forgiveness, the flip side

I read a post today written by someone who was seemingly deeply deeply sincere in her desire to help. She seems to have put her heart as deeply into the soul tearing pain of others as someone who is not being buried by the avalanche can. I imagine her words touched deep places that desperately need to be acknowledged in some very broken people. A few short years ago they would have pulled a river of tears from my eyes but no more.

She spoke of forgiveness. She spoke of the healing power of God’s forgiveness, of the sacrifice of Jesus’ blood, of the human inability to right our own wrongs or forgive our own sins…

What if I’m not the one who needs forgiveness?

Yeah, you might want to stop reading now.

What if this time I’m the one who would have to forgive? Yeah, I said it. It’s what’s in my head, what’s tearing at the walls of my shattered heart.

This isn’t my only issue with God, with faith, with Christianity. I have some serious foundational questions but I won’t get into those here. Here I will drop this bomb. What if I can’t forgive God for what he has done to me?

Here’s the thing. The way I see it (and this is only my perspective and by no means the whole story) there are three possibilities.

1.    God doesn’t exist; therefore, there was no one on the receiving end of my agonized, desperate prayers for my son.

2.    God is weak, he was there but he couldn’t do anything to save my child.

3.    God purposely and knowingly allowed Damon to die, despite my trust, despite my cries.

Quite honestly, I’m not sure which it is and I’m not sure I want to be in league with any of the above. But if he is who I have long believed him to be, if he was there on the floor with me every morning and every evening while we discussed everything from dinner plans to deep wounds. If I wasn’t just conjuring a presence I desperately wanted to be real then it is number 3. Number 3 requires forgiveness. Not from him, from me.

Undoubtedly others have felt this way. It’s irreverent, it’s certainly not “religious” but it’s true.

 If I manage to sort my way through 1 & 2, and apparently I think I will, then that leaves me with the question of can I and will I forgive?

I don’t know…

I don’t know.

Crisis of faith

Faith… what the heck is faith?

Warning, if you’ve had me on a pedestal I’m about to come crashing down.

Webster’s definition: Definition of FAITH

1a : allegiance to duty or a person : loyalty

b (1) : fidelity to one's promises (2) : sincerity of intentions

2a (1) : belief and trust in and loyalty to God (2) : belief in the traditional doctrines of a religion

b (1) : firm belief in something for which there is no proof (2) : complete trust

3: something that is believed especially with strong conviction; especially : a system of religious beliefs <the Protestant faith>

Christians like to turn to Hebrews 11:1  confidence in what we hope for and assurance in what we do not see.

… What does that mean?

See, the thing is I’m about to get real honest in a really public way and the words I would use to do so aren’t even entirely clear to me in their definition.

Crisis of faith

Crisis:

Noun 1.    A time of intense difficulty, trouble, or danger. 2.    A time when a difficult or important decision must be made: "a crisis point of history". That one I’m all over. I’m in a crisis, without a doubt. The faith word is where I run into difficulty. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Yep, she is. I’m tired of fighting this battle in silence. I’m tired of questioning in secret so here goes. I think God absolutely, completely, and totally sucks. I’ve been afraid to say it. I’ve felt like the faith of so many is riding on my convictions, convictions I firmly believed… until I didn’t. I’ve been afraid of judgment, losing the people I love, my support system; people of faith are my world, my heart, my friends, my family, my everything… and of having to endure more “advice” from people who know absolutely nothing about the kind of torture I walk through Every. Single. Minute. So don’t. If you just had a scripture or saying or platitude pop into your head, just don’t. My anger is generally reserved solely for this one I’ve called “Father” and I don’t want you to get caught in the crossfire. Trust me, it’s vicious. I loved Him, truly, truly loved Him. I walked with Him, closely, Most importantly I trusted Him. (don’t you dare talk to me about trusting when he says “no” because I will likely hunt you down and you do not want to see me crazy) I know the Bible people, probably much better than 90% of Christians. I know what it says, there is no comfort there, only more confusion. I’ve read until my eyes go blurry. I’ve studied. I’ve sought answers. Nothing. I value honesty. Highly, highly value honesty so here I am being honest. I realize I’m doing this in an incredibly public forum and as a result am inviting abuse, abuse that quite frankly I cannot endure. But I’ve sought kindred spirits. I’ve desperately searched for someone who would say “I had the same struggle” but there is no one so it will be me. I don’t know where this will go but as of this moment I’m in crisis and it is going to take a long, long time to sort things out. So the other disciples told him, "We have seen the Lord!" But he said to them, "Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe."

I'm a duck

I’m a duck…

One of the very few days Will was home while Raz was still in the NICU Raz had to have a minor procedure done. We knew it was coming but we didn’t know it would be done that morning. I was there, alone. Will is the strong, stoic one. His catch phrase should be “it’ll be fine.” I, however, am the emotional one.

During the procedure Will text to ask how I was doing. “I’m a duck” was my response, meaning I look calm but under the surface there’s all sorts of insanity going on.

I’m a duck.

Last night after one of the baby’s feedings I laid in bed for what seemed like forever. I couldn’t sleep. My insides are all in knots.

Until a few months ago I couldn’t see or feel anything beyond my own ache. The pain was so big, so loud, so all consuming that quite frankly I didn’t care what was happening to the rest of the world. In recent months that has changed. Raz’s birth has propelled me into a new season of mourning. The pain is no less but it feels as if this precious new life has allowed me to unbolt some of the locks confining it to a single chamber in my heart. My missing for Damon has been given more space inside me. I think I may be mourning more fully now. The pressure is less, the missing is becoming more of who I am.

I’m sad. I’m so so sad.

I have to resist the urge to stop being honest about how deeply sad I am. It seems that my world is consumed with celebrating our new child. That is good. Raz is good. Raz is beyond good. Damon is still gone. So, I’m a duck.

A few days ago Will and I sat helpless in our living room and watched an F5 tornado form just a few miles south. We watched it rip through a town and destroy an elementary school. The bile rises as I write this. Shortly after we watched parents race down a debris strewn street toward what used to be a school.

I know…

I know.

Last night as I lay watching the lights blink on my son’s monitor, telling me his heart was beating, telling me that he was breathing I couldn’t get those images out of my head. Then I wondered why I was trying to dismiss them. They shouldn’t be dismissed. They should haunt me.

So now I’m searching for a way to incorporate this new pain into my life, this pain that aches with every story of lost life, this sickness that wont go away.

I don’t want Damon forgotten. I don’t want to feel like I need to look like I’m ok when I’m not. Good after horror does not negate the horror.

I will not look away. 

NICU

Raz was born 15 days ago, six weeks premature.

I don’t think I’m ready to write about it. The abject terror is still far too near with ECG leads, oxygen monitors and a feeding tube all seemingly permanently affixed to my newborn. I need him to be out of the NICU then maybe I can write about that night, not yet.

We’ve been here for two weeks, living in this tiny room, watching monitors flash his vital signs and celebrating each small victory when a tube was removed. I hadn’t cried. I hadn’t let the memories of the last time I was in a room like this surface. I was in survival mode… until last night.

Last night for the millionth time his alarms screamed, his heart rate dropped and he stopped breathing. I was trying to feed him at the time, something so simple. I was just trying to feed my baby. Except he’s a preemie and he’s still figuring out how to breathe, eat, and keep his heart beating. The sixth or seventh time his alarms went off and I had to desperately rub his tiny little back to get him to breathe I broke.

I stood in his room completely paralyzed as the tsunami hit and I was suddenly aware of how incredibly warm and wet my face was. I sat in the lobby of this hospital and cried and cried and cried. I finally let the memories come. I mourned Damon and I hoped for Raz and I cried.

I don’t usually let people see me cry, like almost never. It’s not a pride thing. I’m not ashamed of my tears. They are necessary. I’ve figured out that I don’t let people see me cry because people want the crying to stop. People think that the crying should stop, as if that is some measure of the comfort they have given. When I cry no amount of comfort will make it better, no words will heal, no presence will soften the ache. I cry because I need to cry and I need to cry until I stop. So, I usually cry alone so I can be free to hurt, to be exposed, to be pissed, to be so deeply wounded it cannot be explained.

Last night there was nowhere to go. So, I sat in the lobby, while people came and went, and cried.

Today, as always after I’ve let myself look at the gaping Damon shaped hole in my heart, I’m raw. I’m ragged. I miss him so much.

When Raz was born a warm new light bloomed in my heart. It sits next to the icy hole of pain created by Damon’s death. Before, I never would have imagined both sensations could coexist, but they do. My happiness and love for each of my guys lives with the horrifying pain of Damon’s loss. They influence each other but they are each independent and unique entities. Raz’s birth, his life, is good and beautiful and in no way lessens the ache for Damon.   

From the NICU, until next time…

Never quite there

I’m laying here staring at an empty crib…

This crib is almost an exact replica of the one that stands empty in the next room, only smaller, so as to fit in our room, next to our bed. I just keep staring at it, as if it is going to help me… as if it will explain what the hell is going on. It wont.

We went to a movie today. We debated this venture. Our small group got together to see the movie. We weren’t sure if I could handle it. Movies have the tendency to purposely push your emotional buttons and mine are so raw a sideways look can set me off. Ultimately Will left it up to me. I wanted to go… I wanted to be with our friends. I wanted some normal.

I don’t know that it was a bad idea but the choice certainly had some repercussions. A tsunami has been pulling water out into that endless ocean of pain for a while now. I knew it would be crashing soon. Soon was today, soon is now.

In the movie the main character visited two graves repeatedly. In the emotional climax the sight of the grave markers was more than I could handle. Crash. The roar of unbearable pain deafened me. My child is in the ground. For most people that was just an emotional scene, for most people the fact that a wife in the movie buried her husband and a child had his father torn from his life add richness to a plot that ties up in a pretty bow at the end. Not for me. For me the image of leaves covering a grave marker is all I can see.

MY life doesn’t tie up in a pretty bow. There is no nice resolution. My son is dead. There is a hole in my heart that will never be filled. I hurt. I hurt. I hurt.

I stare at one empty crib that waits for new life. It is empty in anticipation. Every. Single. Day. I pass a crib that is empty with loss. Representations of the duality that is my world.

Normal is so confusing. I live perpendicular to the world. I see green where you see purple and hear screams where you hear music. It is so hard to walk here, never quite there.

From under the waves, until next time…

Rainbow baby

I haven’t written much about my pregnancy. I haven’t talked about it much either. It’s April, the month after hell month, the month before our “Rainbow baby” is born.

Like everything in life now this pregnancy is fraught with contradictory emotion. I swing from elation every single time I hear his heart beat to absolute conviction that something has or will go terribly wrong. I swear my Obgyn’s office has my number on speed dial I call so often and my friend who is a labor and delivery nurse probably wishes she’d never given me her number!

What if he looks like Damon? What if he doesn’t? What if I call him the wrong name? What will it be like for a child to enter a family after the loss of his beloved brother? Will I be able to give him room to be Raz or will I always see his brother?

There are a million things that could go wrong. A million things between now and his birth. A million things during those few crucial hours and as we know agonizingly well, a million things every day for the rest of his life. I no longer get to live in that comfortable place assuming my children will be ok. Terror fills every minute. What if?

A friend asked me today what we need to be ready for Raz…

Well, everything. We haven’t let ourselves believe it. We haven’t let it be real. We keep saying to each other ‘ok, we need this and this and this and we need to get ready for this baby.’ Then we just end up staring at each other, paralyzed. We are so afraid, so afraid.

I stood in a local store the other day, staring at the diapers. I had a coupon for diapers. I stood and stared. I couldn’t buy them. I walked out with my heart in my throat thinking ‘at some point, Jodie, you will have to venture into the baby section. At some point you will have to buy diapers and wipes and onsies….’ That point hasn’t come yet because I want so desperately to by buying pull-ups and 3T clothes.

Our amazing family (no blood relation but they are) is throwing us a baby shower this month. Wow… this is getting real ya’ll. So afraid.  So afraid.

Until next time…

My people

You know, when I sit down here and put my fingers to the keys I have no idea what will come out. Sometimes I have thoughts banging around in my head that I intended to “put to paper” and I walk away realizing they didn’t ever make it to the page. My writing has a life of its own, its own course, its own personality. Sometimes I surprise myself.

Today I’ve been chewing on relationships… people…my fear of relationships and people… juxtaposed against my desire for relationships and people. Nothing like an introvert immersed in profound grief with PTSD to make things super complicated.

So, here’s the bottom line. I love my people. Like, really, really, really love them.

There are more things than I could even begin to count that I’m unsure about, foundations I thought were rock solid that have crumbled, questions I never thought I’d ask and beliefs I’m not sure I hold anymore. But here’s one thing I know, however deeply flawed, the church has held me up, tended my wounds, held me together and let me fall apart.

NOT the building. NOT the communion plates. NOT the old songs. NOT the new songs. NOT scripture memorization or regular attendance (Lord knows I haven’t darkened the door of the building in over a year), or prayer meetings, or programs. The church.

The people who haven’t given up on me. The people who pulled our first Damon’s dance fundraiser together. The people who pick Isaiah up on Wednesday nights and take him to class. The people who covered our yard with signs telling us how loved we are. The people who grab my husband and take him to hang out. The people who randomly bring me Dr. Peppers. The people who haven’t pulled back and protected their hearts from my sorrow. The people who hear my anger and bitterness and just let it be. The people…

I love my people. My heart clenches as I write this. I love you.

Until next time…