Where am I going?

I like this quote that I found in a book of questions that Gracie and I have.  I, too, am comforted.

"There are parts of a ship which taken by themselves would sink.  The engine would sink.  The propeller would sink.  But when the parts of a ship are built together, they float.  So with the events of my life.  Some have been tragic.  Some have been happy.  But when they are built together, they form a craft that floats and is going someplace.  And I am comforted."

Sockman. Ralph W. We’re Finally Alone – Now What Do We Do?: More than 500 Thought-Provoking Questions to Energize Your Marriage. Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. Wheaton, Illinois. 1996. Page 96.

Cancer is limited

When we were at the UNC NICU, another preemie parent said, "Everything is going to be okay."  I'm not sure what he meant by that, but I thought about it a lot afterward, and decided that he was right, regardless of what the hospital moniters were saying about our son.


On the halls of the Mayo Clinic, someone else agrees with me:

"Cancer is so limited. . .It cannot cripple love,It cannot shatter hope,It cannot corrode faith,It cannot eat away peace,It cannot kill friendship,It cannot silence courage,It cannot invade the soul,It cannot reduce eternal life,It cannot destroy confidence,It cannot shut out memories,It cannot quench the spirit,It cannot lessen the power of the resurrection. 

Though the physical body may be destroyed by disease, the spirit can remain triumphant. If disease has invaded your body, refuse to let it touch your spirit. Your body can be severely afflicted, and you may have a struggle, But if you keep trusting God's love, your spirit will remain strong. 

Why must I bear this pain? I cannot tell;I only know my Lord does all things well.And so I trust in God, my all in all.For He will bring me through, whatever befall. 

Our greatest enemy is not disease, but despair."

Some unsolicited advice

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, say something.  Send an e-mail.  Send a card.  Pick up the phone.  Morse Code, whatever.”

“Do you think so? I’m afraid of hurting them more.”

“Well, if you want to make sure that you hurt them more, simply say nothing.  That way, they will feel all alone in their pain.”

Gracie and I have lost four children.  Belita (“Little Beautiful One”) miscarried 12 weeks after she was conceived early in our marriage.  Katie Esperanza (“Pure Hope) died at birth at 23 weeks.  She was born on December 23, 2000.  That was a hard Christmas.  Confianza (“Trust”) was born way too early, with no possibility of living.  And then there was Andrew.  He did live.  Nine glorious weeks.  All in the NICU.  Almost all of them desperately sick.  And they were probably the nine most glorious weeks of my life up to that point.  Then he too died.  Too many things wrong with his tiny preemie body.  The doctors couldn’t do anything more.  We prayed.  God brought him home.

So, all that to say, I am familiar with grief and I have this piece of advice for you.

When someone is grieving, make that gesture; say that word; give that small gift; say you wish you could do more and you “know that this small gift won’t stop the pain”. 

And you are right.  It won’t stop the pain.  It ought not.  And, if it were me, I wouldn’t really want it too, because at the moments of the loss of my children, and even six years later, as it is now, the tears and sadness are good companions, the most relevant way of saying, “I love you, my child.”  And I wouldn’t give that up for all happy thoughts in the world.

A gesture of condolence does not remove the grief, but rather join in the grief with the grieving one.  And that is a deep comfort that helps convert the sadness from hopelessness to a form of experiencing beauty.  The beauty and majesty of small acts of true friendship are treasure in the vault of my heart, bearing long term reward. 

More on this later, I expect, because it is coming up on the season of remembrance.  Andrew was born on January 30, and died April 4, six years ago.  And each year we remember, and we delight in the garden of friendship that was cultivated by the small gestures of those that chose to grieve with us, and could only say, but helpfully, “I’m sorry for your loss.”