We Are Called To Imagine

I am called to imagine and what that means for me is to not say, “I cannot imagine.” I wrote about this quite sometime ago on another forum and it raised quite a few hairs on people’s heads and arms and that’s good. We can agree to disagree, yet I feel immensely passionate about this.

When someone is going through something that has not touched our sphere and they are describing it, replying, “I cannot imagine,” may create a wall, a divide, rather than a bridge where we can meet one another. I know that many bereaved mothers say they would never want another mother to experience this sorrow, I get that, yet it is something we can ask for a small window, a glimpse into whatever may feel unimaginable. Whatever the unimaginable situation may be: a terminal diagnosis, racism, war, homophobia, poverty, hunger, loss, naming only a few.

I will offer an example of how this lands for me. When I was a hospital chaplain and I received a page to go into the hospital for a fetal demise, my heart rate accelerated, my mind began to race to those places of utter disbelief and sorrow for these expectant parents. While driving into the hospital I asked for guidance of how to be with the parents and extended family. I entered in with beginners mind, no matter all the training I had received as I knew I could blow it in a red hot minute if I didn’t remain embodied and in my heart.

There would be a single rose taped on the mother’s door so that they did not have to face inquiries from staff and people who were unaware. I had never experienced a miscarriage nor a still born birth, yet in the moment I was trying to imagine. My only job was to hold the space and to keep other hospital staff from rushing the process. I was available for them to direct me in any way they needed so that they could feel some semblance of control in such an out of control and heartbreaking time.

Brené Brown in her book, Atlas of the Heart, states, “So how do we know what other people are feeling? We ask them. It’s only then we are able to connect with the grounded confidence to engage and the courage to walk alongside. When they tell us what they are feeling, what happened, what they fear or desire, we listen and we become trusted stewards of their stories.”

She goes on to say, “Don’t look away. Don’t pretend not to see hurt. Look people in the eye. Even when the pain is overwhelming. And when you’re hurting and in pain, find the people who can look you in the eye. We need to know that we are not alone when we’re hurting.”

In my early walk with grief, it felt like a conversation stopper when I heard, "I can't imagine." It did not feel comforting and then often I was sent into a consoling role for the listener, rather than feeling them coming a step closer to me. I wanted my people to stand on the edge of the abyss with me, they didn't need to jump in, yet I longed for them to take a step closer and to witness. I sensed they might be running an internal tape of, "If child loss can happen to Joanie, it could happen to me too." I don't need anyone to join this awful club none of us ever imagined signing up for. However, what I do hope is that for even a nano second you might try to imagine.

I strongly believe we are each called to imagine. It's a muscle that is strengthened as it's used and it receives a workout when one is showing up, listening and allowing others to take us where they ask us to go. Do I always do it well? No, I don't. Might I mess it up? Yes, I will and often. However, "Proximity breeds empathy," as Tyler Merritt, in his book, I Take My Coffee Black, so poignantly shares and it invites and encourages me to never stop trying to imagine.