Sunday, April 6, 2008

Trying to stay positive


I’m struggling not to violate the cardinal rule of blogging: “Don’t let it become too negative.” (I’m trying to do the same with my parenting in general; more on that tomorrow....) It’s not like I get a kick out of life’s dark stretches. I don’t. Nor do I derive any sadistic pleasure watching my kids walk through them.

It’s just that so far in 2008, my girls have lost their More Papa, their Papa and their cat. (Please don’t mention the cat to them—they still haven’t spoken of his absence and we haven’t brought it up.) Shuffled into this was a holiday featuring the violent death of God. Watching my kids process the first death of their life at the end of January was touching and even a tearful sort of beautiful. I didn’t like that they had to go through it. At the same time, it was important, deep, inspiring.

But watching them lose their grandpa has been simply bleak.

It’s as if two deaths in as many months has left them feeling like this is routine. They felt the stress and sensed something was wrong; it showed in their hyperactive and hyperfussy behavior all last week as they spent evenings with other loved ones while we were at the hospital. But there was a grim resignation this time, something even more painful to see than the more visible grief that showed up when they lost More Papa.

The twins both took the news of Rachelle’s dad’s death in silence. Brielle didn’t even manage to cry until half a day after she’d heard, when she listened to Mommy sing “Goodbye for Now,” the same song she’d sung at More Papa’s funeral. And then, at last, Brielle fell to pieces. I was relieved.

We barely got to that point though. The evening had all the ingredients of human brokenness. We had designed it as a quiet time for the family to gather in our home and remember Don.

By 8 p.m., we had not yet begun to do this.

I had been waging a man-against-machine battle up to the last minute, trying to get the 161 photos I’d scanned of Don to play on the TV, oblivious to any human beings in the room. Don’s sisters were getting along like sisters, which at this point meant a disagreement sharp enough that one was out on the porch calming herself down before she said something regrettable. Rachelle’s recently widowed grandma had come up the mountain to share in the time, but had run out of steam by then and was begging for rides back home, convinced that she too had lost her husband that very day. In the midst of this was Rachelle’s mom, shell-shocked after the loss of the two most important men in her life, just trying to hold it together.

And in the wailing department were my three daughters, whose enthusiastic screams would have put Bible-era professional mourners to shame. So vociferous were our lovely progeny that we carried the twins off to bed in the middle of dinner. This meant leaving them out of a process I fear they really needed. It was this process that finally wrung the tears from Brielle’s eyes, the moment that her resignation gave way to real feelings.

We all need those moments. Maybe even fussy three-year-olds? Why couldn't they stay sane enough to have theirs?

Melía prayed the night before last, “Thank you for this nice day. Thank you for this wonderful day. Thank you that Jesus die and rose adain. Thank you that Papa die and rose adain. Amown.” It was sweet. It was funeral homily quotation material. But is it OK that either one of those tragic deaths should roll so routinely off the lips of a child? Is this a welcome sign that Melía is trusting in the hope of the resurrection, accurately applying Jesus’ story to that of her grandfather? Or this all too glib for a loss that is much closer to home than the one two thousand years ago? Should I be encouraged or concerned?

I am sad that my daughters have to deal with so much death right now, resentful even that Easter had to fall when it did. More than than, I'm angry that this most recent death came much sooner than necessary. I am indignant that hospital visiting rules and the twins’ own fussiness has made it so they haven’t gotten to say good-bye the way I think they needed to. I am worried that theses losses will lead to I don’t know what in their psycho-spiritual future. I am scared of how we adults may fail them as we handle our own grief.

And despite all that has been breaking in our babies’ hearts of late, I’m trying to keep my eye on what remains whole. I’m making an effort to keep things real yet positive with regard to the family we’ve lost and all of us who are left. After last Tuesday, we got out of town and spent a couple days in Carlsbad at the beach and pool. Yesterday found us at church and a birthday party. Today we all went to a play and dinner with the kids' choir. Good stuff. Hollow-feeling at times, but good.

So yeah, we’re working not to let this all get too negative. But it is work. Sometimes, it is hard work.

5 comments:

Lynne said...

Father,

Teach us how to pray for the Bennie's in their time of grief. We have no words that seem adequate. I ask that in these coming days your Holy Spirit come upon us all and lift the petitions of our hearts to you in words without voice that only you understand. May you be balm for our souls, imparting healing and guidance for where we go from here. May your Wisdom gently lead us and Mike and Rachelle in the way we relate to the girls. Hold them close to your heart and allow them to process this, even if in ways that we cannot see. We trust that you do all things well. Amen.

kcurtis said...

I wish I knew an easy way to process grief. What you shared reminded me of my daughter's experience when her grandmother died. She was in first grade at the time, it was unexpected, and it came on the last day of school. She and her grandma were very close. I still remember the difficult car ride home when I shared the news with her, and how devastated she was. Her first comment was one of disbelief, "that's impossible because we prayed for her in class today." My greater fear was of a different kind of disbelief that might follow. Even when we process loss with good theology and with appropriate emotional support, losses are most often messy, and leave their own scars, even in the midst of the hope that makes it all OK in the end. Even when we travel the road well, and journey is rich and meaningful, the painful places still hurt, and it is hard for children of any age, and those who care for them to navigate it all. And so while I can't offer insights or answers that guarantee the success of every given moment along the way, I do wish for you peace for the journey and the assurance of what lies at the end! Hang in there my friend!

kcurtis said...

I wish I knew an easy way to process grief. What you shared reminded me of my daughter's experience when her grandmother died. She was in first grade at the time, it was unexpected, and it came on the last day of school. She and her grandma were very close. I still remember the difficult car ride home when I shared the news with her, and how devastated she was. Her first comment was one of disbelief, "that's impossible because we prayed for her in class today." My greater fear was a different kind of disbelief that might follow. Even when we process loss with good theology and with appropriate emotional support, losses are most often messy, and leave their own scars, even in the midst of the hope that makes it all OK in the end. Even when we travel the road well, and journey is rich and meaningful, the painful places still hurt, and it is hard for children of any age, and those who care for them to navigate it all. And so while I can't offer insights or answers that guarantee the success of every given moment along the way, I do wish for you peace for the journey and the assurance of what lies at the end! Hang in there my friend!

Anonymous said...

"When I heard these things, I sat down and wept. For some days I mourned and fasted and prayed before the God of heaven. Then I said, 'O Lord, God of heaven, the great and awesome God, who keeps his covenant of love with those who love him and obey his commands, let your ear be attentive and your eyes open to hear the prayer your servant is praying before day and night for your servants.'" (Nehemiah 1:4-6)

Mike, you are in my thoughts and prayers, you and Don's ladies. Until reading your latest blog, I hadn't thought much about the girl's reactions. I will pray for them too. I love you and Rachelle. I'm so sorry for the waves of loss that have hit your family and the grief that you and your family bare. God is merciful, in a thousand ways that we don't know. If there is anything I can do for you, let me know. I'll see you soon.
-Bob T

Anonymous said...

Dear Mike & Rachelle,
You are blessing your girls and helping them in so many ways, even through the grief you are all experiencing. I am glad they have parents who love and care for them as you do. They are just reaching the ages when they begin to realize more fully that life here on this sick old earth is not always fair or happy or full of good things. There are dark days of pain and sadness. I wish it weren't so. I am very sorry that you are all having to live through this, to experience it. I wish they and you didn't lose these loved ones so dear to you and and have to deal with the loss of more than one in close succession. I remember that Justin was four years old when his little sister died and then 5 months later, Gram Gram who had come to comfort us during that time, whom he loved and treasured too, also died. I always felt it was such a blessing that he was able to verbalize his questions, his feelings, his anger and his love. Sometimes he'd seem to forget it for awhile but sometimes, he was the one who'd remind me of our loss, and give a hug or whisper softly, "I miss Chelly". Some of the insights he expressed while processing grief were amazing for one so young and made me stop and think. Maybe you'll be able to find some way to make memory items or scrapbooks or something that will remind your three someday of these special people who died way too soon in their lives and write down some of the comments they are sharing with you now.
It is oh so tough like you say, to keep living the business of life, to keep carrying on, to experience your grief and feel theirs too. I wanted the world to stop and realize that my life would never be the same again. But we wake up to new days, find blessings in them, both laugh and cry. Hang in there. Stay close together, and know you are loved and treasured by many. Praying for you today and sending our love across the miles. Susan Woods