Tuesday, June 5, 2012

I'm Sorry

   When Allison died, Jim was working with a man who had also buried a little girl. I knew just a few details of her death. . . she was three and had died about 10 years earlier in a traffic accident. We had a somewhat casual relationship with this couple; outside of Jim's office, we only saw them occasionally at chapel or at military social functions.  But, after Allison's death, I expected all that to change. I anticipated that the wife would choose to walk alongside me, to comfort me, and to share her words of wisdom with me. Obviously, she had survived those years since her daughter had died, a feat I could not personally even conceive of doing, and I longed for her to teach me how to live again. I wanted her to speak words of peace and comfort, bring encouragement to my wounded spirit, and answer my questions about simply making it through each day.
   I was wrong.
   Actually, I don't know if Jim had any heartfelt conversations on grief with the husband, but I never had any with the wife. We continued to see each other socially, shared polite and courteous exchanges, and I gradually grew more and more resentful. And, the resentment evolved into a deep anger that uncomfortably leaked out during those required, but brief, social interchanges.
   I'm sorry.  Now, twenty years later, I finally realize what you knew then. . . .there are no magic words of comfort, there's no 'how to' guide filled with all the right things to say and do, and nothing takes away the raw intense pain of new grief. I realize now the struggle you were going through as the death of my little girl must have brought new waves of sadness and loss into your own life. I'm so sorry that I didn't see the anguish my presence must have brought you.  I'm so sorry for expecting the impossible from you.
   As the years have passed, I have become the woman who grieved and survived. I have become the one who persevered through unspeakable loss. And I have become the one who has let others grieve silently, wondering 'why isn't she here? why isn't she walking alongside me?' I could give lots of reasons . . fear, too busy, selfish . . but, in the end, I have no excuse. Yes, I've buried a child, and I've learned so much in the years since. . . but, faced with another's grief, I still don't know what to say or do to ease the pain.
   But, maybe that's the point. . .  it's not about 'saying' or 'doing'. . .it's about being.

Saturday, June 2, 2012

Lost

   I hate getting lost. I have to admit that I've been in that state so often over the years that you would think I would be used to it, but there's just something so terrifying about being lost to a person with absolutely no sense of direction.
   This morning, my job was to take Jim to the Reagan National Airport. That part was easy. . . nice, straight drive up Highway 1, turn right at the sign pointing to the airport. Of course, it also doesn't hurt to have the man with the most perfect sense of direction sitting in the front passenger seat. Quick kiss good-by, move out of the busy drop-off lane, and follow the sign that says 'Airport Exit'. Now, wouldn't you assume that's the correct way to leave an airport? Unfortunately, I didn't notice the small print under the exit sign that said 'North' until it was too late. And there's just no feeling quite like the feeling of finding yourself lost in Washington D.C.
   Jim's a good husband - back in the days before GPS, he always made sure I had a map in my car. What he didn't understand, though, is that a map is not very helpful to a person without the ability to know where she is. But, this is the 21st century and some wonderful people have since invented maps on little tablets with blinking blue dots that show you precisely where you are in this world! And, they even highlight in blue the route you should take to get to your desired destination! How absolutely wonderful! Except. . . when there's no internet service.
   So, there I was, praying, crying, willing the iPad to work, and watching the Washington monument get closer and closer. But you already know the end of the story, because here I am, safe at home, journaling on this blog.
   Philip Yancey's book, Sole Survivor, introduced me to Frederick Buechner who describes faith as an act of discovery, of hearing God speak, not through the miraculous or supernatural, but through the everyday, ordinary, waking up, going to work, and getting lost moments of life. "Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. . . because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace".   Grace.   I can't think of any more beautiful word. Yes, I know I'll get lost again, I'll grieve again, I'll cry again. But, at the beginning, the end, and every little blinking blue dot of every painful, joyful, terrifying moment, there's grace.
   So what do poor little lost girls do when they finally end up in familiar territory? Why, stop at Krispy Kreme of course! I feel much better now.