How dare we go on

I wrote these lines shortly after my son died:

I feel the need to stay in darkness
I feel the need to prolong the pain
To find you in some womb of sorrow
And through it hold you once again.

I felt as though that darkness, that suffering gave me a real connection, my last connection to my son, and I would not give it up. I should not give it up. After all, his loss is a monstrous injustice! Much of our sufferings are monstrous injustices, and time, and life around us, should just stop. Damn the audacity of the mundane routines to reinsert themselves. No! No! No!

But we have no choice. We must eat again. We must bathe again. We must venture out to get groceries, even if we move like numb husks, our eyes post-shock, still immersed in trying to make sense of what does not make sense. My son’s death should not have happened. Your abuse should not have happened. Your diagnosis should not have happened.

But it did and it does. I think it of the most urgent necessity that we create some kind of ritual to perform, to abide by, to observe, so the injustice is reminded of its wrong, yes, but so the sting of it can return to remind us to work with God, to listen to God, to follow God once again into this awful corner. God will meet us there. He will speak. He will act.

So, we ring a bell at 5:45 on Saturday evening, the time of day when Alex died. We spend time alone in our thoughts and prayers, and after 15 minutes, with another ring of a bell, we come together to share a pregnant moment with his Spirit. Two Saturdays in now. I’m not sure how long we’ll do this. Maybe until we make some sense of it? Maybe until the shock subsides. Maybe until God stops meeting us so poignantly.

Things do not stay still. We want them to. We want to figure them out, get our heads around them. Thank God that is not necessary. What is necessary is just abiding, coming alongside God to keen, to breathe deeply, to wonder, to cry. God will do the rest. God is doing the rest.

Reflection

I don’t want to admit there is a peace inside of this experience of my son’s passing. That peace is God, isn’t it? As you look hard into your own suffering, can you find that peace?

Prayer

O God, we don’t want this! We do not choose this! And we’d rather not come here to look for You in this awful suffering. How dare You be here! How dare You teach me to accept and be and walk on! How dare You keep to yourself what tomorrow will bring! But we are yours. We are yours. We choose to see this, comprehend this, struggle with this, beside You, for there we find strength, wisdom, and the ability to take another step. Amen.