The Waiting Walk

I’m sitting in the bleachers of my kids’ high school.  We are enjoying the Friendship Tournament, a friendly round of games between our area Adventist elementary schools.  Soon my son’s team will be playing.  I am surrounded by noise and laughter and cheering and clapping and shouting and smiles and so much fun.  High school students, elementary students, parents, grandparents – the stands are full! This is a happy event.

Yet I sit here pondering death.  And the changes that death brings to a person, to a family, to all those left behind.

All feelings that are quite the opposite of what I am surrounded by in this moment.

This week, one of my fifth graders lost her dad in an accident.  Eleven years old.  Her brother is nine.  Their little sister is four.  And now they face life without a father.  I am so overwhelmed by this thought.  Who I am today has been tremendously influenced by my father. And who my student will become will be greatly influenced by this loss.  The truth is that many people allow loss to fuel them to become kinder, more compassionate, and beautiful human beings. So her future, and that of her siblings, is still so full of promise.  But this is not how it was meant to be.  This is not the way it is supposed to be.  Dealing with death, with loss, with a fatherless home is a result of sin, and sin is truly an enemy. Death is an enemy.

My heart breaks for this family. There are at least three cousins in our school who are directly impacted by this loss, and a host of church-connected friends who feel it deeply as well.  Our community is in mourning.  And yet we will still do math, and spend time reading and writing, have tests, and practice skills.

It is a strange spot to be in as a teacher. Difficult. And yet I pray I can be what and who she needs at this time in her life.

Yesterday I sat in church and at lunch with a sweet friend.  It had been one week since her brother passed away from cancer.  That ugly, merciless disease that takes some quickly and for others it drags things out in a painful and agonizing progression of loss and bereavement. I was proud of her for coming to church, but it was not easy. Going to church, to work, to basketball games, even to the store, sends our body signals that life is normal.  These are regular things we did before.  But life is not normal anymore.  Everything looks different.  Feels different. Is different.  The world has changed.  But only for us.  Everyone around us proceeds as they did before.  And so going to church, to work, or running simple errands feels jarring. Unnatural.  A clash with what we are feeling.  Our world has stopped, and yet the world around us keeps spinning. So as we sat there at lunch, we alternated, talking about loss and the one loved so deeply, and also talking about mundane things like our recent snow storm and teaching and pets. Normal things.  Even though normal no longer exists.

Another mom I know is grieving the loss of her son.  Today marks three months, but to her it was yesterday.  Life stopped that day.  And yet it hasn’t.  And nothing, truly nothing, will ever be the same again. How are we supposed to proceed in these situations?  And yet we do.

Search and rescue planes fly over the ocean in the Philippines. It’s been five days. A mission helicopter never arrived at its destination. The pilot, nurse, and three passengers are missing.  The patient has family.  The pilot has a wife, children.  The young, vibrant nurse, who went as a missionary once and then returned for a more permanent position, has family here in Oregon.  Her fiancé flies one of the search planes. I don’t know the family personally, but they are part of my wider church and teacher community. And I think every circle of friends I have is connected somehow to this situation.  My heart hurts for them.  All of them.  This is not how missionary experiences are supposed to end.  This is not how serving God is supposed to turn out. 

But we live in a war zone.  And we face a real enemy. And really bad things happen to really good people.  And it is hard.  And it isn’t fair.  And this isn’t how it is supposed to be.

But this is our reality.

And so I sit here, pondering all these things, as I have been all weekend.  The noise is loud.  Young vibrant life moves all around me, mostly undisturbed on the outside by anything I’m feeling. Less-young but still vibrant life cheers them on. Things look normal. And I join in the cheers. I cheer for our team and my son. My principal beside me cheers for our team and her son. And then we turn to each other in a lull and discuss how to meet the needs of our grieving students who now face life without a father. If that is even possible.

It makes me wonder how many others in these stands are cheering on the outside but full of tears on the inside.  Jumping up for their child but feeling a weight pulling down on their soul.  Smiling on the outside, but full of grief within.  And I remind myself that compassion is always an appropriate emotion. We just never know what someone else is dealing with. Filled with. Enduring.

We also never know when these things will come knocking on our door.

If words could make it better, I would find them and say them.  I would write them on every wall and publish books and plaster billboards. But they can’t.  And won’t.  The most I can do is just be there.  Allow space and time for those close to me to know that I do care.  Allow space and time for them to just share, or not share, as they need.  Provide a listening ear.  A caring hug.  A thoughtful prayer. And the assurance that grief is good and appropriate and welcome here in this space, for as long as it needs to last, in whatever form it needs to take.

I invite you to do the same.  Allow those in your life who are dealing with loss to truly express themselves in whatever way they need to.  Allow yourself to express your grief in whatever way you need to.

It was a heavy week. The days ahead feel daunting.

If you are so inclined, I would appreciate your prayers this week as I attempt in the best way I know how (and I’m learning as I go) to prepare my other fifth graders to be able to hold time and space and love and compassion for their grieving friend, when she does return.

Love well, my friends.  And let’s spread compassion to everyone we meet. Let the love and peace that exceeds all comprehension flow from us to those around us. You just never know for sure what is going on inside another person’s soul.