Why me?

Why me?  That is the question that has often been on the forefront of my mind as I have lived through the loss of my baby girl. Usually I ask it while shaking my fist at the sky, wondering why God couldn't just allow me to have the one thing that I wanted more than anything in the world: motherhood.

This is a very natural question to ask when tragedy strikes. And I'm not advocating that we stuff these emotions inside, denying the way that we feel.

I usually find, though, that when I start going down the "Why me?" road, I quickly get stuck in the mire of self pity which causes a downward spiral of depression. That isn't a fun place to hang around.

On the way to work I often listen to our local NPR station, and today I heard a short interview with Dan Gottlieb, Ph.D., who is a family therapist. I thought he had some really insightful things to say about surviving grief and trauma this morning. You can listen to the short interview here.

What struck me was that Dr. Dan, who has been through far more trauma than I, has learned the same lesson that I'm walking through. Changing the frame of reference of that question, "Why me?", makes all the difference. I've written about this before, but he re-stated it yet again in a new and refreshing way.

We should be asking "Why me?" all the time. When we look into our pantry and see it full of food, we should look up and say, "Why am I blessed with such bounty?" When we look at our home which provides relief from the elements, we should ask again, "Why me? Why do I get to live in such security?" The list can go on and on. This is a habit I hope to cultivate in my life - one where my thoughts naturally lean toward gratitude, where I am continually gathering the blessings around me and sending my thanks up to the heavens.

I would love to hear from you. What blessings are you thankful for today?

Learning to Trust

I've been "radio silent" in blog land for a while because we just went on a vacation to St. Martin. It was really nice to see some friends and relax on the beach.

We took a beautiful journey by catamaran (white boat in the distance) to the coast of Anguilla. Other than this one snapshot, I did not get my camera out at all. It was a "soak it all in" kind of day.

The beach is one of the most relaxing places on earth to me. When I'm stressed out, I do deep breathing and picture my breath flowing in and out of my belly like the waves of the ocean.

Every time I fly somewhere, I get a little bit afraid when I think about that plane being suspended in the air. I notice that I send more brief, staccato prayers up for safety during that time than I normally would.

It made me think about trusting in the Lord. Since my daughter died, I've had a difficult time trusting him like I used to. My faith was more simpistic before, and now it is complicated. Seeing your own child go through a difficult illness and then succumb to it has a way of making you question things.

Being on that flight, though, made me realize that I trust God all the time. On a moment by moment basis, I trust him to sustain my breath and to keep the fragile muscle of my heart beating in my chest.

We really are just dust, as the Psalmist says. And God knows. He understands. On the journey of grief, it is good to have moments of realizing that our lives are still safely held in his hands.

So, don't get me wrong - I still have some serious questions about belief that are not worked out yet. But for the moment, I am thankful for a respite of peace, a moment of trust.

A time to mourn and a time to dance

I had to look up this verse from Ecclesiastes to remember exactly how it is worded. In my memory, it was "a time to mourn and a time to be comforted." It was kind of ironic, then, to find that it actually finished the phrase with "a time to dance."

We danced last night at a family square dance event hosted by our church. I've always found dancing very cathartic, and last night was no exception. I'm thankful for times to dance, times of joy in spite of the sadness that still lingers. It is comforting to come up for air, to enjoy the bright spots in life. We had all types of people enjoying the dance: young and old, athletic and not. One in a wheelchair, one on crutches, one precious young man with Down syndrome who reminds me constantly of the daughter I lost. Everyone thrilling in the joy of movement, the joy of being together.

Lately the subject of comfort has been at the forefront of my mind. I didn't realize at the beginning of this journey of grief how great the comfort of God would be. That sounds too simple, too trite, so let me try to explain.

I grew up in a Christian home, blessed by parents who taught me from a young age about a God who loves us and gave his own son to die for us. I felt the conviction of my need for salvation strongly at a young age. Even growing up in a rich spiritual environment, though, I've always been afraid of suffering. In the past I have avoided verses like "blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted" (Matt 5:4). Why would I want to mourn? I didn't like the sound of this. So although I knew that verses like this were in the Bible, I chose to frame my point of view around other scriptures instead. The bits about mourning, or suffering, sounded too terrible to bear. My life was relatively simple, actually quite easy, and I didn't want to think about hardship or pain.

What I didn't know was how great the comfort would be. And, I'm starting to believe that we are only able to experience the comfort of God in direct proportion to the severity of our suffering. Now, I'm no theologian, and I don't have a list of scriptures to back this up. This is strictly my personal experience speaking, no more, no less.

So, personally, I believe that I would not have experienced the comfort of God to the extent that I now know it unless I had been through this trial. It may sound like a small consolation for losing a daughter, and don't get me wrong, this does not diminish the painful hole that she left behind. But if the void had not been this great, I would not have had such a need, such a capacity, to receive the comfort of God. There is a reward in the depth of the comfort that is there. And it took me about nine months of pain to be able to open myself up, just the tiniest bit, to begin to receive that comfort.

Here is one of those verses that really scared me in the past - still does, to tell the truth.

And our hope for you is firm, because we know that just as you share in our sufferings, so also you share in our comfort.

I Corinthians 1:7

Let me be blunt: I hated verses like this. Sharing in suffering does not sound like a good time. It doesn't sound like something a God of love would allow. And I'm still wrestling with a lot of questions about this. I have learned, though, that there is hope. There is comfort, and it increases exponentially compared with the level of pain I have endured. It is this comfort that has allowed me to go on, that has allowed me to embrace both the mourning and the dancing.

Uncooked

It is difficult to know how to grieve in Western society. I've been encouraged to share my feelings with others more, to talk about what I'm going through, because it aids the healing process. In our world, though, there are not a lot of good outlets for this.

One family I've observed who recently lost a precious 5-year-old daughter seems to be facing the same problem. They have posted about their anguish on their daughter's Facebook page, and I'm happy to report, many people either "like" those comments or reply with encouraging words.

Maybe the internet is the new way that we share our grief. There certainly are not a whole lot of other socially acceptable ways to express grief.

I've quoted Joan Didion's book before on this blog. It's so insightful that I just can't help it. Here's what she found about grief in our society.

"Philip Aries, in a series of lectures he delivered at Johns Hopkins in 1973 and later published as Western Attitudes toward Death: From the Middle Ages to the Present, noted that beginning about 1930 there had been in most Western countries and particularly the United States a revolution in accepted attitudes toward death. 'Death,' he wrote, 'so omnipresent in the past that it was familiar, would be effaced, would disappear. It would become shameful and forbidden.'"

- Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking



Try to stay with me... I know this is a bit academic-sounding, but in my experience it is pretty true to life.

"The English social anthropologist Geoffry Gorer, in his 1965 Death, Grief, and Mourning, had described this rejection of public mourning as a result of the increasing pressure of a new 'ethical duty to enjoy oneself,' a novel 'imperative to do nothing which might diminish the enjoyment of others.' In both England and the United States, he observed, the contemporary trend was 'to treat mourning as morbid self-indulgence, and to give social admiration to the bereaved who hide their grief so fully that no one would guess anything had happened.'"

- Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking



Now, any therapist worth their salt will tell you that mourning is not self-indulgent. It is an absolutely critical process that a person has to walk through, often for years, in order to heal emotionally. And yet, our society doesn't seem to be comfortable with letting people do just that.

Maybe for we Americans, it is our independent streak that gets the better of us. Our culture prizes the attitude of pulling ourselves up by our boot straps and moving on. Often I've heard the quote "when the going gets tough, the tough get going." This isn't always the healthy thing to do though. The many emotions of grief, if not given air, will fester below the surface and eventually come to the forefront again.

This is an excerpt from the memoir Angelica Huston has been writing since her husband of 16 years, the artist Robert Graham, died in 2008.

"I like to be associated with strength rather than weakness and misery. But we're made up of all of these components. There's always a moment where you are deeply alone in your own skin, and it's hard to come to terms with it. There's a period after something like the death of a spouse where you can totally understand why widows wore veils.

"Because no one should really look upon you for a couple of years, and you really shouldn't look upon anyone else. You're very tender; you feel like something uncooked. And people can be very unpleasant when you're in a state of grief."

- Excerpt from Angelica Huston's memoir, as quoted by the Wall Street Journal online

I love the way she uses the word "uncooked" here. I've often felt tender, vulnerable, like I was going out in public with a big bulls eye on my torso. To me, it seems like people should have a special designation when they are going through grief. Like a "fragile, handle with care" sticker that lets others know this individual is going through a difficult time, so please show some mercy.

It doesn't work that way, though. I've come to grips with the fact that in most social settings, I will have to be the one to bring up my daughter in conversation. Most people will not ask how I'm doing or extend their sympathies at this point. They look embarassed, averting their eyes and mumbling condolensces, if I relate a lesson that she taught me, or a story from her life.

And I cannot blame them: they have no pattern for doing this; they haven't observed anyone else around them responding to grief in an open way. Maybe they don't realize that it takes a long, long time for these wounds to heal, and that I will never forget my daughter, she will always be a part of me, always on my mind. If that means I have to walk through life a little bit uncooked, then it is worth it... she was, and is, worth it.