Unholy Mantra

This might seem like a strange follow-up to my last post, but in the interest of keeping it real, here it is.

WARNING: If you're offended by profanity, stop here.  And if after reading this you feel the need to correct me, suggest that I change my attitude, or comment negatively, please don't do it, just don't.

I have a half written blog post from last year about whether or not it's appropriate for Christians to swear.  My short answer is that words are just words and it really depends on your attitude and your audience.  I don't really swear, but I don't mind if you do.

Ever since Mark died my brain has had a very hard time processing the fact that he's gone and the way he went.  When I revisit the events of that day all I can do is shake my head and say, "Fuck!"  The fact that he's gone is unfathomable.  The only word that adequately expresses my disbelief is fuck.  Sometimes I yell it alone in the car.  Sometimes I repeat it in my head over and over like some kind of mantra.  It's the only word I've found that can clear my head of horrible thoughts.

You might be thinking that I should have some other mantra, a more peaceful, holy mantra. I'm not there yet.  I've tried saying Jesus over and over again.  It's not the same.  Maybe someday.

Today we celebrate that we're ten years out from John's leukemia diagnosis.  This is also the day last year that Mark was diagnosed with depression.  The beginning of the end.  Fuck.

On Faith

I've heard of people abandoning their faith in God after bad things happened to them.  I've always wondered about that. Why is your faith adequate when bad things happen to other people, and then suddenly invalid when bad things happen to you?  If you could remain faithful after learning about the Holocaust, for goodness' sake, then why abandon it when suffering touches you personally?

And yet.

Losing Mark has knocked me loose.  I've had to step back and reconsider everything I believe.  Everything.  I've had to pull it apart piece by piece to see if it's still valid.

Is there a God?  I admit that at first I wanted to abandon my belief that God even existed. After all, he allowed Mark to die, didn't he?  But it's hard to look around at creation and not believe in God.  I recently heard the world referred to as "an amazing accident."  I can't believe this was all an accident. When I'm confronted by the complexity of it all, the amazing intertwining, it seems obvious it was all carefully planned.

So, if there is a God, is he the God revealed in the bible?  In January I joined a women's bible study in the middle of studying the life of Moses and jumped right in at the book of Leviticus. Ouch.  It was not an easy study.  The God of the old testament feels very judgmental, a God who sees things in black and white and delivers swift punishment, a God who commands the obliteration of whole communities.  I haven't studied the old testament much in the past and I came away feeling rebellious, questioning passages and struggling to understand.  In the new testament (Matthew 22) Jesus says I am to love God with all my heart, soul and mind, and he says I'm supposed to love my neighbor as myself.  Verse 40 says: "All the Law and Prophets hang on these two commandments."  In other words, without love the whole old testament, every rule it puts in place and every decree delivered by Moses and the prophets, falls apart.  It's as though Jesus is reminding me that I only need to worry about loving God and people, and the rest will fall into place.  I can better understand the old testament when see through Jesus' words.

So, God exists, and he's the God of the bible.  Then why, oh why, does he allow suffering? And not just my suffering, but horrible, unspeakable suffering?  In 2 Corinthians 4:17 Paul says, "For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all."  How can he describe what we experience on earth as "light and momentary"?

Unless.

Could it be that our time on earth is insignificant when compared to what waits for us in heaven?  It's hard to imagine our whole lives being insignificant when compared to eternity. It's really hard to imagine eternity.  We're stuck here on earth  We're stuck in time.  We're stuck inside our own little brains.  We're stuck not understanding, and we're asked to trust, to trust in a God great enough to create everything--everything--we see, know and love.  In the same way a parent asks a child to trust and believe, we're asked to trust and believe in God's goodness.  I've spent my time since Mark died alternately kicking God in the shins in anger and grabbing onto his knees looking for comfort.

If God is all powerful, then he allowed Mark to die.  He allowed Mark to take his own life. People tell me it will all make sense when we get to heaven, but I think when I get to heaven it won't even matter.  I think when I get to heaven and see all its glory and understand eternity, whatever happened here on earth will be so insignificant that no explanation will be necessary.  So I rest in the knowledge that God's in control, that he allowed Mark to leave earth and join him in heaven, and that I'll see Mark again.  Sometimes for very brief moments, it's as if a curtain opens and I'm able to see eternity stretch out before me, and God's perfect peace washes over me.

Just because I get glimpses of eternity doesn't mean I have this all figured out.  Grief is a tricky thing.  No matter what I believe, Mark is still dead and I miss his physical presence. But I choose to believe in God.  Every day I choose God, even on the days I want to kick him in the shins.

Friends

It's difficult being my friend right now.  I'm abrasive.  I'm prickly.  I'm still hurting in a way that makes other people uncomfortable.  No one wants to hear about Mark anymore, but that's all I think about.  When I talk about my life, what's going on and how I really feel, people around me get quiet and wait for me to finish.  I don't always use pretty language.  They don't comment.  Or else they try to talk me out of my feelings telling me I shouldn't think or say what I'm thinking and saying.  Then they quickly change the subject and steer back to the lighthearted.  I'd love for the conversation to be lighthearted, and I can fake it for a while, but my heart is so heavy I can't keep it up for very long.  It's as though I have an open, gaping wound, but no one sees it.

How can they not see it?

The blessing of being in the pediatric cancer world is that I know several people who have lost children.  A couple weeks ago I ran into a woman whose son died in July.  She invited me out for coffee.  We talked and cried and laughed and cried, the conversation circling effortlessly from our dead kids to the lighthearted and back again.  To her I wasn't difficult, abrasive or prickly.  She listened and nodded in agreement as I strung together expletives.  She didn't try to talk me out of any of my feelings, just agreed that what we were both feeling really stunk and hoped with me that we wouldn't always feel this way.  And while the circumstances of our children's deaths are different, so much else is the same: the wishing for one more minute, one more hug, the worry about our other kids, the feeling of having failed as a parent.  Finally someone willing to listen without judgment or fear or discomfort.  Finally another mom who knows the desperate, impossible longing to go back in time.

We sat together at Starbucks for three hours on a bitterly cold Wednesday, two moms for whom the open wounds we each carry are so obvious as to need no explanation.

How can it be three months?

The grief washes over me.  The guilt pins me down.  I'd stay in bed all day if I could.  I'd drink lots of wine and smoke cigarettes.  And then I'd fall asleep with a lit cigarette in my hand and the house would burn down, and I wouldn't even care.  I'm not saying life without Mark isn't worth living, but I would like to take a break from life for a while.

In those first days I was still me.  I was "forging ahead" and "dealing with my grief" under all my old assumptions.  And Mark was still close at hand.  I could easily see him, feel his hug, hear his laugh.  Now it feels as though I've been set adrift.  The old assumptions don't hold.  I don't know who I am anymore.  And Mark feels very far away.

It's been three months.  How can it be three months?
  
Last week I had to drop my daughter off at the high school.  A group of boys was heading for the parking lot and crossed in front of my car, three boys messing around, moving the way teenage boys move.  It took my breath away.  Yes, I thought, that's the way skinny, awkward, little boy men move.  But I hadn't seen it in three months.  How can it be three months?

I miss my skinny, awkward, little boy man.

Everyone else has gotten back to their regular lives.  It's been three months, after all.

The Wisdom of John

I've been feeling very rational for the last five days.  Five days is a long time to feel rational considering I've felt anything but rational since Mark died.  So today I thought I'd share the wisdom of John, my 12 year old with Down syndrome.

Said to my husband repeatedly: "You're a great dad."

Said to me repeatedly: "You're a great mom."

And said to me out of the blue one day last week: "Mom, you're brave."

These are things he never said before Mark died, and I'm not sure how he knows exactly what we need to hear.  Thanks, John.

I Am a Prickly Pear

Two weeks in a row now I've offended people at church. One poor guy had the bad luck of innocently asking me, "How's it going?" And I think he meant it sincerely, but all I could think was, What do you mean??? How the hell do you think it's going? I answered meanly through tears, "I don't think you really want to know how it's going." Most recently I ran out of the sanctuary sobbing--sobbing--just because someone asked me what was wrong when they saw me crying.

I hate church. I hate church because Mark should be there. On Sunday mornings we'd go to church and all disperse to youth group or Sunday school, then we wouldn't see the kids again until the coffee time in the dining room before the service. Mark would sit at a table with his friends. And then he'd sit with friends in the sanctuary. Now I can't find him. I look around the dining room and he isn't there. I look around the sanctuary trying to do a head count of my kids, but I come up short.

I love church. The people in our church feel like family. They've shown us love and compassion beyond measure. We have five pastors on staff at our church, and four of them were at our house the morning Mark died. Other people from church have reached out in very loving, tangible ways. You couldn't find a better example of a group of people living out the love of Jesus than the people of Elim.

But I'm sure I'll offend someone next Sunday. I can't seem to get through a Sunday without doing so.

I hate church. I love church. I am a prickly pear.

Band concert

There's a high school band concert tonight.  The 10th graders are dedicating their portion of the concert to Mark.

This should have been one of those days when I rush around making sure everything is in order and everyone gets where they need to go--band uniform pieces all present and accounted for, dinner served early, get Mark to the high school early, run to the junior high for a quick meeting, back to the high school for the concert.

I'm not at the high school band concert.  I'm here at home crying, crying as hard as I did the day he died, asking questions with no answers.

Mark was buried in his band uniform pants because they were the only dress pants he had that fit.  I never did hem them.

This is only the beginning.  What am I going to do on the night the class of 2017 graduates?