Strength, loss and the healing that follows when we stop running from pain
Chris Rogers
Director of the Office of Family Life
Aug. 25, 1991, began as a quiet, ordinary day. My parents and sister left early that morning to visit friends who lived several hours away. I woke up late, as most 17-year-olds do and wandered into the kitchen of our empty house. On the counter was a note from my mother: “Before you leave, call your grandfather. He wasn’t feeling well this morning.”
I picked up the phone immediately and called my grandfather. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. I assumed he was feeling better and had gone outside to work in the yard or maybe he had run to the grocery store. Without giving much more thought to it, I got ready to leave for the day.
A friend was coming over so we could locate our classes at the local college, where we would begin our freshman year the next morning. My friend arrived, and just before we left, I said, “Let me call and check on my grandfather really quick.” I called again, and my grandfather answered after two rings. He sounded like I had woken him up from a nap.
Enthusiastically, I asked, “Hey! How are you feeling?” He mumbled something I couldn’t understand. Still thinking he was half asleep, I kept talking, expecting him to wake up fully and respond. But he didn’t. I asked, “Are you okay?” He mumbled what sounded like “Yes,” then quickly followed it with “No,” and then “Yes” again. Something was definitely wrong. “I’m coming over,” I said, and I hung up.
The Sound of the Shatter
Fortunately, my grandfather lived just around the corner. My buddy and I jumped in my car, and I drove as fast as I could to his house. We ran to the front door, rang the doorbell, and knocked, but there was no answer. I tried the doorknob. Locked. We ran to the back of the house to the garage door. Locked. Instinctively, my buddy grabbed a rock and broke the glass in the garage door. I reached in, unlocked it, and we ran to the door that led from the garage into the house.
Locked. Something came over me. I threw my shoulder into the door with everything I had, and in what felt like slow motion, the door flew open. Shards of molding sprayed across the room.
I remember pausing for the briefest moment, staring at the damage and noticing a strength I didn’t know I had. Then I snapped back and ran through the house calling my grandfather’s name. No answer.
I reached his bedroom and saw him lying on the floor. I shook him, but he didn’t respond.
As I stood up to call 911, I noticed the phone in his bedroom had been knocked off the nightstand. He must have collapsed right after we hung up. After calling 911, my buddy came in to help me assess what was happening. Neither of us could find a pulse. The emergency team arrived quickly and began working on my grandfather. My buddy and I waited in the living room.
At some point, I lost all emotion. I went numb and focused only on what I needed to do next. One of the paramedics came into the room, and I asked, “How is he?” The paramedic responded kindly but honestly: “It doesn’t look good.” They transported him to the hospital, and I arrived shortly after. Since my parents were hours away, I was the only person the doctors could speak with. Eventually, the doctor came out and told me there was nothing they could do.
My grandfather had passed away.
Guilt Pierces … and Consumes
For months afterward, people would ask, “How are you doing?” I would answer, “I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t fine. I just didn’t realize it yet.
When my mind finally allowed me to feel again, guilt surfaced more strongly than any other emotion. Guilt that I wasn’t there when the medical event happened. Guilt that I couldn’t save him. The guilt began to consume me.
Eventually, I reached out to a counselor. After I told him the story, he paused for a moment, then stood up and said, “I want you to pretend your grandfather is sitting in this chair. Tell him everything you want to tell him.” It seemed like an odd exercise, but I complied. I said everything I felt I needed to say. Then the counselor said, “Now I want you to sit in that chair.
Pretend you are your grandfather and respond to what you just said—how you think he would respond.” That terrified me. But again, I complied. And the response that came out of me was simple: “You have nothing to feel guilty about. Don’t worry about what happened that day. You were there for me.” That moment felt like stepping into a rainstorm that washed away years of guilt. It was healing; I never thought I would experience it.
The Weight We Learn to Carry
When I reflect on that story, it raises a question: Why didn’t I expect healing? Over the years in ministry, I’ve heard from countless people who are suffering, and many of them do not expect healing either. Suffering becomes familiar. It becomes normal. In some ways, it even becomes part of us. A documentary I recently watched provided me with a powerful image for this.
It explained how sea turtles can become covered in barnacles. The more barnacles they accumulate, the heavier they become. Eventually, the weight makes it hard for them to hunt, and even harder for them to surface for air. But the turtles keep going. In the documentary, filmmakers captured fishermen pulling sea turtles from the water and removing the barnacles. Once cleaned, the turtles were placed back in the ocean, free to swim again. That is what suffering can do to us. We can become so used to carrying pain that it feels like part of who we are. We may stop asking for healing and settle instead for whatever makes the weight manageable.
But that is not how God wants us to live. Yes, pain and suffering are real. But healing is also real and available.
The Masks We Wear
Even then, many people (myself included) choose to suffer in silence because we think it’s easier not to involve anyone else, to suppress it or to wear a mask that hides our weakness.
If we do that long enough, we become good at it. We become experts at projecting the life we want others to see while burying the parts of ourselves we don’t want anyone to know. I’m as guilty as anyone, and I can tell you it is exhausting to live this way.
When I turn the question around and ask myself, “Do I want the people I love to hide what they’re carrying from me?” the answer is obvious: “Absolutely not!” I want to be there for them—to help, to listen and to support. So why do I rob others of the opportunity to do the same for me?
In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus says: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: Love your neighbor as yourself. There is no commandment greater than these.” (Mk 12:30-31)
I have established that I can love my neighbor, but loving myself is often harder. I have had to realize that I am allowed to be flawed. I am allowed to make mistakes. I am allowed to be human. And while being human means I may suffer, being a child of God means I am also allowed to be healed.
Where Healing Actually Shows Up
Healing can come through many ways: family, friendship, a priest, the sacrament of reconciliation, counseling and even the Holy Spirit working through strangers. God places these opportunities in our path constantly; the question is whether we will begin to expect them. That expectation takes practice. Just as we have practiced masking our pain, we must begin a new practice: one of honesty, vulnerability and reaching out.
Let me challenge you with this: stop waiting for healing to happen “someday.” If you are carrying pain, grief, anxiety, shame or wounds from your past, you do not have to carry them alone anymore. You do not have to become “strong enough” before you ask for help.
Healing begins with a decision: I will not suffer in silence.
Take One Concrete Step. Take one step this week to break that silence. It doesn’t have to be a giant leap; it just has to be honest. Call someone you trust and tell them the truth. Schedule an appointment with a professional counselor. Talk with your priest or pastor about what you’re carrying. Seek the healing grace of the sacrament of reconciliation. Ask someone to pray with you after Mass.
Grace Is Not a Reward
“Whatever your step is, take it—because silence is not strength. Whether you find your path forward through counseling, the support of friends, or the healing grace of the sacraments, the important thing is that you no longer carry the weight alone. Grace is not a reward for the strong; it is God’s gift to the wounded. You simply have to take the first step and let the Holy Spirit do the rest.”
To find a nearby Catholic community where you can start your journey, visit parishesonline.com/home.
To connect with a Catholic counselor who can walk with you through your healing, visit wicct.org or scan the QR code below.