This quote in Elias Chacour’s memoir, Blood Brothers, stopped me in my tracks when I read it. While the particulars are not important for my purposes in writing today, the quote stands alone with a singular truth:
“She took on a gentle strength, and to anyone around her it gave the solidness of hope.”
Firstly, the adjective “gentle” to describe a person’s strength leapt off the page. These two words seem to be diametrically opposed to one another. Gentle versus strong. I can settle more easily with the term “quiet strength,” but “gentle strength” has more nuance. With “quiet strength,” I picture a solitary person shouldering burdens without complaint. But with “gentle strength,” there is more action invoked, as I picture someone actively projecting an air of calm to those who are in a difficult situation. Doing things that provide a sense of strength.
Then there is the term “solidness of hope.” How can hope be solid when it is really just an illusory idea? There is nothing innately tangible about hope. Here, though, as it describes a person, there may be a grounding in witnessing someone else’s strength. A person leaning into his or her own self-rootedness is solid evidence of strength. Hope transforms from an idea into a realized truth.
So now, when I strip away those two adjectives, I am left with the idea that strength gives hope to others.
Appearing strong in the face of adversity can quiet unease in others around you. This was certainly one of my roles as a physician. I was the calm, competent face of strength when addressing a patient’s fears about their health. Maybe this attitude gave hope to my patients—hope that I would, at the least, stand with them through whatever health crises arose.
In private settings, some people put on the cloak of strength because they feel that they have to be strong for their loved ones, believing that their friends and family couldn’t handle it if they themselves became unmoored.
But that is not an authentic response to a difficult situation if one is truly feeling broken. Yes, it may be appropriate and the kind thing to do, but there eventually has to be a reckoning with oneself and one’s particular circumstances.
During Harvey’s time with Alzheimer’s disease, I do feel that I exhibited strength. I didn’t really know how else to be. There was so much that had to be done, so many balls in the air to juggle, that I didn’t feel that I had any other option.
Too, yes, I wanted to appear strong for our daughters’ sake. I felt that it would be better for their mental health to see me calm and carrying on. They did know that it was difficult for me, and I did relay some of the burdens I shouldered. And they knew. I just rarely let them see me cry.
I could more easily exhibit vulnerability with certain close friends. I didn’t have to be strong for them or around them. They were strong for me.
Although I’m not sure that I could have made a presentation or spoken to a group with fortitude in the midst of Harvey’s illness, now, as I write and speak to audiences who are living through situations similar to mine, I hope that my strength shines through.
My prayer is that I exhibit a gentle strength that leads to solid hope.