Hearing Jesus Speak into Your Sorrow

HearingJesus_cvrNancy Guthrie begins her new book, Hearing Jesus Speak into Your Sorrow, by telling readers that she is facing the 10th anniversary of her infant daughter’s death. This anniversary will, at some point, be followed by the 10th anniversary of her infant son’s death. Hope and Gabe are their names. Lovely names, I think, especially the latter.

Nancy writes this about the first impending anniversary: “It feels like an ever-widening chasm as the years take me further away from her, even as they bring me closer to her.”

I so appreciate this thought, because when I think about how it will feel to not have held Gabe or seen him or heard him laugh for a decade, I panic and push the thought away. One day at a time, I tell myself, even though I have an idea of what the passage of time does to memory. It’s been more than three decades since my father died. I have no recollection of his voice and only the vaguest recollection of his manner. He is a stranger to me. One I look forward to meeting someday.

Obviously losing a child as a 43 year old mother is a completely different experience. Gabriel grew in my body and nursed at my breasts. I held him and soothed him and nurtured him with every ounce of my being year after year after year. I also died with him on March 28, 2008. Only I have to keep on living.

I’m quite sure Hearing Jesus Speak into Your Sorrow is going to be a helpful book, because it begins honestly and without platitudes.  And because Nancy wrote to me after reading my last essay about my Gabe. She shared her story with me and told me about her hopes for this project. Thank you Nancy for remembering to send the finished product. I so appreciate it!

I may or may not refer to this book again. For now, I’d like to quote a passage from the introduction that stopped me in my tracks. I read it aloud to my husband. 

I don’t know what has brought sorrow into your life.  Maybe you, too, have stood by a grave and said good-bye. Or maybe you have had to bury your dreams for a future with someone you love or your plans for doing something you have longed to do. Perhaps circumstances have forced you to leave behind a position you thought you were made for or come to terms with a frightening financial problem or a painful medical condition. Perhaps you live with ongoing sorrow over a child who has turned away from you or from faith. Maybe you are living with regret over the sorrow brought into your life by your own bad choices, or maybe you are living with resentment over the sorrow brought into your life by what someone else has done.

I read this to Jeff because it is a list of possibilities and we are living all of them simultaneously.  It made me realize that our lives are a kind of miracle. People can live through anything. I know that now. What happens in the wake of anything though is that each of us is faced with a choice. Every day, and often many times a day in multiple and varied situations, we are offered the choice to live rather than to merely exist.

Today Jeff and I went to church and worshiped. With the fullness of our beings we offered ourselves up to God. At the singing of the recessional hymn, I glanced down to my right to see my husband seated on the pew in pain, as always, but with eyes closed, hands upturned, a slight smile on his face—as always.

We exchanged pleasantries with our fellow congregants for a long time afterwards. An executive sought me out to tell me that with 32 forced retirements at his organization, there may be a spot for me. Other people’s pain could mean relief for mine.

Next there was a Starbucks run and a stroll through the local farmers market, where we bought a lunch of imported salami and provolone, olive bread, homemade sun-dried tomatoes and organic vegetables.

After that came our weekly visit to the cemetery to water the pansies—yellow, gold and white—and to tell Gabe how sorry I am for everything.

One day I was there fussing over the grave, saying I was sorry for this or that or something else entirely when I had an epiphany. I realized that my son is dead and I’m still fussing over him. How bad of a mother could I have been?

A therapist I saw briefly last year said it is easier for me to blame myself than to acknowledge that Gabe did this. She’s right, of course, even though, ultimately no one is to blame.

Going to the cemetery comforts me. It helps me to live. The same therapist, who buried a first-born son herself, said this is because the only way we mothers have left to care for our dead children is to take care of their graves. A friend of mine went every day for years. Before you dismiss such morbidity, you should know that The Compassionate Friends estimates that 19 percent of parents have buried a child. That’s 2-in-10.

After the cemetery, we stopped at the Sprint store to pick out a new phone for me, one with internet access. If I weren’t living, I wouldn’t care enough about what’s going on in the world to be a news junkie again.

At home, Jeff set about his daily ritual of beautifying my parents’ yard. Everything he does, he does with passion and precision. Everything. Still.

Our lives are tragic. They are also a miracle of sorts. By the power of the Holy Spirit, three things animate this miracle: family, faith and love. Without these, I would have no hope.

“I’ll just stay silent. That’s the way to honor; the only way to respect.”

Those were Gabe’s thoughts on the first anniversary  of the 9/11 terrorist attacks, as copied from an archive of his poetry and art  that we’re developing.

Our Friend Sleeps

I do not want you to be ignorant brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.

For if the dead do not rise, then Christ is not risen. And if Christ is not risen, your faith is futile; you are still in your sins! Then also those who have fallen asleep in Christ have perished. But now Christ is risen from the dead, and has become the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep.

When all the people had completely crossed over the Jordan, the Lord spoke to Joshua, saying, "Take for yourselves twelve stones from here, out of the midst of the Jordan, from the place where the priests’ feet stood firm. These stones shall be a memorial for the children of Israel forever. This Jesus God has raised up, of which we are all witnesses. Witnesses chosen by God, … who ate and drank with Him after He arose from the dead.

John 11:11; 1 Thes. 4:13-14; 1 Cor. 15:16-18; Josh. 4:1-3,7; Acts 2:32; Acts 10:41  

[March 28th evening reading from Daily Light ] .

A friend’s poem:

For Gabe

A bit of scoff blows through my nostrils
At those who insinuate or aver,
“Here, spoken in my syllables
Printed upon this page,
Measured by the electrochemical activity in my frontal lobes,
I, we, us,
Possess, here, now,
Answers.”

What secret have you unearthed,
That which has eluded the likes of
Socrates, Augustine, Nietzsche, Freud

Answer
The demands of the scars upon my knuckles
Patches of hardened, darkened skin as reminders of
A joke you no longer share with us.
We no longer hear.
Cracked in your name.

You too had a patch.
A laugh, a swagger in your stride,
But no answers for fools like us.

[© Chuck Liu, 2008, used with permission.]

Repost:

 

Gabe

You came sparkling into the world,

a firecracker bursting multicolored across the sky,

your soft brown skin glowing with delight at

everything your eyes beheld—

I loved you from the first. 

You spoke in sentences sweet

when barely a year had passed,

and when the wedding bells did ring

a granite floor was laid beneath your tiny feet. 

The Lord has made a miracle,

he’s made one bright and true;

he sent it shining through the night

to come reside with us. 

Never from that swollen golden crimson time

until this frozen grey has

my heart known a moment without

beating just for you.

[© cas, 1998]

In memory of Gabriel Gifford Scheller: November 27, 1984–March 28, 2008 .

Losing Religion; Finding Art and More

    

Yesterday, my husband and I attended a book signing by former L.A. Times  journalist William Lobdel . The signing took place at a book store in historic Clinton, New Jersey .  The book (Lobdell’s first) is Losing My Religion: How I Lost My Faith Reporting on Religion in America—and Found Unexpected Peace . We were late for the noon event because we love Sunday worship so much, we were unwilling to skip it or tear ourselves away before communion as we’d planned. I note this because it illustrates how good people who go through similar crisis of faith often come out of them with very different conclusions. 

Lobdell’s book is dedicated to both his family (a wife and four sons) and those wounded by "the church." He and I lost our [investigative] religion journalism virginity simultaneously, though not collaboratively. We both thought we’d do God’s work by reporting on (or informing on) the seamier underbelly of American Christianity … only to find that corrupt subjects and their supporters often seemed empowered by the exposes’ written about them while we and their victims were accused of being tools of the devil.  

I read with interest his article on Trinity Broadcasting Network when I literally lived around the corner from the media giant’s world headquarters. I had visited the glittery venue myself for an essay on television indecency , and was consequently excoriated for inferior faith by Joni Lamb , one of TBN’s competitors. I noted Lobdell’s disillusionment with evangelists Greg Laurie and Franklin Graham when he wrote the L.A. Times  essay about his loss of faith  that led to Losing My Religion . Lobdell wondered how these and other reputable evangelicals regularly appeared on TBN despite the blatant charlatanism and allegations of sexual misconduct by its founder. I wonder about such things too. I wonder also what these evangelists and their Catholic counterparts think their role is in the deconversion of the Lobdells of this world.

During the Q&A, I asked about his wife, whom he followed from evangelicalism into Catholicism. He said that as he began to come home with increasingly egregious stories about her denomination, she too abandoned faith. As to their four children, I don’t know. One assumes their parents’ deconversion means something to them.

"Crunchy Con" Rod Dreher  also reported on the Catholic pedophilia scandals (as a Catholic) and later converted to Orthodoxy . Recently he opined that it may indeed be better for some scandals to remain hidden because exposure is so destructive to the faith of ordinary believers. I disagree with him for reasons Lobdell mentioned yesterday. Complicit silence breaks faith with victims, both those who speak up and those who don’t. As Christians, we are especially called to care for "widows and orphans"—in other words, those most vulnerable to abuse (James 1:27 ). We are also called to walk in the light (1 John 1:7 ); I take this to mean a commitment to truth, not lies.

Lobdell said that he’d inevitably be contacted by other alleged victims after his stories would run. They’d be particularly incensed if a perpetrator publicly downplayed his guilt. Dreher writes that he’s been tempted to report on Orthodox corruption, but has decided that his own and his family’s faith can’t handle it. This is a luxury many are not afforded: police officers, pastors, teachers, nurses, parents, other idealistic religion reporters. I trust that God will make right in the end that which is not made right in this world. I eagerly await the day when mercy and justice will visibly kiss. I know they did so on the Cross, but I long for faith to be made sight.

On the jacket of Lobdell’s book is an endorsement by John Huffman, chairman of the board of Christianity Today  and a hero of Lobdell’s. Huffman writes,

William Lobdell has written a heart/mind/soul-wrenching spiritual autobiography. He has been inspired by followers of Jesus who have served their Lord with integrity. But he has also been devastated by observing, up close, the ugly, sinful underbelly of a critical, self-serving, institutional and individual religion. This is a must-read filled with warnings and wake-up calls to those of us in leadership positions. I respect Bill for his honest reporting of his odyssey to this point and pray that someday there may be a future book, just as honest, with a grace-filled conclusion.

Lobdell said that before he lost his faith, he requested a change of assignment at the L.A. Times . He "couldn’t take another story." When he publicly confessed his deconversion, he expected criticism. Instead he received 3000 emails, the most his newspaper had ever received. Many of them expressed empathy and support. Mine was among them.

I’m glad to finally possess a copy of Losing My Religion . I think I’ll find it oddly comforting. Along with it, I’ve just begun reading Becky Garrison’s 2007 offering, The New Atheist Crusaders and Their Unholy Grail: The Misguided Quest to Destroy Your Faith . Garrison is another journalist who shines her spotlight on holy dirt. In this book she turned it outward. Lobdell doesn’t fit within her field of vision though. He is more a Materialist than an anti-Theist and, despite the blazing A  logo on his blog, he sounds more pink agnostic than bright red atheist. Could there yet be a reconversion sequel in his future? Believing supporters are praying so. If our prayers evaporate unanswered, no harm done, right Bill?

In addition to these atheist tomes that coordinate nicely with A Secular Age , I’m reading a book Christianity Today editor-at-large Rob Moll sent me some months back. Rob and I became friends after he wrote an expose’ on my former church group  and was excoriated for it in the blogosphere. We lost our Christian [investigative] journalistic virginity together on that one. Although he’s much too young for such a heavy topic, Rob is now writing a book about Christian dying that will no doubt be excellent. His research led him to send Jeff and me Walter Wangerin Jr.’s Mourning into Dancing . I find most grief books beside the point, but I do pick this one up sporadically and glean some comfort from this pastor’s experience with those who’ve suffered devastating loss. Anger and disillusionment are common features of grief. People of faith cannot thrive there though. Nor can they thrive in a religious gutter. It’s good for them us to climb out and breathe air that’s fresh and clean.

I felt on the verge of tears through much of Lobdell’s talk. His story tapped into a place of deep pain for me. The betrayal. The lost idealism. The impact on my family (with loss of hope and life rather than collective loss of faith). He described the molestation victims he had gotten to know through his work as having "hollowed out souls." I resonate with that description. My mother and I were talking recently about that part of us that died with Gabe. How, in some measure, we’re just biding our time now until this life is over. Lobdell believes that when it’s over, it’s over. There will be no reunions. No justice. No mercy. I find those thoughts both unbearable and untenable. Unbearable for obvious reasons, untenable because there is too much mystery and beauty in the world to believe it has no ultimate meaning.

After the book signing and a simple, satisfying lunch of lentil soup and egg white/asparagus/Swiss cheese omelet, Jeff and I happened upon the Hunterdon Art Museum , which is housed in an old stone mill. The building itself is a work of art and the "Cutters" exhibit was literally inspiring. When we came home and showed our son photos of the various cut paper and steel art objects, he got out the previously neglected daily origami calendar I had bought him for Christmas and produced a collection of his own. I was thus prompted to thank God not only for art, but for honesty, comraderie and faith. These are gifts that science may describe, but which it cannot explain. Sorry Bill.

 

Update: The Library Journal description of Mourning into Dancing as found on Amazon.com :

Wangerin, a Christian minister and imaginative theological writer, provides a splendid description of death, grief, and the feelings of those who mourn the separation. Wangerin includes four types of death: the primal fall or original sin over which human relationship with God was broken; the numerous "deaths" we each suffer on earth, as typified by the biblical story of the prodigal son; individual bodily death; and "dying absolute," or spiritual death. His primary focus, however, is the small deaths in daily life as typified by one family’s grief. Wangerin depicts human feeling convincingly; his theology that all death is related to the first (primal fall and original sin) supports his hopeful and confident faith in the purpose of grief as leading to renewal, healing, and resurrection. For public and seminary libraries.

Update 4/8/09: My review of Losing My Religion is here, at Her.meneutics .

Being Well When We’re Ill

 being-well-when-were-ill

Last week Christianity Today announced its 2009 book awards, which evaluate books published in 2008. For several years now, I’ve served as a judge in the Christian Living category, and been introduced to some wonderful books that I might not have otherwise read. I’ve also trudged my way through a few that, well, I didn’t care for. (What does Rob Bell have against proper paragraph structure anyway?) Sometimes I’ve been in sync with the other judges and sometimes I haven’t. This year, I was. The winner, Reconciling All Things: A Christian Vision for Justice, Peace and Healing was excellent, as are most InterVarsity Press books that I’ve read. IVP books are consistently well edited: The writing is always tight and readable, the style clean and the content substantive.

My top choice, however, was the Award of Merit winner: Being Well When We’re Ill: Wholeness and Hope in Spite of Infirmity by theologian Marva J. Dawn. I chose this title even though the editing could have been tighter, because content is queen.  Dawn lives with multiple physical infirmities, and still manages to have a full life of writing, teaching and speaking. She writes an honest account of the challenges those ailments pose for both her and her husband. The book is laid out in chapters that work nicely as daily devotions. They begin with a Scripture and end with a prayer. Sandwiched between are Dawn’s theological and personal reflections.

Being Well When We’re Ill isn’t just a book for sufferers, but also for caretakers. It isn’t designed as such, but in my role as spouse and mother to three (now two) chronically infirm family members, I found it exceedingly helpful. For example, chapter nine is titled Loneliness–Community. It begins with a meditation of David from Psalm 31:9-12:

Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am in distress; my eye wastes away from grief, my soul and body also. For my life is spent with sorrow and my years with sighing; my strength fails because of my misery and my bones waste away. I am the scorn of all my adversaries, a horror to my neighbors, an object of dread to my acquaintances; those who see me in the street flee from me. I have passed out of mind like one who is dead; I have become like a broken vessel.

Dawn notes that this psalm comes from a time when physical afflictions were often thought to be God’s punishment. David emphasizes his feelings of alienation from friends and neighbors, and his enemies’ delight in his sorrow. Most telling though, are his feelings of abandonment. In an earlier chapter Dawn examined the blame that is frequently assigned to those who suffer.  She revisits the theme here:

Some people espouse the bad idea that we experience chronic illness or handicaps because we have done something wrong. Then such people try to help us fix it, which leads to a different kind of isolation.

The types of isolation she identifies are: physical isolation, intellectual isolation, emotional isolation and envy, social isolation, misunderstanding and spiritual isolation.  In the midst of the discussion, she quotes seminary professor Arthur Paul Boers:

I learned long ago in giving pastoral care that in stressful situations people feel not just severely alone but profoundly misunderstood. The sense that “I’m the only one who knows, understands, or feels this” may be ever more difficult than whatever appears to be giving the pain. … It is important to name and share the details and to have someone else listen to them.

Not only have I been on the receiving end of such misunderstanding regarding my husband’s and sons’ infirmities, I have also been the one to alienate and isolate them because of my own ignorance of their conditions. Dawn’s book helps me to better love my family and stand with them against the misunderstanding of others.

Her advice for strengthening ourselves spiritually is rich:

As emphasized in previous chapters and emphasized through the Scriptures, the Trinity is never apart from us, even when we feel that we are enduring a dark night of the soul. But our various kinds of isolation and the deep loneliness that results make us feel that God is absent too.

That is why it is so important that we establish habits of reading the Scriptures, so that we can trust what we know over what we feel. When we feel most estranged from God, we find great treasure in texts that assure us of the Lord’s presence. …

We cherish the sacrament of the Eucharist, for it gives us bread and wine so that we can know Christ’s presence in a tangible form. In the same way, the sacramental work of the church is to be a physical sign of the Trinity’s presence for the sake of everyone, especially the lonely.

The chapter ends with this prayer:

Almighty God, by your Holy Spirit you have made us one with your saints in heaven and on earth: Grant that in our earthly pilgrimage we may always be supported by this fellowship of love and prayer, and know ourselves to be surrounded by their witness to your power and mercy. We ask this for the sake of Jesus Christ, in whom all our intercessions are acceptable through the Spirit, and who lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen.

Being Well When We’re Ill is a book I would give to others and that I highly recommend. It’s one I would never have been introduced to had it not been for the book awards. Don’t miss this gem!

Another book that my husband and I have been recommending a lot, especially to the young and spiritually alienated, is Scot McKnight’s The Blue Parakeet: Rethinking How You Read the Bible. I saw no mention of it in this year’s awards. I’m sorry about that, as I would have preferred it to a couple other contenders.

Al Hsu @ Wheaton on Grieving a Suicide

From Monday’s chapel service at Wheaton … and on his blog, The Suburban Christian. I summarized Al’s book, Grieving a Suicide, here earlier this year. Excellent thoughts on dealing with grief and embracing life. Good job Al.

Good thoughts too yesterday from Chaplain Stephen Kellough on sufficient grace for our weakness.

Thankful for 23 Years + …

Every four years, Gabriel’s birthday (November 27th) falls on Thanksgiving. 2008 is one of those years. It is also our first Thanksgiving without him, thus our celebration will be small and simple. In years past I made a widely anticipated apple pie; it was Gabe’s birthday dessert of choice. Not this year. This year, we’ll have pecan pie, vegan chocolate pie, farina pudding with lingonberry red currant syrup and maybe pumpkin pie—other people’s favorites, all but one topped with freshly whipped cream.

In addition to the traditional expressions of gratitude, we’ll give special thanks for Gabe. For 23 years with him and for the blessed assurance of reunion, expressed here in our family headstone, which was set this week:

Not only am I thankful for the past and the future, I’ve found reason to be thankful in the painful present. For example, when Gabe died in California earlier this year, we quickly had to make arrangements for his burial 3000 miles away. Over the phone, I asked the NJ funeral director to find a cemetery somewhere at the Jersey Shore. Being from North Jersey, he said, “I’m only familiar with two cemeteries … in West Long Branch.” Because we had lived in neighboring Long Branch, I sensed God’s provision in this statement. We quickly decided that Gabe would be buried on “Cemetery Hill” at Glenwood Cemetery, where we had spent many a winter day sledding its gentle slope. It’s a place ripe with memories of both happiness and sorrow, death and life.

Only plots of four were available on the hill and only one headstone is allowed to mark each plot. Interesting thing this monument we chose. The bold assumptions it makes didn’t occur to me until after our names were chiseled out at great expense. It speaks with finality of death (the kitchen cabinet cross looks fleeting in comparison). It also assumes that Jeff and I will remain faithful to our marriage vows throughout our lives. This is no small statement in these times and in our particular circumstance. It assumes further that neither of us will remarry after the other one dies, or if the survivor does remarry, that the primary vow will be honored in death. The blank space at the right expresses a fragile faith that our second son will, long after we are gone, be laid to rest with a family of his own. (Such faith will be made firm when someone else’s name is safely etched there instead.) The epitaph communicates our one sustaining hope:

Jesus said… “I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” John 11:25

It’s odd as a 40ish woman to know where my body will one day lie. It’s oddly reassuring to witness the granite reality that the end of sorrow is at hand. In the meantime, I’ll continue taking the advice of a wise friend, who counseled me to appreciate the beauty I see around me. There’s plenty of it.

On November 27, 2008, after our Thanksgiving turkey is safely in the oven, we’ll take time to give thanks at Gabe’s grave site. You’re welcome to join us. We’ll say a few words. Pray. Cry. Perhaps dig up a grandfather’s lovingly crafted cross. And then we’ll fold our gratitude and our grief into the story that ends with crowns being cast at the feet of Jesus. I pray you’ll be there for that celebration as well. Happy Thanksgiving, 2008~

“And when the chief Shepherd shall appear, ye shall receive a crown of glory that fadeth not away.” (1 Peter 5:4, KJV)

“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea. And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a great voice out of heaven saying, Behold, the tabernacle of God is with men, and he will dwell with them, and they shall be his people, and God himself shall be with them, and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away. And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new. And he said unto me, Write: for these words are true and faithful. And he said unto me, It is done. I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end.” (Revelation 21: 1-6a, KJV)

Three Months

Celebrating? HS Graduation

This is the photo adorning my desktop. It’s there to remind me to focus on the people I care about who are inhabiting physical bodies on earth. Self, mom, son, dad, husband, etc. It’s much too easy still for my thoughts to dwell elsewhere, with the one who is gone. I thank God for these and others who give me reason to go on.

Give Words to Grief

 

Jeff\'s Birthday 2004

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the o’er fraught heart and bids it break.”

—William Shakespeare 

… as quoted in The Twenty-Third Psalm for those who Grieve by Carmen Leal

[photo: ©cas 2004, Santa Ana, CA]

Good Grief

The little booklet Good Grief  by Granger E. Westberg begins like this:

We spend a good portion of our lives working diligently to acquire those things that make life rich and meaningful—friends, a wife or husband, children, a home, a job, material comforts, money (let’s face it), and security. What happens to us when we lose any one of these persons or things which are so important to us?

Quite naturally we grieve over the loss of anything important. Sometimes if the loss is great, the very foundations of our life are shaken, and we are thrown into deep despair.

You Are the God Who Sees

Jeff\'s Graduation

Jeff and I were on staff together at our former church with pastor and worship leader Holland Davis. With no direction and little notice, Holland agreed to provide music at Gabe’s service in California. His ministry to us was tender and beautiful.  This song was one of two he sang in addition to the gentle guitar strumming that filled the sanctuary at various places in the service. The other song is called “O Love that Will Not Let Me Go.” Holland tells me it hasn’t been recorded yet. I hope he’s working on that.

Doing Well

From the beginning of this tragedy, people have remarked at how well my family is handling it. The other day, I joined the chorus and told Jeff he was doing really well for somebody who had never before experienced the sudden death of an immediate family member. He said, “I know my Redeemer lives and I’m not doing as well as you think.” I fully concur with his sentiments.

Having said that, there are some explanations for why we are doing as well as we are.

First, friends who’ve lost children have told us that the six month point is when the reality really hits hard. We are still in a good deal of shock, thank God, and fully expect things to get worse before they get better.

Second, we’ve been through hell as a family over the past five years. Gabe’s death feels like the horrific end to the whole terrible ordeal. As I wrote about last year in Christianity Today, Jeff and I left full time ministry primarily because our boys were not doing well. They were both struggling in numerous ways. They needed some TLC and we rented our lovely little overpriced apartment with the pool and palm trees as a place of respite for them.

 

[Irvine, CA, 2007]

When Gabe came home last summer after graduating from college, we had a blow-out one day about I don’t remember what. He dumped his feelings about these years and said something about having wanted to kill himself while he was at school. Contrary to what I told The Wheaton Record in the disoriented days after Gabe’s death, he never said when these thoughts began or how long they lasted. I took him seriously, but mistakenly believed that he would be okay now that he was home. After all, we had all experienced these fleeting thoughts in the midst of our trials and a primary source of his pain and stress was gone.

For a while, Gabe appeared to settle into normal life. More recently, I had become concerned again, and had suggested counseling. We tried to encourage him to find a faith community for support and friendship. His one attempt involved a conversation with a pastor who disparaged his beloved parents’ decision to become Anglicans. Jeff took him under his wing and gave him a job so that he could help him get off the ground financially and support him emotionally. We worshiped together at home on Easter Sunday.

We did everything we knew how to do to help Gabe. I can rack my brain all day and night about my own failings and the warning signs we missed, but I know that we gave our all to loving him and caring for him. Even in his desperate state, he was able to leave behind the words, “Dad, you are my hero,” “Mom, you were a great mom” and “Mike, you were my best friend growing up,” etc. Imagine if we had this outcome with angry words left behind. Gabe loved us and we loved him to the end. There is peace because of this. There is also great pain in knowing that our love wasn’t enough to save him.

[Winward Beach, Brick, NJ, 1985]

The third reason we are doing as well as we are is that Gabe always seemed to have a precarious hold on this world. He had his first serious asthma attack when he was 13 months old, 3 days before Jeff and I were married. I was calling the doctor all day long because he was breathing funny and was listless. She kept saying she was too busy to see him, but finally agreed as the day drew to a close. When she listened to his lungs, a look of terror crossed her face and she sent us immediately to the emergency room. Gabe spent the next 5 days in an oxygen tent.

There would be many such terrifying moments over the years, the last of which was 3.5 years ago. I had to fly to Chicago as Gabe was being placed in an ambulance with his lungs on the verge of collapse. I didn’t know if he would be alive when I got there. As I flew through the sky, I imagined what I would do if I was greeted with news of his death.

Gabriel had other physical traumas. The most serious was a brain injury a couple months after this last life-threatening asthma attack. It was 2 days before Christmas, 2004. As Jeff and I waited at home to decorate the tree, Gabe and Mike went to the mall to buy their dad a present. They returned bloodied and with Gabe incoherent and unable to remember the details of his life. They had been assaulted in a dispute over a parking spot. Gabe was knocked backwards to the ground. Because of his NF, the soft spot on the back of his head had never closed. A palm-sized area of his brain was exposed. It took him nearly a week to regain his memory and for a long time afterwards he said he didn’t feel like himself. But then, as always, he seemed to bounce back.

The point is that Gabe lived his whole life in the shadow of death. We lived in that shadow with him. We know we will see him again. The time doesn’t seem so far off to me and the loss is too recent for the ache to have really settled in. It comes over us in huge waves and then passes for a while. Also, I’ve lost many friends and a father when I was just a girl. Issues of mortality don’t weigh heavily on my mind. I’ve always known this life is but a moment. Perhaps Jeff has known it too from living with Gabe and me.

A fourth reason we are doing well is because we have to. We have another child whose whole identity is altered. It has always been Gabe and Mike. No other person has lived Mike’s experiences with him in the way Gabe did. He needs us to lead the way through this. We’re determined that this tragedy not destroy him or us.

[Pumpkin Picking, Wall, NJ, 1988]

Finally and most importantly, there is the comfort of the Holy Spirit. From the early moments after the police left our home, a verse of Scripture kept washing over my brain: A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out. I was assured of God’s compassion for Gabe. The story of David’s response to his son’s death also impressed upon my mind. I identify with him in my better moments. He said, While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept; for I said, “Who knows, the Lord may be gracious to me, that the child may live. But now he has died; why should I fast? Can I bring him back again. I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me. (2 Sam. 12:22-23)

Gabriel’s whole life was bathed in prayer. His was a long, intense struggle for such a short life. He overcame tremendous obstacles while he lived, more than most of us will ever have to face. When he died, for days, I kept saying, “My poor baby; my poor baby.” What pain he had to be in to do such a thing. He is at peace now. I’d much rather have him present with us and working through his struggles, but that option is past. As I wrote in Gabe’s obituary, our sorrow is  surpassed only by the joy it was to have shared our lives with him. We will miss him every day of our lives, but we will live them with faith, hope and love. That’s what he would want.

 

[Atlantic Avenue Beach, Long Branch, NJ 2000]

Four Weeks

It’s been nearly four weeks. Still, I cannot comprehend it. A person who was so full of life lost hope and believed that he had no future in this world.  Jeremiah 29:11 was the Scripture that reassured me when I was a 20 year old single mother. “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans for welfare and not for calamity to give you a future and a hope.” 

For some years, I believed the future and hope described in this promise meant a fairy tale ending in this life. Eventually I came to view the verse in light of eternity. Thus I was able to reclaim the promise as we laid Gabe to rest. 

  [thanks to my friend Gary Gnidovic for directing me to this video]