Calling It What It Is: A Cross
By Jen Scheuermann
I didn’t see it coming
It was a diagnosis I never expected. A storm I didn’t know we were sailing into. One that developed slowly, intermittently filling our home with fierce rain and howling winds. Learning of its presence brought disbelief. But somehow, it also made perfect sense, answering years of unasked questions.
As I’ve watched my husband struggle through this diagnosis, I’ve questioned God about His plan: How could this possibly be the best way? More often, though, I’ve begged God to show me how to love my husband through this diagnosis. How to be the caretaker he sometimes needs while still being the wife he deserves. And considering my other vocations of motherhood and healthcare provider, I’ve reduced my identity to that of caregiver, assuming God created me for the purpose of caring for others. So I’ve pushed my feelings aside, declared “Thy will be done,” and worked hard to fulfill this calling.
Now as a healthcare worker, I know that a patient is not their diagnosis. But experience has shown me that living with someone is not the same as seeing them during an office visit, and being someone’s wife is very different from being their healthcare provider. And if I’m honest, some days the line separating my husband from his diagnosis is a pale and blurry one.
In sickness and in health
I crumpled beneath the weight of my anger and exhaustion, landing in a heap on the cold bathroom floor. The last few weeks had been particularly challenging, and feelings I’d worked hard to ignore now bellowed, demanding my attention:
I didn’t ask for any of this, I silently screamed as tears ran down my face. This wasn’t at all what I pictured when I said “I do.” Some days my marriage is the hardest part of my life.
No sooner had I acknowledged these feelings, a scorn-filled voice began to whisper: What kind of woman speaks this way about her husband? About her marriage? Your husband did not choose this path; your marriage is a blessing.
Shame and sorrow filled me. I didn’t want to consider, much less own these feelings. But sitting on the floor that day I finally realized that ignoring my feelings had led only to being crushed beneath them.
Calling it what it is
With no doubt I’d choose to marry my husband a thousand times again. But this diagnosis that came with him? I didn’t choose it.
It was unexpected. Uninvited. Unwanted.
Neither my husband nor I can change it.
Viewing it in this light I realized: This diagnosis is a cross.
But can I claim my husband’s cross as my own? And how could I even consider such a thing when I sometimes struggle to see where the diagnosis ends and my husband begins?
Drowning beneath the weight of my shame and these questions, I picked up my phone, finally reaching for a lifeline. Opening the notepad I began to type, unleashing the feelings I’d fought to ignore. Tentative at first, my fingers soon gained speed, pulling me to shore.
Typing, erasing, retyping.
Reading, rereading, crying.
And finally giving voice to all of my hard feelings.
Walking in truth
God met me in the keyboard that day, and as His fingers touched mine, He reminded me of the beautiful, though sometimes painful, truth of marriage: Through this sacrament my husband and I have become one. That which affects my husband absolutely affects me, too. Therefore I can—and should—consider this unexpected, uninvited, and unwanted diagnosis of his to be a cross that I’m also asked to carry. But our marriage sacrament does more than unite us. It also makes available to us the grace we both need to walk this difficult road together, even, and especially, when it feels like it’s the most difficult part of our lives.
In the months that followed God continued to chase me with the Truth. Books, music, homilies, podcasts—He used every available vehicle to remind me over and over that I was created first and foremost as His beloved daughter, for the sole purpose of being loved by Him. Yes, caring for those around me is something I’m called to do, but it never declares who I am. Remembering my true identity and rooting myself in the Truth helped me recognize that the shame surrounding all of my hard feelings was never from God. And as a result, the weight I’d been carrying—the weight that was crushing me—got a little bit lighter.
A new day. Another storm.
It’s raining again, and the wind is starting to howl. The storm is strengthening. In some ways not much has changed since I sat on the bathroom floor months ago, purging the contents of my bruised heart into the notepad of my phone: I still consider my husband’s diagnosis a burden I never asked to carry.
But in other ways, everything is different...
I have a little more patience during times I used to snap. I have a little more energy when I was once exhausted. And I find it a little easier to remain present when I want to retreat.
Perhaps this heart shift stems from remembering my true identity as Christ’s beloved. Perhaps it’s because I now recognize the enemy of my soul as the real source of my shame. Or maybe it’s because I’ve finally allowed myself to acknowledge this impossibly heavy load as a cross. Because only after doing so was I able to lay down my self-sufficient spirit, a necessary step in opening my heart to receive the grace He offers—grace that helps carry my cross when it’s crushing me, and grace that carries me when I can’t take another step.
It’s true, this cross is a burden I never asked to carry. But sometimes when I lift it, I can feel Jesus’ hand brush mine. And in those moments I know the truth: This cross is a burden I am blessed to help carry.
