by Catherine Rider
I’ve often heard it said that comparison is the thief of joy. I believe it wholeheartedly. But joy is not the only emotion we habitually compare.
In the last several years, as I’ve become more open about my own experiences with grief, I sometimes find myself being asked for advice from others. One of the most common phrases I hear to preface the ask is, “I know that this is not as bad as what you’ve gone through, but…”
Every time I hear this phrase, my heart breaks a little more. I used to think similar thoughts. But grief and trauma are hard enough to navigate by themselves and comparing them only makes it harder.
Photo by Omar Ramadan on Unsplash
As a teenager, I grappled with the idea and reality of suffering in the aftermath of a traumatic experience. I wrestled with questions like “what kind of God would allow such suffering?” and “If there is no point to suffering, what is the point of continuing to suffer?” I could not settle into the idea that there is no point in suffering – a world full of suffering for nothing, no reason at all? That seemed worse to me than a God who allowed suffering.
I found solace in my Catholic faith. As Catholics, we believe that suffering is an act of hope in the resurrection. The Catechism (paragraph 1505) tells us:
Moved by so much suffering Christ not only allows himself to be touched by the sick, but he makes their miseries his own: “He took our infirmities and bore our diseases.”…. By his passion and death on the cross Christ has given a new meaning to suffering: it can henceforth configure us to him and unite us with his redemptive Passion.
Why, then, do we diminish our suffering or compare it to someone else’s?
Why is our gut reaction to suffering to think that we shouldn’t find it such a challenge?
Why do we stuff it away and ask what is so wrong with us that we can’t just get over it?
When I first began the journey through infertility and recurrent loss, I felt out of place. My babies all passed very early. In between babies, there were many negative tests. I knew the pain of those negative tests, but I had seen positive ones, too. I had seen positive tests, but I hadn’t made it far into pregnancy like other mothers. I didn’t even get to become very attached to the idea of being pregnant before I was no longer pregnant. Yes, it was sad and painful, but perhaps not like another woman’s pain – hers was so much worse.
When Christ came to earth and took on our flesh, He also elevated certain aspects of our existence. When Jesus turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana, he elevated marriage to a sacrament. Jesus came to St. John the Baptist and in doing so, He established baptism as a sacrament. At the Last Supper, He instituted the Eucharist. He fed the hungry, He comforted the afflicted. In every action that Jesus takes, there is a call for us to do the same.
In the Gospels, we also see something incredible: we see Him weep. He wept for his dead friend upon news of his death – His dead friend whom He intended to revive. He knew the ending. He knew Lazarus would be brought back to life, and He still wept. He was still overcome with grief for His friend. He wept for Jerusalem. And He wept in the garden, at the thought of taking up His own Cross. In those moments, Jesus shows us that to grieve is part of being human and that grief can be holy. So, again, why would we diminish our own cross because of an idea that our particular suffering should not feel so hard?
As I have grown in faith, and in grief, I have come to realize that part of taking up one’s cross is acknowledging its heaviness in your own life. My response to anyone who comes to me and says some version of “I know it’s not a bad/hard/difficult as X…” has become, “A cross is a cross is a cross, and they are all hard”. Jesus tells us to take up our cross and follow Him. He doesn’t ask us to rationalize our cross or make it little.
Yes, comparison is a thief of joy, but comparison is also a thief of grief.
By qualifying our grief, we cut off avenues of community and compassion, we deny others the chance to minister to us and for our suffering to help others. We cut off the very path to grace; when we deny our grief, we deny ourselves the ability to move through the grief and move closer to God. We deny ourselves the chance to take up our cross and follow Him.
Catherine Rider is a writer, musician, and ecologist in south Alabama. She has one living child and many saints. She loves exploring that ways that nature reflects our Creator and how nature’s own systems can be inspiration for healing and peace.