The Added Hurt of a Silent Church and Silent Friends

I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.

Philippians 1:3

           

Shortly after my release from the hospital, I prepared an announcement of Victoria’s birth and death. Selecting delicate pink stationery, I used Philippians 1:3 on the front page: “I thank my God upon every remembrance of you.” On the inside I wrote: “Our dreams are sure going to miss her.” I made a simple statement about the pregnancy complication and death, along with Victoria’s full name and a request for friends and family to help us heal emotionally and physically.

           

Many friends and family members responded immediately to our announcements by calling or sending bereavement cards, or writing letters expressing their sorrow and concern. What hurt so much and left us so disillusioned was that we received only three cards from our church family, and no communication from my four closest friends from college.

           

And we also received meager spiritual support from our congregation. Some saved their voiced regrets for times when they encountered us at church; others avoided us as if we’d contracted some incurable disease. A small number called, but most seemed aloof to our needs and pain. If they were praying for us, we didn’t know; if they cared, we remained uninformed.

           

Chris and I found it difficult to lay aside our resentment over the glaring neglect and lack of support from our church. We felt deserted spiritually. Where was the edification and bearing of one another’s burdens Paul wrote about to the Galatian church? Still battling anger, I allowed this sad, puzzling behavior of my brothers and sisters in Christ to feed my languishing self-pity. But eventually I had to ask myself: Am I actually enjoying my anger? Do I care more about getting attention than hiding in the shadow of the Almighty’s wings?

           

Along with this disillusionment, I hurt because I sensed the bridges of college friendships weakening and crumbling as these cherished companions answered my announcement with silence. Feeling certain they’d eventually contact me by letter or telephone, I anxiously awaited some speck of acknowledgement. The daily ritual of riffling expectantly through the mail deteriorated into a futile, depressing activity. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and I eventually resigned myself to the reality that their silence was permanent. With aching melancholy and regret—and new bitterness heaped on my festering resentment—I was forced to acknowledge that perhaps we were separated by something more divisive than geographical miles; that a deep, wide chasm had developed in our relationships.

            

          Did they truly experience such a profound loss of words, or had time simply slipped by, leaving the critical response time missed and good intentions in the to-do pile? Were they incapable or unwilling to dwell on the grief a person experiences when a child dies prematurely? Or had my loss struck too close to home? Did they mistakenly assume I’d automatically know they were thinking about me? This seemed to be the case with one friend who I wrote to almost two years after the event, expressing my surprise and disappointment in not hearing from her. She responded several months after that with an apology for being such a bad letter writer, professing that she often thought about me, and asking me rhetorically if I were “catching her vibes.” No, I wasn’t catching any vibes; nor did I miss this letter’s stubborn silence about my loss.

           

Another friend briefly referenced me specifically in her general Christmas letter two years later, saying that I really deserved a page all to myself. The other two friends reduced their communication to once-a-year Christmas cards with perfunctory notes or cursory signatures.

           

Friendships need love, nurturing and time—time to heal, time to be alone, time to be saturated and distracted in adult conversation, just to have my aching mind re-routed elsewhere. Time to fill empty, stagnant hours. My friends were incapable of sparing me from pain. Yet I needed them to allow me to grieve. Time would heal that grief, if I were allowed to go through the process. And I needed encouragement to mourn, since it is in the act of mourning that healing occurs. In my fluctuating torment, it became increasingly difficult to suppress anger at others’ thoughtless behavior.

I needed God’s all-sufficient grace to forgive their insensitivity. And at some

point I needed to become a willing vessel of His unconditional love to carry forgiveness to the offenders.

           

Thankfully, many did pour out their regrets in cards and letters, and I repeatedly bathed myself in their tender, heartfelt sentiments, and in the cleansing tears their words evoked. Simple cards, alerting us to someone else’s willingness to share out loss and care about our suffering provided us tremendous strength and encouragement. Sentiments alluding to Victoria’s death authenticated our loss; referring to her by her name validated her existence.

           

The following is a note written by a man who was, at the time, composing Chris’s family tree. He sent it to my mother-in-law who forwarded it to us:

                       

Dear Laura,

                                    Karen and I were distressed to read about Victoria Lee; Chris and                          Andrea had such expectations and dreams for her future. Although we

                        have never met, any loss as this affects anyone who hears it. I hope that

                        the healing powers of the Lord help all of you.

                                    Victoria’s name will be added to the tree, where she will be in

                        good company with dozens of other children whose flame burned too

                        briefly. On the Mueller branch of the Kirscht family, one couple,

                        (having children in the 1880’s—early 1900’s), had ten children: only one

                        of the ten lived longer than forty-eight hours. Such sadness.

                                    Please keep me apprised of other changes in your extended

                        family—may all of them be far more joyous than this news, even though

                        Victoria is now with God.”

            These poignant, compassionate words were written by a man my family had never met, never known as an intimate friend. Yet his words were no less meaningful or appreciated. Oddly enough, after reading his note, I felt that Victoria was in good company; and I felt somewhat relieved that I wasn’t an oddball loser in a family boasting generations of five, six, seven or more offspring. (I re-read this note twenty years later, on the 13^th of this month with the same thankfulness for his time, effort and comforting words.) If a complete stranger could compose these words, why couldn’t—why wouldn’t— a treasured friend?

           

I’ve since come to realize that there are many reasons people don’t write: fear of saying the wrong thing, fear of their own frailty, guilt over their own “good fortune”, simple neglect, time getting so far away from them that they think the critical window of opportunity has passed and it’s “too late” to respond, or just procrastinating laziness. 

             

And I confess that I, too, have sometimes fallen into some of these categories, and “blown” it, failed miserably in offering support. Having available internet communication now makes it easier to communicate and stay in touch, but there’s just something about a card arriving in your mailbox, to brighten your day and let you know that someone is thinking about you, praying for you, hurting with you.  

           

I’m so grateful for my little box of cards. Twenty years later they remind us just how much we were loved…by so many.

           

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NEXT WEEK: Dealing with poorly spoken words…

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Thanks for joining me.

Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea

Disfigurement, Insecurity, and Grieving Apart

       

"The search for God begins at the point of need."

                                                                                      Catherine Marshall

           The outward sign of my loss was the ever-present C-section scar—a physical devastation to me. This fiery red, tender scar reduced me to a state of rage. I’d stand awash in a sick feeling that I’d been mutilated, for nothing.

           

            I now bore a permanent mark, with nothing, absolutely nothing, to show for it. No reward for hours of labor. No happy ending. No prize making the pain and suffering profitable, forgettable, or even enjoyable. My vociferous ego incessantly reminded me that before surgery the only part of my body that hadn’t yet succumbed to the negative effects of aging was my abdomen—a firm, flat stomach I didn’t have to work very hard to maintain. Now it hung puckered and puffy, a marsupial-like pouch.

           

            There were moments I actually envisioned horrid cackling erupting from its staple-marked edges. The unavoidable, repulsive vision taunted and jeered at me from my unforgiving, honest mirror, and I repeatedly restrained myself from giving it a good punch. I wanted to excise the scar; amputate the hideous reminder. The last of my physical attributes had been decimated, and ugly resentment directed toward Victoria and everyone else remotely responsible or connected with defecting my body this way crept into my damaged psyche. I fueled the anger by refusing to let it go. I rooted myself in it.

           

            One night during a rather intense episode of blemish obsession, Chris and I entered into one of our ever-more-frequent confrontations. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling and rapidly drowning myself in the disfigurement, I tossed back and forth then deliberately heaved several audible sighs, hoping, expecting Chris to roll over and tenderly ask what was wrong. Instead of tenderness an angry burst of “What did I do this time?” exploded from his lips as he slammed his fists into the mattress before rising abruptly from the bed.

           

            “What makes you think this anything to do with you!?” I shouted back, my anger spewing forth like violently erupting lava. “Are you so self-centered that you think all of my pain has anything to do with you!? Why can’t I be mad—really angry—about what surgery has done to my body? Why can’t I just share that with you? I have a permanent scar and nothing to show for it! It’s a constant reminder to me of my loss!”   

           

            Oh, how badly I needed someone to tell me it was okay; I needed my husband to give me some sign that I was still okay, that he still needed and wanted me. That he didn’t blame me for what happened. I craved assurance that it wasn’t my fault. As horrible as the scar seemed at that moment, it was merely a distraction from the larger, more critical issue: I just needed someone to listen to me, to hold me. To quiet my anguished soul. But Chris was unwilling or incapable of responding favorably to my camouflaged desire. And I was so steeped in my own pain that I couldn’t see his; and I’d conveniently, selfishly forgotten that it was our loss, not just mine.

          
             “I don’t know what you want from me; what you expect from me! Do you think you are the only one hurting? I can’t do anything for you!” he fired back as he exited our

bedroom.

           

            I recognized his hurt, but I was convinced I suffered more than he. After all, he wasn’t the one recovering from emergency surgery; he wasn’t the one who came so dangerously close to dying. He certainly wasn’t displaying any great waves of sorrow, in my presence anyway. His only public display of grief occurred that fateful morning in the hospital.

           

            In my mind I, alone, lay abandoned among the wreckage, deserted and deteriorating amidst a sea of people. Absorbed in self-pity, I’d blossomed into a self-imposed martyr and disregarded the fact that Chris had been a helpless spectator to his wife nearly hemorrhaging to death, not once, but twice, and been forced to make that gut-wrenching choice between the life of his dying wife and letting his daughter go.

           

            There was, indeed, plenty Chris could do for me, and volumes I could do for him. I needed reassurance; and he refused to talk about it. He needed understanding and patience, and I remained oblivious of his personal pain. Looking back on it, I know I should have explained to him what I was experiencing and asked for his help, told him what I needed instead of just waiting for and expecting him to automatically know and provide it. And I could have just held him in silence, without expecting that he grieve at the same pace as I, or quickly divulge his deepest fears and pains.

           

            But there we were, stubbornly stacking ugly, isolating bricks between us, wallowing in self-imposed emotional exile.

           

            Yet there was Someone who could help me relinquish my self-absorption and to finally heal. He stood ready to take my hand and remake me, inside out. He waited, patiently watching me unravel. But He wouldn’t make His next move until I came to the absolute end of myself.

           

            Unfortunately, I wasn’t there yet.

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NEXT WEEK: I send out baby announcements, hear words of encouragement from some, silence from others; and Parker asks some difficult questions…

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Thanks for joining me.

Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea

In light of the horrible bombings and senseless death that occurred on American soil last Monday, and because wars and rumors of wars continue to ebb and flow around the world, I’d like to give you some thoughts from the late Scottish-American preacher and former United States Senate Chaplain, Peter Marshall, who wrote these words during the Second World War:

           

            “There is no use trying to evade the issue.

            There are times God does not intervene—

            The fact that He does nothing is one of the most baffling mysteries in

            Christian life.

            It was H. G. Wells who voiced the dilemma that many troubled hearts

            have faced in war time:

                        ‘Either God has the power to stop all this carnage and

                        killing and He doesn’t care,

                        or else He does care, and He doesn’t have the

                        power to stop it.’

           

            “But that is not the answer…

            As long as there is sin in the world.

            As long as there is greed

                        selfishness

                 hate in the hearts of men

            there will be war….

           

            It is only because God is God that He is reckless enough to allow

            human beings such free will as has led the world into this

            present catastrophe.

            God could have prevented war!

            Do you doubt for a moment that God has not the power?

            But suppose He had used it?

            Men would then have lost their free agency…

            They would no longer be souls endowed with the ability to choose…

            They would then become puppets

                                                robots

                                            machines

                                    toy soldiers instead.

           

            No, God is playing a much bigger game.

            He is awaiting an awakened sense of the responsibility of brotherhood

            in the hearts of men and women everywhere.

            He will not do for us the things that we can do for ourselves….”

(Taken from Catherine Marshall’s book, Beyond Our Selves: a woman’s pilgrimage

in faith; 1961.)

Finally Grieving Together After 20 Years

(The following post is an extra post for this week. If you want to read “the rest of my story” please see Monday’s entry, April 15, the post just prior to this one.)

            With trepidation Chris acquiesced to my request to commemorate the 20^th anniversary of Victoria’s death by spending the day together, reminiscing and praying. When I told him I thought we should finally purchase a nice container in which to store her ashes, his eyes widened. (I wasn’t sure why that would bother him, since he didn’t elaborate, but I would learn later what he feared most that I’d request.) But we both agreed that we didn’t want to open the little white box to actually transfer her ashes to another container.

           

            From the first gentle suggestions, I could tell my desires caused him distress, and he voiced several reasons as to why he might not have time to take all day Saturday to do something like that. I assured him it didn’t have to take long; I just wanted some time together to reflect and talk—something we’d never really done. I think the talking and reflecting is what worried him.

           

            On Sunday night, April 7, Chris asked to see what I had in mind for containers. Originally he had said he didn’t want to open the little white box containing her ashes, but after looking at other options, he turned up his nose and said, “What else did you find?” That was when I showed him the little white marble urns for babies and small children I’d located on line. “Wow, I like that one!” he said, pointing to the picture of the white marble urn.

           

            I turned to look at him. “But we’d have to actually transfer the ashes into that one,” I said softly.

           

            He didn’t hesitate. “Okay. I want to get that one.” So, the little white marble urn it was. After deciding together upon the engraving, I ordered it. It arrived Thursday.

           

            On Friday he asked me what I wanted to do on Saturday. “Just go somewhere; just the two of us. Alone.” I said without looking up from what I was doing.

           

            “Do you want to drive up to Mt. Lemmon?” he wondered. That sounded perfect. (For those of you unfamiliar with Tucson, Arizona, Mt. Lemmon sits in the Santa Catalina mountain range that borders Tucson on the north side of the city. Its elevation is 9,157 feet, and the abundant pine trees and cool mountain air provide a welcome respite from the searing desert floor heat. It’s only a 50-minute drive from our house and a place to which we love to escape, although we don’t get up there as often as we’d like.)

           

            Then I reminded him of a memorial service we were attending Saturday morning for a dear friend. I secretly harbored concern about how it might affect our day, or, more correctly, my emotions, but we couldn’t miss Al’s service. He’d been such a tremendous mentor to my husband and sons. His daughters and grandchildren, and their families, are precious friends. How could we miss it?

           

            So, on Saturday morning we started our day by saying goodbye to Al. I wasn’t prepared for how his service would prime my heart for our own private memorial for Victoria—how it would refocus my recently cluttered and burdened mind and heart and remind me of the most important things in life: love of God and family. Al was the perfect model of both. Following the ceremony and visiting with old friends we hadn’t seen for years, we left edified, joyous and expectant.

           

            On the way home we stopped at the store to pick up the white roses I’d selected to display on our church’s altar Sunday morning. After putting the roses in water and making a quick clothing change, we headed up the mountain.

           

            Though colder than expected—with scrappy patches of snow still lingering stubbornly on the mountainside—the glorious weather and crisp air energized our senses and calmed our hearts. Close to the summit we found a perfect spot on a hill overlooking part of the valley. There we talked and shared our hearts. Then Chris asked me the question that had been weighing heavily on his heart.

           

            “What did you plan to do with her, with the urn? Because I’m not ready to just put her in the ground somewhere.”

           

            “Oh, I didn’t plan to put her anywhere. I just wanted to have her ashes in a special place, a nice container, in a prominent place in our home, like she deserves. Not some sterile white box stuck high up on a bookshelf behind a picture.”

           

            Chris exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. “Good, because I’m not ready for that. I’m not ready to leave her somewhere.”

           

            “You still feel like you need to protect her, don’t you?”

           

            “Yes,” he smiled and nodded, relief softening his features because his deepest fears wouldn’t become reality.

           

            “I mean, I like Tucson, but I don’t want to live here forever. And I wouldn’t want to leave her here when we move. And I don’t want to leave her someplace in California either. Actually, I’m thinking more like Hawaii. Maybe. But why can’t you just put her in the pine box with me when I go?” He smiled crookedly and let a tiny, nervous laugh escape.

           

            “You’re a protective father who wants to be forever with his baby girl.” I smiled.

            “Yeah, I am.” He smiled again and nodded his head as though pleased to know I fully understood his heart and wishes.

           

            Chris got up and walked around the table. We sat together, embraced, the warmth of our bodies giving each other comfort and strength in the cold wind. We prayed, thanking God for our blessings, our boys, and the strength and faith God supplanted in us through Victoria’s death, for keeping us bound so closely together. We thanked God for the past; we prayed for the future.

           

            Then Chris thanked God for the things He gives us and for the things He takes away.

           

            My love for Chris surged anew through my heart when he thanked God that when our youngest son, Cory, graduates from high school next month, the two of us would embark on a new season in our lives, where we’d come full circle and be together—just the two of us—romancing one another again. His voice exuded excitement and gratefulness as he spoke. His tender touch and strong, encircling embrace infused my heart and soul with joy and hope. In his firm, loving embrace, I felt as if we could confront anything the world threw at us; we’d already survived the worst tragedy that can befall parents.

           

            Then Chris whispered in my ear, “Thank you. This was a good idea. I feel much better.”

           

            We returned to the car and drove to the tiny mountaintop town. There we dined on pizza and hot chocolate in a log cabin restaurant. When we got back down the mountain and home, we opened the sterile, white box, finally read the official papers enclosed in an envelope taped to the top, and transferred the small package of Victoria’s remains to the white marble urn bearing her name.

           

            “Where do you want to put it?” Chris asked.

           

            “Next to our wedding picture on the entertainment center.”

           

            “I think that’s a good spot,” he nodded.

           

            We sat on the couch together, Victoria’s memory box opened on Chris’s lap. He looked at the marble urn in its new spot. “I like it. It looks really nice right there.” He looked tired, but content.

           

            Then we spent the next hour re-reading the cards, letters and notes sent to us by friends and family. The exercise brought pleasant memories and stories of past friends and co-workers. We laughed. We looked at the prints of Victoria’s tiny footprints and the blurry Polaroid pictures of her. We sighed. “Boy, those feet are tiny aren’t they?” Chris said, shaking his head. He finally picked up and leafed through the grieving booklets I’d perused and he’d avoided. “It’s nice that that doctor and nurse wrote that little book for people,” he commented.

           

            For something like the sixth time, he said, “I really do feel a lot better. This was good.” Then he added, “Are you happy?”

           

            “Yes,” I smiled. “Thank you. I finally feel that we’ve said goodbye, together, and that we’re more healed than we were; that Victoria is no longer a child of ours that we’d rather not think about; that we’re afraid to talk about. That we’ve relegated to a dark, quiet place in another room, like she never existed. Thank you.”

           

            As C. S. Lewis said, grief does feel like fear. In that moment, the fear—of talking about her, of thinking about her, of sneaking the box off the shelf and loathing its sorry, cheap appearance—evaporated. The 20-year burden was lifted, and I felt lighter. It really felt as if Victoria were finally home, and we—Chris and I, and the boys—were whole.  

           

            “I want to get all of these cards, pictures and notes out of this box and put them in a nice memory album,” I said. Chris concurred.

           

            “Yes, you need to do that, so we can look at them.” I turned away and smiled, and whispered a silent prayer of thanks to God.

           

            The following morning Chris and I drove the two-dozen white roses to our church to display on the altar for the two services. During the second service, which we attended, our pastor mentioned them and their meaning just before giving his sermon. My mother cried when he said that, and when I gave her a dozen matching white roses. We embraced as she shed her emotions. It was good. All good. Maybe the healing went further than I had expected it to.

           

            Several people approached us after the service. “We didn’t know you had a daughter,” some of them said. “Yes,” we do. We really do, I thought. Then one woman I’ve never met approached me as I gathered the roses up to take home. She looked up at me, gave me a bright smile, and carefully selected her words. “You know, I don’t know the person who those flowers were for, but…I have to tell you. They really helped me this morning. They reminded me that what I have going on in my life, what I’m worrying about, really isn’t such a big deal. Thank you.”

           

            Now I sit on the couch, see Victoria’s resting place on my shelf, and I smile.

           

            You really are home, and a part of us now, little one, and I am so very grateful for you.

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Until next week!

Blessings,

Andrea