i am inadequate

It started very innocently, as it usually does.  

Taking care of the tedious tasks of Sunday afternoon -- cleaning up around the kitchen, waiting for lasagna to cook -- I glance and see my antique Ball jars sitting on the end table.  Dusty. Dingy. Old.
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Just the day before I was at our niece's open house.  Their Ball jars sparkled, filled with perfect, pretty flowers. Impeccable. Pristine.  I mentioned my lack of domesticity to my sister in law, who laughed it off.  "Try vinegar".  Obviously. So silly. I should have thought of that already.
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Tears pool until they can't be contained.  The dirty Ball jars taunt me. Inadequacy, my familiar guest, slips into the room.  "You don't even know how to clean a jar.  What kind of wife are you?" 
("His mother would know how")

It takes a moment for me to compose myself.  I remind myself that my husband has no use for clean Ball jars.  He has never asked for them.  In fact, I'm confident that he's never even noticed they were dirty.  This burden is my own.  No one put this on me except for myself.

When one you love deeply has suffered from profound loss, it seems right to try to compensate--to do whatever is in your power to fill the hole that is suspended there, to try to make up for what is lacking.  I wish it were possible.   But I know that I can't--I can't be my husband's mother or father.  I can't recreate the home he was forced to vacate.  Even if I could reproduce every aspect, it wouldn't be enough.  Because I am not adequate.  

And then there is the lasagna.  It is a meal for my sister, who recently cremated her only child, who daily struggles with losses that are stacking up like heavy books about to topple.  I doubt my ability to provide any comfort or hope or peace.  I am inadequate. Nothing I do or say will make up for what is missing.

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I'm not looking for encouragement here.  I don't need you or anyone else to write a single comment that tells me that I am making a difference.  That I have gifts and skills that make up for the dirty jars. That my lasagna matters.  That my efforts have affect.  You don't have to tell me, because I already know that they do.  

Even with that knowledge, I own this truth.  I am not adequate.  

Notice that I didn't say that I feel inadequate.  I said that I am inadequate.  And, if you are honest, you will know that it is true of yourself as well.  You may have a strong sense of empathy, or maybe even a degree in psychotherapy.  Maybe you've experienced loss yourself and feel a bit of an expert on the subject of grief.  It doesn't matter.  You and I are both inadequate.  All of the good we can do, all of the hope we can offer, all of the support and love and gifts of time and talent are not enough to compensate for what has been lost.

And this is exactly the time that I thank God that I am a Christian.  I thank Him that I have hope and faith and trust,  that I can believe that there is more to this life than these present sufferings.  That the shadow of grief that outlines all of life's joy and sorrow will someday be completely gone. 

And it isn't only faith in the intangible.  It's also the personal experience of feeling the presence of the Holy Spirit, the one who is adequate at calming the inner longings of a heart torn apart by grief.