The Futility of Comparisons

Maddy loves to retrieve her tail.

Yes, you read that correctly: she’s our (dingy, Ritalin-needing) labrador retriever. And one of her favorite objects to retrieve is her own tail. It drives Craig crazy (she doesn’t appear terribly intelligent while doing it, I must admit, though none of us who know Maddy would ever consider her highly intelligent anyway) but I find it pretty amusing. An added benefit is that it keeps her busy. But the utter futility of tail chasing? Oh yes, I’ll grant you that. She’s not getting much exercise since she only spins in circles, and there’s clearly no “object” that she can actually present to Craig or me. Nothing truly retrieved; nothing brought back. Hence the saying that wasting time is likened to “chasing one’s own tail.”

I’ve come to believe that comparing pain…comparing grief…is an act of futility on that same order. I’ve heard over and over that “Losing a child is the worst grief of all. My [mother, father, grandparent] just passed, but that’s expected in the order of life. Losing a child is not supposed to happen, so that’s just…way more hurtful.” The death of a spouse, parent, best friend, relative–all appear to have been demoted in the “pain ratio index,” counting as less, somehow, than a child’s death. It’s as though there’s this international ranking of loss. I’m picturing a website like the NCAA college rankings, with Number One on the list–CHILD–receiving the most votes.

And then there were my contributions to the futility: I grieved anew with the Rick Warrens, telling myself that dealing with a child’s suicide had to be worse than losing my Robb through illness. And what if he’d died in my home? Wouldn’t that add more difficulty? When I heard about a murdered daughter, my mind drifted that direction: wouldn’t that be the worst? But even beyond that….what if he or she were missing, and I had no idea what had happened? My imagination has taken in cancer, prolonged illness, possibly watching my child die slowly until he was nothing more than skin and bones. Is that the ultimate? What is? And why on earth am I wasting time thinking this way anyway?

All of these futile comparisons–distractions, I’ll call them–divert us from the real work we need to be doing: embracing our pain. Owning it. Working through it to grasp God’s love in the midst of that all-absorbing hurt. The constant, gut-wrenching, soul piercing Number One on my Pain Ranking Index is mine and mine alone. I must fight through it alone, and each part of that statement is equally true: I must fully admit it exists (no “Christians don’t need to grieve because we have hope!” denials); I need to embrace my pain and wrestle with it much like Jacob fought with the Angel (I’m here to tell you that grieving is hard work; if you’re not working hard–emotionally, intellectually, spiritually–you haven’t yet made the decision to fully live again in this life, in this journey); and ultimately, it’s about God, me and my pain (no one else can do the tough work for me–no one).

Let’s agree to put aside comparing our pain, shall we? Instead, let’s focus on feeling compassion for each other. Give each other more hugs. Pray more often. And if I don’t know what to say, I can always offer, “I love you. And I’m so sorry that you’re hurting.” No more tail chasing. No more comparisons. Let’s focus on retrieving what’s worthwhile: God’s tangible, touchable love in a desperately hurting world.

I need that, and I know you do too.