This week I watched a mother bury her young daughter. I watched as the casket closed and she caught the last glimpse of her daughter’s body. I watched as a family mourned; a brother and a sister in shock, and a mother and a father in a haze of dark, surrealism. I hurt for them. It also reminded me of personal tragedy in my own past. I hurt for myself as well.  

This week, I also counseled a man whose wife had left him. Distraught, and with small children in tow, he is lost and frightened. I hurt for him. It also reminds me of tragedy in my own life. I hurt for myself as well.

I sometimes find myself reaching deep inside, desperately grasping for something to offer in these situations, something to ease the pain. It feels like treading water in hopelessness. For the sake of honesty, I must admit that I struggle with balancing a need to repair the brokenness in others, and embracing the reality of my limitations. I want to be a fixer-of-problems, and I sometimes find it difficult to live in this tension. In retrospect, many parts of my adult life have been defined by various levels of success and failure in dealing with this type of tension. I am a father who wants to guide his children in patience and love, but sometimes I fail. I am a husband who wants to always offer solutions, safety and compassion, but sometimes I fail. I am a friend who wants to always offer stability, but sometimes I fail. I am a child of God who wants to be used in the glorification of our risen Lord, but I know that sometimes I fail.   

I’ve come to believe that God calls me into the lives of others, but when I get there, I sometimes question why and what it is that I really have to offer. Over time, however, I have discovered a strange peace in embracing my limitations, and in admitting that I do not have a solution to every problem. It sounds simple on the outside of a situation, but defining my limitations helps to refocus my attention and strengthens my reliance on God. It also can allow others to find their limitations and deeper reliance on God as well. As I learn to embrace this tension, I am discovering tremendous opportunity for personal growth. I find hope in realizing that when I get to the end of myself, I’ll find God. I just need to step out of the way more. That is what I can offer and ironically, the more I engage life, the more I put myself out there, the more I stretch myself. That also means, however, the more I have to face the limitations of my own abilities. A strangely beautiful cycle and one that, for me, offers meaning and purpose, even in pain of loss and helplessness.   

Also, by engaging in the lives of others, I also see things that are holding me back from living the full life that God has created for me. I am both blessed and helpless at the same time. In the reality of others, I see my own reality. I believe that’s part of God’s plan for us. We are all part of a larger tapestry. I’ve known people that have retreated into isolation, both physically and metaphorically, in an attempt to escape reality, and it makes me wonder if true growth is really possible without passing through the lives of others, without sharing stories, time and space within community, even (and maybe especially) when it hurts.  I’ve learned that there is a huge difference in feeling helpless and feeling hopeless.

So I ask you, are you willing to embrace your limitations? Do you feel the tension between helplessness and hopelessness and if so, how do you deal with it? I really want to know. Let’s share some space.