There are times in life when the only question left is “When’s it going to stop?”
When the waves of misfortune slam so relentlessly with heartbreak after heartbreak, catastrophe after catastrophe, that all that’s left for us is to throw our hands in the air and scream to whatever forces in this universe we might believe in “When’s it going to stop?!”
When we are so far past beaten -- past defeated-- that we wonder why no divine referee has called an end to this boxing match in which you were horribly outclassed to begin with. And still you fought. Gave it your best shot, put up your metaphorical dukes and raged against the assailant set against you. And when the bell rung after that round, and you had impossibly survived, you had no time to even catch your breath before something bigger was unleashed upon you.
And why?
Why the cosmic beat-down? Didn’t you do everything the way they said you should? Didn’t you play by the rules they established? Wasn’t that you, out there, day after day, year after year, living life the way good folks are supposed to? Is this your reward? Pain. Stress. Grief. Heartbreak. Loss.
“Well thanks. Thanks for that,” you mutter to a suspiciously unresponsive sky. “Thanks for that extra kick when we were down. Thanks for making sure there was no chance, NO CHANCE, that we could get out from under this.”
You feel flares of a familiar anger-- something left from your time fighting perhaps, back when there was still something to fight for. But those embers burnt themselves out long ago. Now, in this moment, you are to tired even for anger. There is only the echoing numbness of failure and defeat.
That, and two questions:
“Why?” And “When’s it going to stop?”
And if life were made of the stuff of inspirational ballads or the stories we tell our children, those answers would come. They would come because that is the reward a hero is due. They would come because you fought and cried and bled for those answers. They would come because if nothing else about this can be fair, at least here some justice could be found.
But life is made of something else. And of all the things woven into this rich tapestry of pain, answers are absent amongst the threads.
So who is to blame? Yourself? Life? God?
It doesn’t matter, you realize. You’re past blame. Maybe even past wanting to know why. Maybe.
But you still want to know, still NEED to know; “When’s it going to stop?”
And the truth, you realize (because this isn’t an inspirational ballad or a bedtime story for the kiddies) is… never.
As long as we live, we hurt. As long as we draw breath there will be pain, and disappointments, and failures, and missed opportunities, regrets and heartbreaks.
And while there is little solace in that lesson, there is also one more truth:
Pain is as constant as joy. But pain leaves scars where joy leaves only whispers. It’s easier to remember the pain, because it has brutalized us in a way that is palpable. It’s more difficult to remember the reason behind a smile or beneath a giggle. Those moments leave us with nothing tangible to help us remember them when they are needed most. But they happened. And they continue to happen, even in the midst of grief. Even when they seem impossible.
No one ever asks God “Why?” when a healthy baby is born. No one questions the callous universe when a loving hand makes contact with your own. No one seeks the justice behind a smile.
And why should we? Those moments are just part of life. Those things are just the way things go when they go well.
And this is just how life goes when they don’t And while it‘s not much, that may be as much peace as there is to be had here.
The good will come and go. The bad will too. Again and again. Because that’s life; The good and the bad. And fair or not, that’s the price we pay to live it. Chock it up to the cost of admission for one hell of a ride.
That, and accept that some days the best we can hope for is just to land someplace still.
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