthew 26:38.
He prayed in his grief and all the pain that accompanies it and asked God to take it from him. Grief even to the point of death. That was all I needed to hear in that moment. I didn’t need someone to tell me to read on and hear “but your will be done”. I didn’t need to hear “the Lord is close to the brokenhearted”. No, stop, I don’t need to hear about the hope I can’t feel right now. And God knew that. That’s why he showed me only his worse moment of grief. He let me sit there, alone with him, in the garden, and just hurt. I cried then, and I cannot speak of it now without crying even as I write. To sit there covered in all of my grief, my mistakes, my just punishment, my unjust or unfair losses. Silence. Pain. Shared with the Son of God. No promises in that moment. No questions or answers. Just a shared moment where his garden and the jagged rocks of my siren’s island met.
The pain is real. The grief is more than is relatable. This is the worse moment of your life. Now, when you are ready, there is someone in the garden that would like to share a moment with you.
Living Phoenix 
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