Borderline Grief
I don't know about you, but each day seems to bring more pain and tragedy, doesn't it? As I write this, a young man clings to every breath he takes in a Canton hospital, after being declared dead from an icy car accident, the driver already dead, after skidding into a pond. The accident site is but a few minutes' drive from my house. Elsewhere, two little sisters are dead in a Tuscarawas County fire, a 10-year-old boy's life hangs in the balance after allegedly killing his mother, a family loses its home in a fire, a longtime beloved local business is destroyed by fire, a young mother suddenly dies, three young people are killed in another fire, and well, it just won't seem to stop.
As churches, organizations, schools, and individuals try to deal with their grief, the unexpected loss of property and life, we take on more hurts, and soon, they weigh us down to the point of immobility. Times are hard, everywhere. I don't think we as an area are being singled out. But the near-daily occurrences are chipping away at our resolve and faith.
For me to offer any words of encouragement or understanding would be a farce. We often joke in our family, about the triple whammy of Swiss resolve and neutrality, Hauenstein inability to show emotion, and Presbyterian stoicism. As a child, I remember many trips to funeral homes with my parents, and them shaking hands, offering condolences, signing the book, and moving on. My father felt funeral homes were not social halls, nor were they family reunions, but should be treated somberly.
I often feel at a loss for words to console those who are grieving. I am not in their shoes; whatever I say is almost a cheap insult to their pain and loss, I think. So I muddle through, doing my best to appear as sympathetic as I can, and not offer trite words, but try to have some form of compassion and comfort, or at least empathy, to the best of my cold-blooded existence. Over the years, I've done my best to be caring and kind. In Biblical times, I never would have been good at the weeping, wailing, teeth gnashing, hand-wringing and hair pulling.
In reality, I fear grieving. I don't think I fear death, but the grief it brings. I've watched too many people struggle, in agony, with loss, be it sudden or expected. Grief is not to be trifled with. As I look at my aging parents and relatives, I have shifted from "what will I do without them" to "how will I grieve for them?"
The answer is that I don't know. Time will tell, I guess. In the interim, I must face my own feelings of loss and hurt for these folks, some of whom I know, to those I've never met.
As America enters a new decade, it will find itself without one person who has led this country through times of serious crises and grief: Dr. Billy Graham. Think back to presidential funerals, bombings, tragedies, etc., Rev. Graham has been there, delivering the same poignant message about why God allows bad things to happen in our lives. Do you know what he says? I can remember the message he gave at the Oklahoma City bombing memorial service as if it were yesterday. "I don't know" is what he said. This country's greatest evangelist and champion for salvation, freely admits to not knowing why the bad happens to folks who don't deserve it. I think there's great comfort in his words. He doesn't make things up or misquote Scripture; he has always admitted his own lack of knowledge. Sincere questioning and sincere seeking comfort in God that makes Graham's message timeless.
Anyone who thinks they can do better than that is sorely mistaken. Now age and frailty, the passage of time and his own grief at the loss of his wife Ruth, keep Dr. Graham close to home in North Carolina, and out of the spotlight. Hopefully, another can fill those large shoes of spiritual leadership.
C.S. Lewis thought he had all the answers about why bad things happen to good people, and freely gave them, until his own beloved wife, Joy Gresham, died of cancer at a relatively early age. The aging writer, a widower in charge of her two young sons, was awash in grief, and lack of understanding at why God allowed her to suffer and die, leaving him alone. Lewis, arguably the greatest theologian of the 20th century, had to work through his agony, trying to find meaning for his life after loss.
We all try to find some meaning at different low points in our lives. Nearly 11 years ago, I made what I considered to be a pilgrimage-type trip to the island of Iona in northwestern Scotland. The island is one mile wide and two miles long, yet it is considered the foothold of Christianity in the Western World. Why? The monks that settled there in the Dark Ages wrote many illustrated gospels, including the Book of Kells, and sent them away before Viking raiders could destroy them. Their works traveled south, through England, into Ireland, and Europe, and as those books went, so did the message of the Gospel. Iona was settled by Columba, an Irish prince exiled for his bloody fighting. He took vows as a monk, settled on the little island, and started a religious colony. Perhaps his only downside was he banished women and cattle from the island, believing, as one historian said, where there are cattle there are women, and both are trouble.
However, plenty of sheep and the ruins of Columba's abode still populate the tiny island, famed for its monastery, new religious community, preserved Celtic crosses, the graveyard of Scottish kings, and the white sands and tropic-green waters around it. And the faithful come, by the hundreds of thousands, to Iona, to pray, see the graves, look at the sheep, the sand, and overall aura of the place. Groups come and stay for a week, in the ecumenical religious community, to discuss spiritual and social issues, but most are day-trippers, who make the trip via the Isle of Mull, back to the mainland.
When I went, I am ashamed to tell you I was suffering the effects of sampling too many peat-fired liquid products the night before in a pub, in Oban, Scotland. Head pounding, I staggered off the ferry with a bunch of young priests and tourists, who raced each other to the abbey. I was hoping to find some miracle. Or more realistically, hoping my stomach would remain calm.
As I walked into the abbey, the mood was quiet and somber. I continued my walk, still wondering if I'd feel some great awakening in my soul, some life-altering moment.
I found it, in the most unexpected way. In a little corner, where people left prayer candles, rosaries, and other icons, there was a plain wooden cross, made from two-by-fours. It was about four feet high, and out of plain sight. But seeing it and what was on it made all the difference. In that little nook, a small sign noted guests were encouraged to take a small slip of paper, write their prayer requests on it, and pin it to the cross. The Iona community would pray for them. I stood there, and read some.
Messages from all over the world, many in languages I couldn't understand, or in broken English, covered the cross, from top to bottom. It was buried in the tiny slips.
Standing there, reading the hundreds and hundreds of prayer requests, I felt as if I was looking into the very heart of God. I found myself sinking, physically, and crumpling on to a chair, began weeping. What pain and suffering! Small things, big things, all of them heartbreaking. The cross was covered in life's misery. But then, isn't it always?
Sitting alone in the corner, wiping away my tears, I realized the cross is the one place to put the misery, and it doesn't pin the misery on us in ways we think it might. In our moments of anger and pain, it's hard to remember that. I seriously don't know that I will, but I will cling to the promises of hope and relief as best I can. That, I think, is all I can do.
Whatever the crisis in difficult times now and those to come, for me, and you, in this winter of discontent, may we remember to pin it all on the cross, and be open to the arms of God , and the great mystery of grief and comfort.