Never Again

I was driving yesterday and I glanced over at a store’s parking lot as I was sitting at the stop light.  I saw a man reaching in his truck to get something.  His back was to me and I couldn’t see his face, but it was something about the jacket…the stance…the way he moved….and all I could think of was you.  And I cried….and I cry now thinking of it again.

But it wasn’t you.  It can never again be you.  I can’t drive through Sanford and catch a glimpse of your truck at your workplace.  I can’t run into you at Wal-Mart.  I can’t call you on the phone with a question.  I can’t count on you to help me if something gets broken at the house.  You’ll never wash my windows again or check my oil or the air in my tires.  I’ll never get to hold your hand in church or put my head on your shoulder.  Never again.  Saying “I’m a daddy’s girl,” was once a statement of demure pride.  Now the phrase rings hollow.  How can I be a ‘daddy’s girl’ without a daddy?

We needed you.  I’ve heard people say – people who have experienced that ‘eclipse of the soul’ that took you away from us – that in that darkest of moments, when pain and escape are the only things that matter, that being needed and loved isn’t enough.  That the hurt suicide will cause those left behind isn’t even considered in the frantic desperate desire for an end to everything.  But we needed you.  Like oxygen… 

…now it’s hard to breathe….it hurts to breathe…

We needed YOU…             Why wasn’t that enough to keep you here?

Empty house….empty bed….deafening silence….  Mama didn’t deserve this! 

I told David last night this anguish is like a horrible monsterous thing that I try to keep hidden beneath some kind of sheet so I don’t have to look at it or acknowledge that it is there.  Until these little things – like a stranger in a brown jacket on the side of the road – snatch the sheet away and leave me gasping and stumbling at the horror of it…the ruthless reality rendering me broken and wounded anew.  The cry within my soul of  “this should not be!” is beaten down by the wail “but it is!”  

Never again a husband….a father…..a grandaddy….a brother….a friend….  Not in this life.  That should comfort me.  That there is more than this earthly stage.  But it doesn’t.  Because I am here, and you are not, and for all the platitudes and words of comfort and reassurances I can’t resolve the question “where is my daddy now?”

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Pain is Not His Nature

I was conversing with a friend of mine and it sparked a discussion between us that I have mulled over ever since.  There is a concept in most Christian circles that pain is something God uses to teach us something or to make us something greater than what we are.  The concepts of ‘growth requires stretching’ and ‘being tried by fire’ are sometimes applied in ways that I do not think are biblically sound.  So I started considering.

People have said to me, in so many words, “God has us go through terrible things so that someday we’ll be able to minister to other people who are suffering the same kind of pain.”  The other concept that has been widely promoted among Christian circles (Happily, no one has offered this sage advice to me….yet…) is the idea that tragedy and suffering are God’s way of ‘getting our attention’ so that we can address hidden sin in our life.  That is the very idea that one of Job’s so-called friends, Elihu, promoted in Chapter 36 of the book of Job:  “But by means of their suffering, [God] rescues those who suffer.  For He gets their attention through adversity.”  Job 36:15 (NLT) I’m afraid I may myself have said similar things trying to bring some reason, some justification or explanation as to why suffering is a part of the life of a believer.  But is this concept of God – that Elihu and many modern-day Christians support – a realistic portrayal of WHO He Is?  Now standing on the other side of the equation, I realize that kind of thinking is not only unhelpful – it is also untrue.  I cannot deny that God has already placed opportunities in my life to minister to people who are suffering the effects from similar tragedies as my own.  But the idea that God had a hand in my suffering is so contrary to His nature that I find it now utterly repulsive.

Some people may have a picture of God as a distant, cold, unyielding judge.  But my understanding of God the Father is in great part shaped by my earthly father.  My daddy did not teach my brother and I through pain.  I don’t think I can ever remember a time my father raised his hand to me.  He would have done anything in his power to keep us both from having any kind of hurt or pain.  If we were hurting, his heart ached for us.  I know he would have taken our place willingly a thousand times over to spare us any kind of hurt.  That’s just who he was.  But I do remember times when he showed me how things that hurt me were temporary and sometimes he even showed me how I could come out stronger on the other side of a painful period in my life.  But he would not be the cause of those things.  God did not want my father to die.  I believe there was a cacophony of cries in the spirit realm as the Host of Heaven…indeed, the Father Himself, pleaded with my Daddy’s sick and broken spirit man not to take his own life – not to snuff out the gift so graciously given.  The free will given to humanity was God’s greatest gamble.  Without it, we could not love Him truly.  With it, we could hurt Him most deeply.  Death is not meant to teach us anything.  It was never a part of His plan.  “When Adam sinned, sin entered the world. Adam’s sin brought death, so death spread to everyone, for everyone sinned.”  Romans 5:12 (NLT)

So all that said, I come to this conclusion; rather than saying, “God has us go through terrible things…” I should instead say, “When we go through terrible things, God shows us how we can use our pain to help others.”  This is His goodness, His amazing compassion for us:  that He sees what is horrible and nightmarish in our life and slowly heals us from it.  And within that restoration, He allows us to be instruments of healing for others.  This concurs with the nature of my Abba Father and I take comfort in this.

What the Word tells me of God’s role in my grief is this:  I see in James 5:11 (NLT) that God honors ^“…those who endure under suffering. For instance, you know about Job, a man of great endurance. You can see how the Lord was kind to him at the end, for the Lord is full of tenderness and mercy.”    I know from the Psalms that God sees my “…trouble and grief; [and He considers] it to take it in hand.  The victim commits himself to [Him]; [He is] the helper of the fatherless….[The Lord hears] the desire of the afflicted; [He] encourages them, and [He] listens to their cry…”Psalm 10:14, 17 (NIV)  Perhaps what brings me the most solace is when He says, “…I know their sorrows…”  Exodus 3:7b (NKJV).

In Isaiah 35:10 (NLT) tells us that “Those who have been ransomed by the Lord will return.  They will enter Jerusalem singing, crowned with everlasting joy.  Sorrow and mourning will disappear, and they will be filled with joy and gladness.”  Revelation 21:4 (NLT) gives us a picture of heaven as a place that suffering has no place:  “He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. All these things are gone forever.”

Perhaps in modern life I had become so consumed with the hear-and-now that I had lost sight of why I should long for that “Glorious Day” of His appearing.  Now I have renewed vision as to why I should not be satisfied “here below” as the old song writers put it.  God did not put me here in this place of sorrow, but He will bring me out of it.

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I Am Not Okay

Some of you may begin to grow tired of these melancholy rants of mine.  I apologize for that.  But maybe someone else is going through grief too.  So maybe they just need to hear someone else say what they are feeling.  Last night one of the youth shared with David and I about a family member of theirs that had committed suicide.  I looked at that teenager and said, “It’s like a walking nightmare, isn’t it?”  His eyes locked with mine and he exhaled suddenly.  “That’s exactly what it’s like.”  No one really had been able to understand the place he was in – but I did.  I was there.  So maybe somewhere in the blogosphere someone needs to read something I have to say.  So I press on…

I was reading a blog at Rediscovering Church today and it was the title that really struck me:  “I am NOT OK.”  So I’ve purloined it for myself, because it utterly encapsulated the way I have been feeling for one month exactly as of today.

There is something about the inane question, “How are you doing?” that makes me want to go off every time someone asks it.  Don’t get me wrong.  I understand it is just a part of our culture to ask that question at every meeting.  I even understand that there are a fraction of you out there who actually care about my answer – the same small niche of people who actually mean it when they say “If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”  But frankly, 75% or more of the people who as me that question really don’t want to hear the true answer.  It’s like it’s some kind of obligatory tagging of base they do with me.  I can see it in their eyes…Here, let’s check on Dacia and make sure she’s not losing it completely…she’s probably just fine, but I should ask anyway. They don’t want me to really answer with the gut wrenching anguish I keep firmly pressed in my diaphragm like a ball of acid.  Those folks receive the equally inane answer of, “I’m doing okay.”  And they press their lips together in a tight smile and nod their head in a business-like way, relieved I think that they did their duty, braved the cloud of my sorrow, and spoke to meI.  Most don’t notice that I didn’t say “I’m good” – the pat answer to “How are you?” no matter where you are or even what language you speak.  I didn’t even say “I’m fine” (unless I’m at the drive-through, and I think I’m just on autopilot in moments like that anyway).  But I tell a myriad of people that I’m okay…when I’m not.

My sarcastic impulse is to say, “You got an hour or two?” or “Compared to what?”   The part of my heart that is filled with questions and not a little bit of anger wants to say, “Are you kidding me?  Are you even asking such a stupid question?”  But mostly I just want to say, “I don’t know.”  I don’t really know how I’m doing.  I guess some people walk around saying I’m handling this all really well.  Being strong…coping….moving on…  It doesn’t feel very much like that, let me just tell you.  More like treading water in glue.  Am I doing better than my brother…my mother?  I don’t know.  Am I getting through this ‘grieving process’ (starting to hate that phrase too) as I should?  I don’t know.  I told my friend at lunch yesterday that the phrase ‘I don’t know’ was starting to be the tag line at the end of every sentence I spoke.  My whole world has been turned upside down – it’s like being told that from now on red will be green and up will be down.  I just can’t process the change…I don’t know anything anymore.

So, the answer is “I am not okay.”  I am hurting and confused and angry and exhausted and struggling.  Does that bother you?  Or can you bear to walk with me awhile down the path of pain I’m forced to travel?  If not, I’m not upset at you.  Not everyone can be an Aaron or Hur (Exodus 17:12).  We’ll get reacquainted when I’m on the other side of this.  But please, don’t ask me how I am doing.

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There Are No Rules to Grief

Something about humanity makes us look for the rules.  I guess it’s a divinely appointed thing; after all one of the first things God did with Adam and Eve in the garden was lay down the rules.  You would have though with only one rule to follow, Eve could have handled that one.  But I digress.

We look for the rules of how to handle things that are thrown at us in life.  We look to rules of etiquette to know how to deal with formal dinners and other nonsensical occasions that tend to be nerve wracking and pretentious.  There are rules of combat and war to make sure the way we kill each other off is done in a civilized way.  There are rules of religion that tell us what is acceptable and unacceptable behavior in our houses of worship, despite the fact that many of those rules can make the Holy Spirit just as unwelcome.

Then there is grief.  When someone we love passes away, we look about for rules again.  How long are we supposed to stay out of work?  How much should we cry?  How emotional is too emotional?  When should I weep and when should I hold it in?  How do we behave around other people?  How many flowers are we supposed to buy?  Who gets thank you notes?  Who rides in the ‘family car’ on the way to the funeral?  Is it okay to be angry?  Is it okay to laugh?  And on and on… But there is no rule book.  No book of etiquette to tell us what is right and wrong.  And no previous experience with loss ever really prepares you for the next one.  There are traditions that seem hollow and meaningless.  There is contradictory advice given from all quarters.

People say the most unbelievable things.  “God won’t give you more than you can bear,” and “Well, at least he’s with Jesus now,” rank up there as the most inane in my book.  Like my brother said, the best thing people could say was “I don’t know what to say.”  People try to make themselves more comfortable I think when surrounded by deep sorrow.  They try to make comparisons to their own loss and let you know how long it took them to “move on” and in an almost brisk and business-like way reassure you that ‘this too will pass’.  While one group is encouraging you to just “break down” and let it all out, another group is praising you for being so strong, while a third makes you somehow feel guilty for ‘coping so well’.

So my conclusion is simple:  there are no rules to grief.  It simply is.  It cannot be put on a timetable.  It cannot be explained away with cliches or philosophy.  It cannot be compared to anyone else’s experience, no matter how similar the circumstances.  My brother and I both lost the same father and our ways of dealing with it are completely different.  And that’s just fine.  No one can tell me how to grieve and how not to grieve.  And that’s just fine too.

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I Want to Remember

I want to remember the way his hand felt when it would squeeze mine…hard and quick with his thumb rubbing across the top of my hand.

I want to remember the way he would say “Hey fella!” whenever David came in the house.

I want to remember the way he would raise his eyebrow at you and say, “Thaaat’s right…thaaat’s right…” in that easy drawl that meant ‘it’s about time you saw it my way.’

I want to remember him pressing a $20 bill in my hand every time we parted so I could ‘get some gas’.

I want to remember the way he would drive the lawnmower past my bedroom window to wake me up on Saturday mornings….I want to remember him laughing about doing it.

I want to remember the way he showed me how to make a free throw with a basketball.

I want to remember the games of chase we would play together in the backyard….around and around the house as fast as we both could run.

I want to remember playing skeetball and putt putt together at Myrtle Beach.  He always was trying to improve my form.

I want to remember the way he would always order something different at the mexican restaurant when I always ordered the same thing.

I want to remember him playing with Petra, using that falsetto voice to talk for a stuffed animal or clown or doll. Pretending to be startled when she would jump out at him from behind his armchair.

I want to remember all the stories he would tell about being an M.P. in the army.  Most of them had to do with practical jokes he would play on other soldiers.  I want to rememberr his sense of humor.

I want to remember how easily he could strike up a conversation with any stranger…on a plane, waiting in line, anywhere.

I want to remember the times he told me he was proud of me.

I want to remember the way he would say “Keep your guard up.”

I want to remember the way he would grin at you when he was cheating at checkers, and the funny expressions on his face when grandma beat him at Uno.

I want to remember him watching me march in the marching band all six years I was in the band – high school and college.  He watched through rain, sleet, and snow – sometimes with binoculars.  I want to remember that silly Indian tomahawk motion (and the song that went with it) he would make toward the other team we were playing against and the way he would pretend to shoot imaginary arrows at the other team’s players.  I want to remember how that made my mama laugh.

I want to remember the way he would scratch his back on the door frame.

I want to remember our trips home from college when he would pick me up for the weekend or a break.  I would talk to him nonstop; he would always listen.  We would always stop at Krispie Kreme for ‘coffee’ and would end up bringing home a dozen doughnuts…minus two or three.

I want to remember the way he would tear up when he read a birthday or father’s day card from me.

I want to remember that he always cheated at checkers…and we didn’t really mind.  Much…

I want to remember the tears he wiped from his eyes when he gave me away on my wedding day.  It’s the only time I ever remember seeing him cry.

I want to remember all the people who came and told us how much he had influenced their life for the better – I wish he had known how much.

I don’t know that I can type any more today…I’m sure I’m going to keep adding to this list. But I’ve broken the scab off the wound already….I need time to let it weep…to let me weep.

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