It's happened again. And it's sent me reeling. I thought we'd put this kind of thing behind us when we stepped into 2014, but it turns out that the unexpected, and pain, and hurt, and the brokenness of this world aren't relegated to a particular year.
Grief is a funny thing. Not funny as in "ha, ha," but funny as in "weird." It's so universal and so individual at the same time. There are common stages of grief, similar types of things people gravitate toward in their grieving journey, counselors to help people walk through the process. But the reality is, grief is terribly individual. And in so being, it is necessarily selfish. (Which isn't bad. Hear me out on this...)
In the past 7 months, I've experienced a few losses. They were what you might call semi-distant losses. Nothing super close. My nearest and dearest family and friends are healthy, well, safe. But that next level out - more than acquaintances, but not quite close friends - that's my circle that has been hit. And each time something happens I'm a disaster. For days.
I shouldn't be, I tell myself. These things happen all the time, and with as many people as we know, it's bound to happen every now and again. It's normal to ache, to pray, to ask why, to hurt for your friends, close or distant, when tragedies happen. But why am I suddenly distant from my family? Why is my fuse now so short? Why am I upset at my family for going out of their way to care for me? What is going on with me? I'm going crazy. Or maybe I'm just grieving?
It's true that I lost someone very close nearly 14 years ago. It's true that my family has intimately known the overwhelming nature of grief. Grief like waves relentless. Oh, the crushing waves... But.
But lots of people have experienced such grief. Many around me have walked that same, yet very individual path of grief. And they seem to be able to handle tragedies, death, grief so much better than I have lately. simply because I tragically lost my brother doesn't give me license to freak out every time another tragedy happens. What is my deal?
Today I figured it out. These things that have happened, 3 in particular, mirror my family. First it was an old friend of my husband - same age, same high school experience, a great man. It could have so easily been my man. Next it was my daughter's friend - same age (literally within days), same color of eyes, so similar in size, development, and the way she added joy to the world around her. It could have so easily been my daughter. And now, it was my son's 2nd cousin - same age (within 3 months), parents with the same yearning for a son, excitement for his coming, plans for his future, desire to raise him to know the Lord. It could so easily have been my son.
When crazy hard things like this happen, people always say, "If there's anything I can do..." And it's the right thing to say. It's what we need to say to those facing the hardest second, minute, hour, day of their lives thus far. It somehow makes it feel like we can do something to help. We desperately hope they say, "Drop off a casserole" but fear the "Come sit with me a while." (Because what could we say that would help? What if we say the wrong thing? If only we could throw together a lasagna, set it on their doorstep, ring the bell and run like it's May Day...)
There's really nothing to be done. There's nothing to be said. Nothing will change the reality of the empty mommy arms, the aching daddy heart, the future that will never be on this earth.
As I recall, it was helpful to have people around at first. I remember people telling me when to eat, making up plates of food and handing them out to my family so that we'd at least think about taking a bite or two. That's good. But I only really wanted my closest, soul-sharing-type friends around for any long period of time. I didn't have the energy to edit or explain myself. In those first days, I needed a little bit of normal and a whole lot of love and patience from people to whom I would later owe no explanation.
And I am not that soul-sharing person in any of the three losses that have happened in the last 7 months. I'm to distant. And that's ok. So instead I ache. Deeply. I beg the Spirit to intercede on their behalves with groanings that cannot be uttered. That is the very groaning that I feel. That I know they feel. But it's something more than distance or closeness or aching that makes these so hard for me to grieve...
I, by nothing other than God's sovereignty which I cannot comprehend, have what they have lost. My husband. My daughter. My son. I desperately want to connect, want to share how often I think of them, how deeply I hurt for them, how many tears I have shed for their husband, their daughter, their son. Though I knew them distantly, I loved them fiercely. But each time I reach out or think of reaching out, I worry of the hurt I'll cause, the questions that the very existence of my family raises. "Why her husband and not mine?" "Why their daughter and not mine?" and "Why their son and not mine?"
I feel these losses so deeply myself. Each time I've picked up my son in the last 3 days my soul has uttered a wordless prayer for that boy's mother. Each time some delightful moment from the last few months comes to mind, my innermost being aches for his parents. Still, I look into my daughter's precious brown eyes and whisper a prayer for that girl's family. Still, I lay next to my husband at night and ask God why did He call that other woman's husband, those kids' dad, home so soon?
Mom pointed out to me once that we would never wish them back if we're thinking of them. Of course not. Why would I wish them back to this imperfect world filled with sin, tears, and pain? I wouldn't. But for their families... "Goodbye for now" is so very hard, I know. Oh, Lord, do I know.
One of my wise aunts told me, when I was sharing with her about one of these losses, to let the other family grieve. When I visited, to make sure that it was
their grief that we shared and
not mine that I recalled, relived, shared, talked about. Wisdom.
They must grieve how they must grieve. They are walking in the very valley of the shadow of death and they must be selfish about their process. They must do what they need to in order to survive, to heal, to be healthy, to eventually thrive in spite of lifelong deep sorrow.
But this is my blog. This is about my life. This is my space to be who I need to be, say what I need to say, and process what I need to process. So welcome to my grief for them.
This is my place to selfishly say that I hurt. I don't understand why. I don't like that God allows such things to happen. That I know that massive tragedies happen all over the world all the time and that these few losses are nothing compared to those horrific things. I know that.
But these are
my losses. And as my counselor husband told me last night (at the very moment I wished he'd stop being such a counselor!) I have a right to feel how I feel. I feel crappy.
I don't want to go to a memorial service tomorrow for a newborn. Are you freaking kidding me?!? No! NO!
NO!!! Maybe if I don't go, maybe if I pretend I misheard, maybe if I wish hard enough, I'll wake up from this nightmare of a dream in which their baby didn't make it. They did everything right. He was perfect in every way, except that he is no longer alive.
DAMN! damn.
...
Yet. In the midst of it all, I return, again (ever again) to the question that made all the difference when I walked so newly through my own valley of the shadow:
Am I willing to trust a God I don't understand?
*sigh*
There is no one else to trust. He is the only Hope.
And I am so blessed that He is
my Hope. Yes. I will trust a God I don't now, nor will ever understand.
So tonight, as I have before, I'll kick and I'll scream and I'll question and I'll cry, and I'll yearn and I'll beg and I'll plead for things to be different. And then I'll settle. I'll drag myself up off the floor of the Throne Room where I've thrown my toddler-style tantrum, and I'll crawl quietly into the waiting arms of my Hope.
Comfort. Rest. Peace. No answers, but Hope.
