The blessings in the brokenness

I have to say that despite sixteen years of formal education, the lessons I’ve learned in the past two years have far surpassed what I was taught in school.

First came the Parkinson’s diagnosis, then the sudden loss of my dear wife Jody. Fear, anxiety, sadness, anger, uncertainty—these unwanted emotions have become my traveling companions. At times, it’s felt like I’ve been served a never-ending diet of “shit sandwiches,” and it’s taken everything I’ve had just to rise above my circumstances.

In truth, it’s taken more than I’ve had. I could never have done this alone. I’ve had to lean on tools, people, and—most importantly—a God of my understanding, to help me transcend the pain I’ve felt.

One of the greatest lessons I’ve learned is the importance of letting others help me. Our culture teaches us to be fiercely self-reliant, and for many men, accepting help can feel like a weakness. But when Jody passed, one of the most unexpected gifts I received was a meal train. For two months, people brought me dinner every other day, and offered the chance for brief visits when I was up to it. The kindnesses shown me during those dark days still bring me to tears. It was a profound reminder that we don’t have to carry our burdens alone.

Another thing that’s helped me heal is managing my expectations of others. Some people struggle to respond when death is brought up, either because it stirs up their own grief or because they feel uncomfortable around someone who is grieving, almost as if it might be ‘contagious’. I was surprised by who stepped up, and equally surprised by who didn’t. But I get it now. I’ve learned that when someone you love is diagnosed with a serious illness, or grieving the loss of someone close, the most important thing you can do is simply show up. Don’t try to fix them, don’t offer empty platitudes—just sit with them in their grief. And not just in the first few weeks, when everyone is still in shock. Show up months later, when the world has moved on, and they’re still struggling.

Another strategy that’s been invaluable for me is something called “act as if.” When I’d find myself mired in self-pity or feeling stuck after my Parkinson’s diagnosis, I would focus on the opposite quality I needed to cultivate. If I was feeling hopeless, how could I shift to hopefulness? If I didn’t feel loving, how could I act in a loving way, trusting that the feelings would follow? Choosing to act “as if” I was hopeful, or that I was loving led to hopeful and loving actions—small things like getting outside for a walk, calling a friend instead of waiting for the phone to ring, or manifesting kindness. When I made decisions that aligned with the person I wanted to be, my feelings often followed. If I had waited for my feelings to change before taking action, I would have missed out on so many things.

Finally, my faith has deepened immeasurably through all of this. I quickly realized that I couldn’t carry this weight on my own. I needed Someone who could bear it with me, someone I could trust to take my suffering and transform it. Not a “Santa Claus” God who gives me what I want, but a God who walks with me in my pain, who mourns with me, strengthens me, and guides me back to the right path. The blessings I’ve received, and the ones I’ve been able to pass on, continue to leave me speechless, in awe of a higher power who meets me in my darkest hours.

Richard Rohr, the Christian writer, says, “If you don’t transform your pain, you transmit it.” I am committed—just for today—to transform my pain into something that serves others, and helps me create a new life that is beyond my wildest expectations. For that, I am truly grateful.

Love you all