Eye of the Storm

I woke up this morning thinking about this day that two years ago was the eye of the storm, the day of nothing, sandwiched between two days of the most intensely devastating events I’ve  ever experienced.  I didn’t know it was the day of calm for it seemed as dark and tumultuous a day as I had ever known.

My first thought today was to ask “who was in the most pain on this day 2 years ago?” And then in my next moment I knew.  It was my dad.  He was the one who felt the most guilt, blame and responsibility for the events that had transpired the day before.  He was isolated by his own pain and shame.  I had offered him a life line on this middle day. I had thrown it out into the water in case he was drowning and I didn’t know, although I suspected as much.  That would be why the news that would come tomorrow was not as shocking as it could have been.   I had already felt the dread in my gut.  He had pulled deeper inside his shell.  Isolated,  alone on purpose, intent on ending his pain.   And he did.  And the shockwave of that decision is still rippling through my heart, through my life and thus through my family’s lives.  His actions brought a final rejection to my list of hurt that I subconsciously have woven through the fibers of my being.   I had thrown out the lifeline and he pushed it to the side.   I realize now that this was more about him and less about me, but the wounded four year old inside of me felt the familiar feelings that again I am not enough.  Not enough to stick around for.  And although I had felt this feeling on many occasions in the 29 years since he originally left our family, this time was different.   What made this time different was the absence of hope.  No hope for reconciliation, no hope for change, no hope for repentance and healing.   This time the  rejection was final.

I’d like to say that two years has brought new perspective and healing for my soul, but if it has it’s been slow, and small, and practically imperceivable.   I’m devastated.  Disappointed beyond words. But I continue to breathe.  I continue to put one foot in front of the other.  I try to enjoy my little people and love them with as much passion as I can muster.

How have I changed?  Well I’m more empathetic to people’s pain. I can now understand losing a loved one to addiction or suicide.
I talk back to God a lot more than I used to.   I probably sound like a punk teenager to Him. I was crushed by these deaths. He answered me with  a big fat no.  All those prayers, all the interceding and pleading.  Just “no”. And yes I do think it makes me immature that I question God, that I can’t accept His answer as the right decision, that I love my people more than I love Him.  It shows me how much I truly need Him.  I need the Holy Spirit.  I’m immature in my view of life and death. I’m immature because I feel so completely devastated.   My foundations have been shaken, but I haven’t fallen. I agree with Peter when he says to Jesus “where else would I go?  You alone have the words of life.” I don’t doubt my faith or any of the things that I know to be true about God’s character of love, sovereignty and mercy.  Yet.  Yet I somehow feel a disconnect between the events of 2 years ago and all these things I know to be true.   So I tell Him, as scary as that is, because I know I’m in the wrong.  I ask Him to change me.   “Holy Spirit!  I need you.”

I have a hard time praying, a hard time reading the word.  A hard time connecting to other believers.  I can’t force things.  I hate to be fake and simply go through rituals.  But my heart is not rebellious. I want my life to count for eternity.

I fear for my little people.  I fear that they will not see my love for God.  That they will only see my pain, and perceive it as apathy.   I’m not sure how to translate it into a living good example for them.  So I pray for that baby as I lay him down at night as I have often prayed for my older two.  “Lord, I ask that he would know you and love you.”  A simple prayer that comes from the depth of my soul, springs out of my fear that they too will choose heroine or suicide, or even apathy.
And of course I know that He loves them too... and they are His. But the fear is real.

I have had the realization in these two years of my life being brought from death to life. I was thick as thieves with my dad and brother and the Lord pulled me up out of that muck and mire, from death to life.  If I thought that I understood this before I see it in a new light now as those two have literally died as a result of staying in the muck. And I have literally been rescued.  And even as I say that my heart cries “but why weren’t they?”

  I’m broken, more than ever really. I wish I could change the events of that week and somehow be made more whole.   I often  hope that those events will actually lead to more healing and wholeness than I would have been able to experience otherwise.  I believe God is good like that.

“Of one thing I am perfectly sure: God’s story never ends in ashes.” ~Elisabeth Elliott