Grieving Like A 7

It was Monday morning. My husband walks down the stairs, turns the corner into our kitchen and says to me, “There is no way you’re a 2. You are definitely a 7.”

PAUSE

Ok. If you are suddenly wondering if we speak a different language at our house or have some sort of Salte Family Code (which would be pretty cool), I can assure you that we are not quite that creative or committed to learning new languages. However, we have both become very interested in the Enneagram these last few months. If that also feels like a different language, I understand completely. The Enneagram is a personality typing that helps you identify not just what you do but why. What are your core desires, motivations, fears? 

Now, the Enneagram is not the Gospel. My identity is in Christ and I live tucked up in His love. However, as with any personality typing, it can be a helpful tool to give words to strength and weakness, keeping our eyes open so that we can be a bit quicker to depend on Jesus in places of suffering and pain.

UNPAUSE

“A 7?! Really??” I threw back to my husband. To be honest, I had never even read the 7 description. I had ruled myself out of that camp right at the start. My best friend is a 7 and I’m not like her, so I figured I’m not a 7. 

“WHAT IS A 7??” I hear you yelling that in your head. A 7 is an enthusiast! Yes, I use too many exclamation marks! That should have been a tip-off! 

From the Enneagram Institute:

“Sevens are extroverted, optimistic, versatile, and spontaneous. Playful, high-spirited, and practical, they can also misapply their many talents, becoming over-extended, scattered, and undisciplined. They constantly seek new and exciting experiences, but can become distracted and exhausted by staying on the go. They typically have problems with impatience and impulsiveness. At their Best: they focus their talents on worthwhile goals, becoming appreciative, joyous, and satisfied.”

I read this description and immediately felt like there were eyes on me. Who has been stalking me? Creeping on me? How does it KNOW me? The basic fear of a 7 is to be deprived or in pain. Their basic desire is to be satisfied and content with their needs fulfilled.

People have told me that I’m a lot like my dad. If I had to guess, I would say that my dad was also a 7. In fact, it’s not much of a guess. I’m about 99% sure that he was a 7. He loved doing things with people. He didn’t really care what the activity was as long as it was with people. He was enthusiastic about new experiences and loved to dream up ideas, holidays, whatever. He was able to tune in well to the person in front of him and there are so many that would count him as an influencer in their lives. He was lively and fun, had the best laugh, was an animated storyteller. Perhaps a bit impulsive and spontaneous, but loved to take people along with him for the ride. He loved his people and God well, He loved abundantly. I love my dad. Just over two weeks ago, he passed away. That’s a strange sentence to even write, but if I don’t write it down I might never begin to believe that it’s real.

I have always been an optimistic and enthusiastic person. I can’t help it. I can easily see the beauty and wonder in the world around me, that’s where my attention lingers. And so in hard situations I can’t help but believe the best, about people, about circumstances, about God. I know that I have frustrated friends and family with my approach to life, “Be real, Mel” they say, “Tell us how you’re really feeling”. And I assure them that my optimistic response is my true self. I’m not faking it. This is how I see the world. 

But don’t let this lead you to believe that it’s not hard. Hard things are hard and they shouldn’t be easy. Many, many nights in the years leading to my dad’s death, I cried and begged and yelled at God to heal my incredible dad, my children’s amazing grandfather. And God held me in His goodness while I was angry. That was hard.

The afternoon before my dad died, I sat beside him with my head leaning on the side of his hospital bed while I held his hand. He moved to put his hand on my cheek and he couldn’t. He was too weak. And I cried. That was hard. 

The Sunday evening at my parent’s church, my dad’s still body in his casket, ready to be mourned and grieved by family and friends and I couldn’t bring myself to go and look. I had a stop in my gut, my feet couldn’t move and I had to take a few minutes before I could go. But I did go and look and say goodbye once again. That was hard.

That same evening, I had stepped away to feed my kids in the back Sunday School room of the church. I made my way back to the large room where the viewing was taking place and I could not walk into that room packed full with people. That is not a feeling I have felt before. A room full of people usually means a good time. Not this time. This time I was overwhelmed and wanted to leave. But I didn’t. I found my brothers and we walked through those doors together. That was hard. 

The burial. Nobody talks much about how hard the burial is going to be. I am so grateful for the Mennonite traditions of my parents. One of the most meaningful is how they bury their loved ones. The day before the burial, brothers, nephews, and sons gather and dig the grave of the one they will bury. The next day, my dad was lowered into the ground by hand and myself alongside my brothers began to fill the wide gaping hole. After a few shovelfuls, others came alongside, took our shovels from us and continued the work with all the love and grief and sadness and longing flowing from their very beings into the dirt that they moved. We held each other and we wept. The tearing away as the casket became hidden by this red dirt was so very final. The shovels continued to move, the hole continued to fill and about halfway through, I felt like I could take a real breath. The weeping subsided for the moment and as they tamped down the dirt, I felt my last finger let go and I could walk away from that place. That was hard.

Tonight, as I was cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, I stood still for a second and realized I couldn’t recall my dad’s unmistakable laugh. It came back to me, but that moment was a punch in the gut and I’m sad. That is hard. 

Hard things are hard and they shouldn’t be easy. To pretend that this is easy would completely dishonor and discredit the beautiful history and relationship my dad and I shared. 

But I also went out to see a movie with my husband last night for the first time in, um, probably two years ( I am not exaggerating!) at the coolest theatre with the best seats and the most delicious popcorn. And we ate pancakes this morning and took the kids to the most amazing playground with a splash park and the sun was actually shining and we ate ice cream after supper! Today filled all of our buckets to overflowing. It was beautiful. 

In Annie F. Down’s book, Remember God, she says, “Life can be painful and beautiful at the exact same time.” (p.117) And that’s what I’m finding. Beauty and pain, the dark and the lovely coexisting at the same time. 

And so, in the days ahead I promise to be honest about the hard, the pain, the dark. But I can’t live in those places constantly. Whether you’re a 7 or not, that’s just not sustainable. But I promise to be honest and lean in a bit when I would rather pull away.

And I promise to be honest about the beauty I see in the world. My enthusiasm is authentic. My heart really does feel like it’s going to explode when I see a beautiful sunset. I can’t help it!

These are my promises. I want to grieve and remember well, letting the tears come when they come. And I want to continue to be enraptured by the beauty of God and the gifts he gives us each day. That’s how I want to live, as a 7, as an enthusiast, but most of all as a child of God Himself, the one who brings beauty out of this pain.