I love RomComs. The template for a good one is generally the same and includes the brokenhearted protagonist reeling from the loss of a loved one (think Dan in Real Life, for example). Everyone who loves this protagonist will affectionally cajole them into getting ‘back on the market’ so they can ‘move on’ because they ‘deserve to be happy.’ And if the protagonist (again, like in Dan in Real Life) is the kind of person you want to be happy then of course you feel like you want happiness for them, too! You might even find yourself leaning toward the TV from your couch in affirmation.
But in recent years, having experienced deep loss for the first time in my life, I began to understand why it is the protagonist had such trouble hearing the words of those loved ones. Grief can, for a season, close your ears to admonitions which make you feel like you’re going to forget those you’ve lost. Or that you need to forget. But then again, you do not want to feel this miserable forever; you want to move on and you don’t want to move on. You want to be happy again but you don’t because it feels wrong. And this see-saw can go on for a long time and even when you make movement toward feeling whole again, a gaping hole sits in the middle of your heart and you have this sense it cannot be full again.
I have not lost a spouse. My parents are still alive. My children are healthy. But in the last few years I have experienced loss. No matter the scenario, it is impossible to quantify how much grief takes away; spaces in your life no longer exist or normal rhythms wither to the point where they are shadows of their former self. You always sense its absence, and you long for its renewal. But sometimes—frequently, even—nothing arrives, and you begin to wonder if anything might soften the blow. It is in these spaces when despair’s siren may sound like freedom and apathy becomes our disposition. If, we believe, it will always turn out badly for us, why even try? Why consider the possibility of goodness? Augustine once wrote two things will kill a soul: despair and false hope. Both predicate on the notion that hope and all which follows from her are lies, or at the very least they are lies for me. If despair and false hope will kill a soul, what ever might bring life?
One year ago today my younger brother died suddenly at the age of 35, leaving behind a beautiful little boy. Since then, I have had to fight all those things that will kill a soul. I have cried until the only thing left to do is clamp my eyes closed and make what can only be described as a dry heave; I have often thought of resigning from my job because of how often I've felt so angry with God or with how little time I spent pleading for His help. If I cannot break out of this sense of despair, I thought, how am I supposed to help young students to do the same? I have at times felt like I’m living in a dream, and I just so desperately want to wake up. As a friend recently described to me that “time flies when you’re miserable. But it also crawls.”
Just a few weeks ago I wrote about my relationship with my brother. The last year has been reckoning more than recovery; coming to terms with how I lived with him instead of grieving the presence of his absence. It is only in recent weeks I’ve been able to do the latter with any seriousness.
I have frequently wondered what I might say to him and so to others (myself included) who feel stuck in despair, who sense that they have made such a mess of their life that they cannot crawl out, who begin to believe those dulcet tones that keep you prisoner to your own despair instead of letting sadness heal and give you freedom. Perhaps for a time it is nothing, for some things need not be quickly pronounced but quickly practiced; often presence does more good than words. But we must remind ourselves too also that “pleasant words are a honeycomb, sweet to the taste and health to the body” (Proverbs 16:24). Words are good and they carry, keep, and shape us toward something. They can help us remake what has been unmade. What could I say? I think I would say what has often carried, kept, and shaped me over the last year:
It is good that you exist.
I first discovered this line in Josef Pieper’s striking work, Faith, Hope, and Love, at the beginnings of the pandemic. In the time since the idea has taken on a richer meaning, fueled by grief and the presence of shattered hopes and dreams. These words can be spoken by anyone at any time. It does not require a level of training or education to meaningfully suggest to another that their presence in this world is good and their absence would be felt. In these simple words some may hear, perhaps for the first time, their existence is not a burden, their presence is not a hindrance to another’s happiness, and you love them simply because they exist. No performative measures, no checklist of achievements (or failures). Simply and truly: I am glad you are here.
Love says to another, “it is good that you exist.” It does not ask them to justify their existence. Instead it invites them into beginning to see what they have been unable to so far. It is not the final word spoken or, perhaps, even the highest. But it is important.
Are you burdened by grief and the weight of a loss? It is good that you exist.
Are you overwhelmed by unexpected turns of events in your life? It is good that you exist.
Do you sense your life has little meaning beyond the falls and failures you’ve accrued? It is good that you exist.
This is no mere mawkish bromide said only to placate; it is deeply meaningful. It says to another that they are valuable, worthy of your attention, and so also very meaningful to God. Often those who despair are lonely, desperate for meaningful connection. What more could be said to them that helps them begin to see the goods of their existence and the wonders of what God has for them—even in their lowest moments? Especially in their lowest moments? Your pain is not wasted and your grief has a goal. He withholds no good things from us. It is good that you exist.
You cannot so easily dismiss a person when you are grateful for their presence. It is harder to give up on someone when you know what life might be available to them if they just hear that it is good that they exist, and you are glad they are in this world. Perhaps it might even be harder for you to give up on yourself.
In my experience posts like this can relate some notion that these words, if said enough, will change everything. Let me disabuse of this: it will not. Words are not magic and we cannot wave a wand and make reality different by them. But we can begin the slow work of articulating the goods of created order around us through them and shine a light of hope to creatures who need it like we need air.
Robert Spaemann once wrote that humans are deeply anticipatory creatures and so we have difficulty waiting for what we expect to happen. Often, we are surprised when it does not arrive and this can make us feel like we are struggling to see the field(s) of vision before us. Perhaps we are. Perhaps grief or pain clouds our judgments and our paths. But carrying a simple truth in our pocket like “it is good you exist” might help us see the contours of the land with a bit more clarity once the fog has lifted.
Hope and patience are tightly related. Patience is good. Patience demonstrates a love that hopes all things. Patience reminds us our life has purpose but it often arrives at different times and different ways. Patience enlarges our capacity for good work, the kind that takes time to direct but even longer to sustain. Waiting means trusting. Longsuffering is hard. In times of plenty and times of need a simple admonition can strengthen the soul to stagger onward rejoicing.
It is good that you exist. I am glad you are in this world.