Death was the first guest to arrive, followed closely by his good friends, Sadness, Anger, and Shock. Despair tried to sneak in behind them, but he was turned away at the door. There seemed to be some kind of problem with his ID or invitation, which was a relief to me, because he was horribly scary. Confusion arrived just a few minutes later with an entrance that sent the entire party into a tizzy! He must have turned up the volume on the speakers, because suddenly the noise level in the room became intense and overwhelming. I think someone said something about some kind of scam, it's just hearsay and we shouldn't believe it; it's all lies, one guest said, but I wasn't sure what they were talking about. The noise level was increasing, and my head was pounding. I found myself hoping and praying that this whole crazy party was just a horrible nightmare. . . surely I would wake up soon to my pleasant, quiet, dependable life. Please let me wake up soon, I begged!
But as the night wore on, the party seemed to escalate and I even noticed a few of the guests in a physical altercation in one of the back rooms. "Stop!", I finally shouted! "Didn't you read your invitations? They were printed with clear instructions to arrive at designated times specifically designed to prevent this ghastly revelry! Now, get out, get out!" There was just a brief moment of silence following my verbal outburst, then the laughter started. . .horrible, shrill, demeaning laughter. My legs buckled under me, and I fell to the floor, weeping.
Days, weeks, months passed. I lost all track of time. The guests were still there. But, as I walked through the house one morning, I began to notice new faces in the crowd, some with vaguely familiar features. Feeling somewhat adventurous, I started down a darkened hallway and heard a curious noise behind a closed door. This was still my house, and I had a right to know who was there, so I boldly pushed open the door and stared, unbelieving at the sight before me. Sunshine poured through the windows and Joy and Hope were laughing and dancing around the room. "Where did you come from? How long have you been here? What are you doing?" The questions poured out of me, but my guests just grabbed me by the hands and pulled me into their blissful waltz. Time seemed to slow as precious memories of happier days filled my head, but the calm repose didn't last long as voices from the hallway began shouting and sobbing once again. My time in the sunroom with these old friends had been so precious . . . I was desperate to grab a few more minutes with them, but other guests were once again demanding my attention.
Will this party ever end, I screamed out to no-one. And there was no answer.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
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.
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.
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.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Grace and Truth
Recently, I participated in a Bible study entitled "Grace and Truth" based on the verse from John 1:14 - "The Word became flesh and took up residence among us. We observed His glory, the glory as the One and Only Son of the Father, full of grace and truth." Jesus represents total 'grace', the sacrificial, forgiving love and endless mercy of the Father, as well as 'truth', the impossibly high standards of the law: "be ye perfect, therefore, as your Heavenly Father is perfect" (Matthew 5:48).
Wow! What a huge chasm separates these 2 concepts! At times, I can feel myself scaling the cliffs of grace; other times, I'm drowning in the deep waters of truth.
This past year, Jim and I have been running together several times a week and working on memorizing Scriptures while we run. Of course, I'm the one that struggles with actually putting one foot in front of the other instead of just passing out on the trail! So, we came up with the great idea of memorizing verses about running (surely it couldn't hurt!). Currently, we're working on Hebrews 12:1-2, "let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith." The more we talked and thought about that verse, the more it felt like a lifeboat in those floodwaters of truth! Yes, I am called to a high standard that I continually fail to reach, but my Savior, full of grace and truth, is not only the origin of my faith but, also, the One who promises to bring it to full maturity! Unfortunately, though, just like the Apostle Peter, I have a hard time keeping my 'eyes fixed on Jesus', especially when the giant waves of life are surging over me. . . but, I can just imagine Him reaching down His hand, like a father reaching for his little child, and gently pulling me back to His boat of grace!
As I continue to ponder these verses, I'm struck again with the need for honesty. If I'm not honest in my own reflections of myself, my sins, and my constant failure to be 'perfect' or 'sweet' or 'good' or any other self-affirming adjective you might choose, where is the need for grace? And, if I'm not aware of my own desperate need for grace, how can I manifest grace to others who are just as desperate? How do I sit with others, screaming at God in pain and grief, and offer love and grace? How do I, without judgment, listen to a friend's struggle with doubt and fear? Growing up in the Bible Belt, I was comfortable with the blacks and whites of right and wrong. Now, I'm not so sure. . . I'm a flawed, broken crayon living in a box filled with countless broken colors desperate for a touch from the Great Physician. And, if God is glorified when we "accept each other just as Christ has accepted you" (Romans 15:7), then who am I to argue? Thank God, for grace and truth!
This past year, Jim and I have been running together several times a week and working on memorizing Scriptures while we run. Of course, I'm the one that struggles with actually putting one foot in front of the other instead of just passing out on the trail! So, we came up with the great idea of memorizing verses about running (surely it couldn't hurt!). Currently, we're working on Hebrews 12:1-2, "let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of our faith." The more we talked and thought about that verse, the more it felt like a lifeboat in those floodwaters of truth! Yes, I am called to a high standard that I continually fail to reach, but my Savior, full of grace and truth, is not only the origin of my faith but, also, the One who promises to bring it to full maturity! Unfortunately, though, just like the Apostle Peter, I have a hard time keeping my 'eyes fixed on Jesus', especially when the giant waves of life are surging over me. . . but, I can just imagine Him reaching down His hand, like a father reaching for his little child, and gently pulling me back to His boat of grace!
As I continue to ponder these verses, I'm struck again with the need for honesty. If I'm not honest in my own reflections of myself, my sins, and my constant failure to be 'perfect' or 'sweet' or 'good' or any other self-affirming adjective you might choose, where is the need for grace? And, if I'm not aware of my own desperate need for grace, how can I manifest grace to others who are just as desperate? How do I sit with others, screaming at God in pain and grief, and offer love and grace? How do I, without judgment, listen to a friend's struggle with doubt and fear? Growing up in the Bible Belt, I was comfortable with the blacks and whites of right and wrong. Now, I'm not so sure. . . I'm a flawed, broken crayon living in a box filled with countless broken colors desperate for a touch from the Great Physician. And, if God is glorified when we "accept each other just as Christ has accepted you" (Romans 15:7), then who am I to argue? Thank God, for grace and truth!
Friday, May 25, 2012
Faces
I've been thinking a lot about honesty lately . . . maybe because I'm realizing that I'm not very good at it. Growing up, the adjective I remember most often used to describe me was "sweet". Yes, I was that "sweet" girl . . . smile nicely, be polite, follow the rules, help others . . . in public.
I grew up, got married, had beautiful children, watched as one suffered with leukemia, and then buried my little girl. And, I still tried to put on my sweet face before marching out into the world. The drive home alone in my car was when the sobs and screams at God would force their way out from my soul. And, the shower before bedtime was a great place for silent tears.
Two years later, I had a miscarriage and lost my much-wanted baby. The sweet face got lost in the anger. Rather than reveal the monster hiding within, though, I withdrew from life, rarely went to church, wouldn't answer the door, and threw unread Helen Steiner Rice cards in the trash. When I was forced to leave the house, I found a different mask to wear . . .maybe it was a little like the Phantom of the Opera . . . one that would stoically conceal the gruesomely scarred and bleeding tissue underneath. Even with my mask on, though, people would see me coming and would turn away to avoid catching a glimpse of my pain. Finally, every week, Tuesday would come, and I drove to our Compassionate Friends bereavement group. I sat down with about twenty other people, and we all took our masks off, enjoying the feel of cool, fresh honesty against our damaged spirits. Slowly, gradually, the healing came.
Sometimes, I wonder how much quicker my grief could have diminished if I had learned the value of honesty sooner. Has my family suffered unduly because I was not willing to let the horror and intensity of my pain be exposed? I chose hiding and suffering silently over being real with my doubts, depression, and fear, and I lost the opportunity to be genuine before my children, my family, and my church. "Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known" (1 Cor. 13:12). I'm old now, tired of trying on different faces, ready to start knowing and being fully known. Better late than never?
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Questions, questions, . . .
"And how many children do you have?" Simple, innocent question . . . unless you've buried a child. Then, what do you say?
The first time after Allison died that I heard that question, I was stunned and speechless. I have two kids; I have two beautiful daughters . . .so, I finally said "two". And, of course, people who ask that question don't really know you, so the next question is, "Oh, that's nice. How old are they?" Now, it's really tricky. "Well, my daughter, Bethany, is seven, and my other daughter died recently and is in heaven." Next come the embarrassed, pained expressions accompanied by apologies . . . and I end up reassuring the questioner that it's okay (even though I'm not)!
After experiencing several similar exchanges, I came up with a planned response. I would never imply that Allison hadn't existed; I could never say that I only had one child, but sharing the loss of my precious child with someone who couldn't handle it felt a little like "casting my pearls before swine". So, if the questioner was someone with whom I expected to have a friendship or working relationship, I would tell her that I had two children and then share a little of Allison's story; otherwise, I would simply reply, "I have a seven year old daughter." Now, over 20 years later, I easily respond with a little about my beautiful daughter and her precious family and my talented son, but Allison is never far from my mind.
"How do you do it?" Now, that's a question I'll never understand, seeing as how I didn't exactly have a choice. What's the only alternative to surviving, because that's about all I managed to do for a few years after Allison died? Now, I can testify to the grace of God and patience of family and friends, but when the pain of loss was fresh, I had no answer to that question.
"How are you?'" "Why do we always answer 'fine' to that question? We lie because we don't want to burden people; then, in the quiet of the night, we sob," a dear friend texted me last night. I don't have an answer for that one, either. But, I do know that we need at least one person in this life that can truly walk with us and hear all the pain, confusion, anger, and grief jumbled inside (and I highly recommend good grief support groups)!
What kind of questions do you struggle with?
The first time after Allison died that I heard that question, I was stunned and speechless. I have two kids; I have two beautiful daughters . . .so, I finally said "two". And, of course, people who ask that question don't really know you, so the next question is, "Oh, that's nice. How old are they?" Now, it's really tricky. "Well, my daughter, Bethany, is seven, and my other daughter died recently and is in heaven." Next come the embarrassed, pained expressions accompanied by apologies . . . and I end up reassuring the questioner that it's okay (even though I'm not)!
After experiencing several similar exchanges, I came up with a planned response. I would never imply that Allison hadn't existed; I could never say that I only had one child, but sharing the loss of my precious child with someone who couldn't handle it felt a little like "casting my pearls before swine". So, if the questioner was someone with whom I expected to have a friendship or working relationship, I would tell her that I had two children and then share a little of Allison's story; otherwise, I would simply reply, "I have a seven year old daughter." Now, over 20 years later, I easily respond with a little about my beautiful daughter and her precious family and my talented son, but Allison is never far from my mind.
"How do you do it?" Now, that's a question I'll never understand, seeing as how I didn't exactly have a choice. What's the only alternative to surviving, because that's about all I managed to do for a few years after Allison died? Now, I can testify to the grace of God and patience of family and friends, but when the pain of loss was fresh, I had no answer to that question.
"How are you?'" "Why do we always answer 'fine' to that question? We lie because we don't want to burden people; then, in the quiet of the night, we sob," a dear friend texted me last night. I don't have an answer for that one, either. But, I do know that we need at least one person in this life that can truly walk with us and hear all the pain, confusion, anger, and grief jumbled inside (and I highly recommend good grief support groups)!
What kind of questions do you struggle with?
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Living in a daycare kinda world
My son likes to tell me, "Mom, you're such a preschool teacher!". Usually, it's because I've done or said something goofy, but I don't mind. . .I love being a preschool teacher! And I love spending time with children, learning from them, listening to them. Recently, I was struck by some of the things Jesus said about children: "unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 18:3), and I started thinking about what 'being like little children' means.
One of the characteristics of very young children is 'object permanence', the idea that objects and people continue to exist even when they cannot be seen. Jim was in his last year of college and I was working full-time when Bethany was born. It broke my heart to see her little tears when I had to leave her in the daycare. Despite my assurances that I would return and take her home to her loving family, she continued to cry, not able to comprehend the truth of my words.
Is that the way God is with us? He sent Jesus to show us the true Kingdom and to remind us, "Child, don't let your heart be troubled. I'm returning for you, and I'm taking you home to your loving family." But I get so wrapped up in my grief, in my busyness, in my life, that I forget or maybe I just can't comprehend. In The Jesus I Never Knew, Philip Yancey says, "Jesus' first coming did not solve the problems of planet earth, rather it presented a vision of God's Kingdom to help break the earthly spell of delusion."
So, I'm here, living in this daycare kinda world, working hard, trying to do the right thing, trying to keep my eyes and my hope fixed on Jesus. And, my little Allison has already been picked up and is living in the reality of Heaven! So glad that I'll be seeing her again!
One of the characteristics of very young children is 'object permanence', the idea that objects and people continue to exist even when they cannot be seen. Jim was in his last year of college and I was working full-time when Bethany was born. It broke my heart to see her little tears when I had to leave her in the daycare. Despite my assurances that I would return and take her home to her loving family, she continued to cry, not able to comprehend the truth of my words.
Is that the way God is with us? He sent Jesus to show us the true Kingdom and to remind us, "Child, don't let your heart be troubled. I'm returning for you, and I'm taking you home to your loving family." But I get so wrapped up in my grief, in my busyness, in my life, that I forget or maybe I just can't comprehend. In The Jesus I Never Knew, Philip Yancey says, "Jesus' first coming did not solve the problems of planet earth, rather it presented a vision of God's Kingdom to help break the earthly spell of delusion."
So, I'm here, living in this daycare kinda world, working hard, trying to do the right thing, trying to keep my eyes and my hope fixed on Jesus. And, my little Allison has already been picked up and is living in the reality of Heaven! So glad that I'll be seeing her again!
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