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 13th 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.
__________________________________________
NEXT WEEK:
Dealing with poorly spoken words…
__________________________________________
Thanks for joining me.
Until next week!
Blessings,
Andrea
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