BoomerGirl Diary

Loud noises turn me into a nervous wreck. If my husband ever wanted to collect on our insurance policy he would only have to come behind me and shout. Despite therapy, prayer, meditation and other modalities, my guts still give me the heave-ho when I hear raised voices. I become a blithering eejit of a human specimen. This goes back to childhood. My father became an alcoholic when I was four years old. His bingeing continued through my early teenage years.

Alcohol turned the otherwise happy man into a monster. He shouted, raged, and was physically abusive to my mother. I often hurled my 5-year-old body between them trying to shield her. When she locked him out of the house in an effort to protect us, his kicking and shouting drove indelible terror into my fragile heart.

Every night we prayed. “Dear God, please let daddy stop drinking.” My mother never wavered. She believed God listened to children. We had short periods of respite when my father avoided drinking. Besides prayer, mother’s main way of coping was to provide a “good table.” She took great pride in saying that in spite of everything — including my father spending most of his wages on drink — her children were well fed.

“We always have butter; never margarine.”

I wondered why this mattered. There were times when I wanted to scream: “Take the food off the table and let us starve. Just sit down and admit how painful our lives are. Food doesn’t take away the pain.”

I noticed how people tried to encourage my mother.

“Things will get better, Lily; they always do. Things could always be worse.”

They were right, and they were wrong. Things did not get better. They were often worse during that 10-year-period. Eventually my father found AA, and the shouting stopped.

That painful, terrifying period of my life gave me a package I didn’t request. When opened, it contained the gift of helping me become a more empathic person. Because of it, I don’t try to make things better for people who are in emotional pain or offer platitudes in an attempt to make them feel better. I listen with my heart.

After the funeral of my friends’ 2-year-old daughter, they thanked me profusely for the help I had given them.

“Help?” I murmured. “All I did was remain speechless and cry with you.” “That’s just what we needed,” they said.

Most religious people give thanks for blessings when things go well. They see it as a sign of God’s favor. This is true but only part of the picture. God can also give the gift of blessings during periods of pain. My closest friends have stood beside me in times of deep sorrow. They gave me the gifts of their presence, listening hearts, and prayer.

Have you received gifts in a pain package?

How do you use these gifts to support others?

What gifts have friends given you in times of suffering?