I Have to Be Strong

I have heard it 163 times. I bet you have too. Maybe you've even said it yourself. Every time someone dies, someone I know, I hear a survivor say, "I have to be strong for whomever."

Question: Where does this idea come from?

Another question: Whom does it help if we are "strong"?

Answers: The idea that we "have to be strong" does not come from the Bible. As far as I can tell, it is not even written in the works of Shakespeare or the writings of Dante, nor was it said by the famous Don Quixote. Yet is gets repeated over and over and over by people who burden themselves with the idea that they are doing their loved ones good by "being strong." Please rethink this notion.

Yes, there is a passage that could be interpreted as supporting the "being strong" thing. Romans 15:1 states

We then that are strong ought to bear the infirmities of the weak, and not to please ourselves. (KJV)

What this verse is saying is that we should be patient with the failings of others, not that we should be strong for them. This distinction is shown in the New International Version's translation of the same verse:

We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves.

This becomes even more clear, at least in my mind, when we look at mourning in the Bible. As far back as Genesis, I fail to encounter the "being strong" thing but instead I find a heavy emphasis on mourning. For example, upon Jacob's death the Bible says that "Joseph fell up his father's face and wept" (50:1). At Jacob's burial, the Word of God reads that "they mourned with a great and very sore lamentation and he made mourning for his father seven days" (50:10).

David mourned for the deaths of Bathsheba's child, for his son Absalom, for Saul and Jonathan, for Abner. Even Jesus wept at the tomb of Lazarus (John 11:35). Take note that no one backslid when "Jesus wept," no one went back and refused to follow, no one was disillusioned. Instead they noted how Jesus loved him (Lazarus).

When I was a boy, we had a tomcat who was insane. Really, he was a sociopath, the most violent, dangerous feline I have ever know. I remember Dad having to run him out of the house with a broom because he got stirred up and wouldn't settle down but kept attacking anything that moved. He was banished to the outdoors where he roamed away from home sometimes days at a time. He always returned with terrible wounds to his head and he would lie around on the back stoop, stinking because of his infections. There was no taking him to the vet. You did not dare touch him, but left him food and left him alone for your own safety. He did not want your touches or baby talk or any of the other interactions that most cats year for.

He lived like that a couple of years, and then early one summer day we discovered him dead on the back steps. That morning, my mother sat down at the kitchen table and wept for William the insane, mean, dangerous cat. Now, fifty years later it remains my favorite memory of Mom and the most perfect, poignant, noble example of how she was and is and how she raised me and us. Thank God she did not get the memo about "being strong." I really believe that experience translated, transferred something into my soul, something that remains there until this day. Anyone who knows me very well, is aware that I am a fool for cats. I can't help it; it's just the way I am; it's the way my mom made me.

Please remember that when a loved one dies, no one benefits from you "being strong." Your children or grandchildren or whoever is near you need to see your weakness, your tears, your humanity. Instead of being comforted by a brave face, you will be connected by your common humanity by being weak, by being broken, by being a person. Jesus said, "My strength is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 2:9).

When my dad passed, I went through a long period of mourning. Several months after his death, my truck broke down and I instinctively, habitually reached into my pocked for my phone to call him. When things go wrong, who you gunna call? For me, it was always Dad. Before I could began to punch in the numbers, his absence was thrust upon my consciousness in a powerful and profound way. It was not a good day. It was a day of tears and sorrow.

Gradually, the tears became fewer and farther between. More often than cry, I laugh at memories of him being himself, of him being the unique individual he was. Those around me rarely saw my tears then or my laughter now. My granddaughter was one of the few who did. At one gathering, who hugged me and told me she was sorry. I wept. I am sure I did her no harm that day. She remains the most thoughtful, considerate, sweetest child I have ever known.