Just over a year ago, my watch broke. Now, I am a planner and an organizer. But, I decided that I couldn't find a watch that I liked, and that it was going to be a great opportunity for personal growth to not have a watch. I was going to learn to relax and go with the flow and be patient and not obsess over plans and just take life as it happens. In other words, I was going to become a person entirely unlike myself.
And I discovered some things. The first leap of faith for me was that there would be a time keeping piece around when I needed to know what time it was. There would be a clock on a wall or on a building, or on my palm or on a friends wrist. And you know, I haven't been disappointed in this - I've learned to have some faith that I will be able to figure out what time it is.
Not having a watch and not having Gabriel have taught me a lot about my tendency to plan too much, organize too much, and always be looking to that next big thing. I was always planning the next project, the next challenge, the next day. And so, here I am, not sure what time it is, and I can't really plan beyond an hour from now. And, that's been ok. It's not a particularly bad way to live. You don't need to plan everything, only some things.
But, on days like yesterday, I fall into that old habit of "What's next?". I mean it, too. I didn't get the job. That was frustrating, but mostly it was just a shitty end to a crappy day, what with the friend from hell. And I'm looking around at where I am, and obviously not liking it, and I'm thinking "what's next".
And I just don't have any great answers. All these options, and no idea what to do.
it's not a good day when
You leave work early, and you'd cry, but it's already pissing rain and really, what's the point?
You show up at your neighbour's door, and demand that he sell you a cigarette.
You dump off your purse and pour yourself a large whisky. As an afterthought you put in some ice and some soda. (oddly enough, in spite of all the kids walking home from school, no one looked at me funny)
You sit on your front porch in your suit pants and a shell, with your bra straps showing, drinking and smoking (and now, as I have this awful taste in my mouth, I remember one of the reasons I quit. Ick).
Why no, I didn't get the job.
You show up at your neighbour's door, and demand that he sell you a cigarette.
You dump off your purse and pour yourself a large whisky. As an afterthought you put in some ice and some soda. (oddly enough, in spite of all the kids walking home from school, no one looked at me funny)
You sit on your front porch in your suit pants and a shell, with your bra straps showing, drinking and smoking (and now, as I have this awful taste in my mouth, I remember one of the reasons I quit. Ick).
Why no, I didn't get the job.
The Butterfly Theory
I am thinking a lot about how small things can change our lives today. I am thinking about the unthinking, unwitting things that we do, that change the way our lives go from that point on. I am thinking that there are times that it is easier to just lie. I let the truth and depth of my present sorrow show in front of a friend. They were, and are uncomfortable with the sight of such personal pain.
I can see why our friends with children must be uncomfortable around us. We are filled with raw pain, lost, grasping, wishing that Gabriel was here with us and that we could join them in being parents. Grief hangs off us like tattered rags, filling our senses and theirs with the stale, musty and fetid aroma of heartbreak. I can imagine the sorrow and sadness and deep anguish that mark my face. I can imagine that we aren't fun people to be around, that we aren't cheerful or chipper or even organized enough to hold a conversation with. I can imagine that it must totally suck to spend a lot of time with two people who are so consumed by a lost love. I can imagine why you might not want to understand this level of pain, that it would be frightening.
I remember girlfriends I would sit with when they broke up with the love of their lives. I remember I would reach a point where I would want to say "look, at some point you need to stop wearing his shirts and listening to "It must have been love" obsessively, and get on with life. You don't have to enjoy it, but at some point, for the love God, put away the chocolate and go have a shower and go to your anthropology course before you flunk out of school. You will make it through this."
I imagine that people are reaching this point with us. And I imagine when I confess, that still, it hurts to see your children, I imagine that it is hard to not take this as a personal repudiation. I imagine that when you have kids, you take a slight to them as a slight to yourself.
I imagine it's really impossible for you to understand how I would hurt because you got pregnant and stayed pregnant and came home with a real live baby. I imagine that you might think that I am self absorbed and wallowing in my pain. And me trying to explain that it isn't that I hate you, but that you have something that I so desperately want, and you got it with such ease, and that hurts - I imagine that you get stuck on "you don't like my kids". I imagine that any explanation I might make for this pain of mine, any assurance that I might provide you that the pain is very common, I imagine that it rings hollow. And you think that I am being jealous and perhaps wishing that everyone could feel my pain.
I get all of this. I can see how other's might see my feelings. But I am tired. I cannot merely get over my grief, wash the mourning garments and pack them away, and be fine. Getting pregnant did not ease the pain of infertility. Having another baby will not replace Gabriel, will not negate these present days and months of sadness and sorrow. Time does not heal my pain, it merely allows me to become more familiar with it. And the familiar is good, it allows me to continue to function in this life. I can cope with most of the day to day. I hold out hope that eventually I will become so accustomed to this pain that I will only be surprised by it occasionally.
Our friends are not bad people. They aren't very good at this, but they have tried. It's just, I'm tired of seeing all sides of the story. I would like to just be the grieving parents. I would very much like to stop excusing their behaviour and validating their feelings and telling them it's ok. I want to demand that our friends get good at this and have someone explain my feelings to me. I would like to stop seeing their side of the story and start seeing the entire story. I want to participate in the pain olympics, just a bit.
Gabriel's death, it was the butterfly in Peking. It flapped it's wings, and it has changed so much. And I am just worn out from trying to see all sides of this story. Caught in the middle of the typhoon that Gabe's death caused, and I'd like to swim on my own, instead of tossing life preservers to my friends.
I'm tired today.
I can see why our friends with children must be uncomfortable around us. We are filled with raw pain, lost, grasping, wishing that Gabriel was here with us and that we could join them in being parents. Grief hangs off us like tattered rags, filling our senses and theirs with the stale, musty and fetid aroma of heartbreak. I can imagine the sorrow and sadness and deep anguish that mark my face. I can imagine that we aren't fun people to be around, that we aren't cheerful or chipper or even organized enough to hold a conversation with. I can imagine that it must totally suck to spend a lot of time with two people who are so consumed by a lost love. I can imagine why you might not want to understand this level of pain, that it would be frightening.
I remember girlfriends I would sit with when they broke up with the love of their lives. I remember I would reach a point where I would want to say "look, at some point you need to stop wearing his shirts and listening to "It must have been love" obsessively, and get on with life. You don't have to enjoy it, but at some point, for the love God, put away the chocolate and go have a shower and go to your anthropology course before you flunk out of school. You will make it through this."
I imagine that people are reaching this point with us. And I imagine when I confess, that still, it hurts to see your children, I imagine that it is hard to not take this as a personal repudiation. I imagine that when you have kids, you take a slight to them as a slight to yourself.
I imagine it's really impossible for you to understand how I would hurt because you got pregnant and stayed pregnant and came home with a real live baby. I imagine that you might think that I am self absorbed and wallowing in my pain. And me trying to explain that it isn't that I hate you, but that you have something that I so desperately want, and you got it with such ease, and that hurts - I imagine that you get stuck on "you don't like my kids". I imagine that any explanation I might make for this pain of mine, any assurance that I might provide you that the pain is very common, I imagine that it rings hollow. And you think that I am being jealous and perhaps wishing that everyone could feel my pain.
I get all of this. I can see how other's might see my feelings. But I am tired. I cannot merely get over my grief, wash the mourning garments and pack them away, and be fine. Getting pregnant did not ease the pain of infertility. Having another baby will not replace Gabriel, will not negate these present days and months of sadness and sorrow. Time does not heal my pain, it merely allows me to become more familiar with it. And the familiar is good, it allows me to continue to function in this life. I can cope with most of the day to day. I hold out hope that eventually I will become so accustomed to this pain that I will only be surprised by it occasionally.
Our friends are not bad people. They aren't very good at this, but they have tried. It's just, I'm tired of seeing all sides of the story. I would like to just be the grieving parents. I would very much like to stop excusing their behaviour and validating their feelings and telling them it's ok. I want to demand that our friends get good at this and have someone explain my feelings to me. I would like to stop seeing their side of the story and start seeing the entire story. I want to participate in the pain olympics, just a bit.
Gabriel's death, it was the butterfly in Peking. It flapped it's wings, and it has changed so much. And I am just worn out from trying to see all sides of this story. Caught in the middle of the typhoon that Gabe's death caused, and I'd like to swim on my own, instead of tossing life preservers to my friends.
I'm tired today.
And the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
Am I the only person who can be suddenly flooded with a memory and come up completely short and be absolutely transported to another place?
I was in the elevator on Friday, and suddenly the smell of a man I haven't seen in many years was there. I closed my eyes, and I was right back to being just shy of 20, in my first year of university, being with him. Haven't thought about him in forever.
On Sunday I was listening to my ipod. Suddenly I stopped and just sat. This song came on. Suddenly, I was in another city - one I only lived in for a half a year. I could smell cigarette smoke and street drugs and the angst of a dozen hurting people. For just a moment, a slide show of images and memories and places and smells took over my head.
I imagined certain things about my life when I was younger. If my life was a book, I had an idea of how to publish it. Not the the text and words, but certainly the feel of the pages in my hands and the size of the paper.
I had imagined a smallish book of sparse phrases in helvetica text on heavy grey paper. Short and dense. Filled with asceticism and quiet power and black and white images. Filled with stories of living to the fullest, dying young, making a splash. Given to angst and thought and self examination.
And that just isn't what I turned into. I had imagined that I would be much tougher, much more impervious, much less caught and held by the knocks of the world. I had not imagined that I would be so engaged in my community and so unhappy in my professional life. I had not imagined that I would be so buttoned up and conservative. I had not imagined that I would be so happily married, and so unhappy without a baby.
The book of my life looks different. The pages aren't the same colour, and the text is a more feminine and cursive script than I expected. The pages are thinner and messier and more flexible, some corners are turned down. The book is much thicker, and more loosely bound than I imagined. There are notes in the margins in a variety of scripts - points that say "This is crap" or "She's going to find out she's all wrong in a few moments, don't listen to her".
Perhaps what I find so shocking about the book I hold in my hands now is this: I cannot tell you how I got here. I think that I should know how I came to be where I am. I think those defining decisions should be much more clear. There should be a sign and a reminder and a requirement to pause and know that this decision will change your life.
I'm not suggesting that I would make different decisions in my adult life (although the man and the street drugs from above I could have lived without.). I consider myself beyond blessed to have Mr. Spit. I love our house, and I like my degree. ( the job I'm not so thrilled about, but we'll move on). But, I would have liked to have known that my life would like this. So that I wouldn't be so surprised. In the words of Simon and Garfunkle, I wonder, maybe those words of the prophets written on the subway wall were telling me what to expec.t
So tell me, what decisions in your life have looked so simple, so innocuous, that you didn't even think about making them, and they changed your life forever? And can smells and music take you to another place entirely?
I was in the elevator on Friday, and suddenly the smell of a man I haven't seen in many years was there. I closed my eyes, and I was right back to being just shy of 20, in my first year of university, being with him. Haven't thought about him in forever.
On Sunday I was listening to my ipod. Suddenly I stopped and just sat. This song came on. Suddenly, I was in another city - one I only lived in for a half a year. I could smell cigarette smoke and street drugs and the angst of a dozen hurting people. For just a moment, a slide show of images and memories and places and smells took over my head.
I imagined certain things about my life when I was younger. If my life was a book, I had an idea of how to publish it. Not the the text and words, but certainly the feel of the pages in my hands and the size of the paper.
I had imagined a smallish book of sparse phrases in helvetica text on heavy grey paper. Short and dense. Filled with asceticism and quiet power and black and white images. Filled with stories of living to the fullest, dying young, making a splash. Given to angst and thought and self examination.
And that just isn't what I turned into. I had imagined that I would be much tougher, much more impervious, much less caught and held by the knocks of the world. I had not imagined that I would be so engaged in my community and so unhappy in my professional life. I had not imagined that I would be so buttoned up and conservative. I had not imagined that I would be so happily married, and so unhappy without a baby.
The book of my life looks different. The pages aren't the same colour, and the text is a more feminine and cursive script than I expected. The pages are thinner and messier and more flexible, some corners are turned down. The book is much thicker, and more loosely bound than I imagined. There are notes in the margins in a variety of scripts - points that say "This is crap" or "She's going to find out she's all wrong in a few moments, don't listen to her".
Perhaps what I find so shocking about the book I hold in my hands now is this: I cannot tell you how I got here. I think that I should know how I came to be where I am. I think those defining decisions should be much more clear. There should be a sign and a reminder and a requirement to pause and know that this decision will change your life.
I'm not suggesting that I would make different decisions in my adult life (although the man and the street drugs from above I could have lived without.). I consider myself beyond blessed to have Mr. Spit. I love our house, and I like my degree. ( the job I'm not so thrilled about, but we'll move on). But, I would have liked to have known that my life would like this. So that I wouldn't be so surprised. In the words of Simon and Garfunkle, I wonder, maybe those words of the prophets written on the subway wall were telling me what to expec.t
So tell me, what decisions in your life have looked so simple, so innocuous, that you didn't even think about making them, and they changed your life forever? And can smells and music take you to another place entirely?
The Garden Diva in May
Bedding PlantsDear Readers, it is here! The month of May, when all is blissful, all is green, and gardens are finally planted.
So then, you are all of f to the local store to buy your bedding plants? Not quite so quickly, dear reader. Learn from The Garden Diva’s (TGD) folly, read some of her mistakes, so you don’t have to make your own.
Over the years, TGD has often found herself promising the tres wonderful garden diva husband that she would only purchase a certain dollar value of bedding plants. (No dear reader, you don’t want to know how much. Sufficed to say that there were zero’s and decimal points.) After many sad reckonings, TGD now takes her garden plans, carefully calculates the number of bedding plants she requires, and makes a list. Here is the important part, dear reader, she only purchases what is on the list. (Honestly dear reader, why are you snickering? Have you been talking to the garden diva husband again?)
Next, consider when you want to plant. Remember, the average last frost date is May 7th. (TGD plants all her garden seeds around this time, if not earlier). It is often best to wait a bit until putting your bedding plants out - many people go to their local garden centre or store on the first day of the May long weekend. TGD tends to go before this, to ensure that she has the absolute best selection, and the healthiest plants. Often she will go on the Friday night. This is when the veteran gardeners go. Wear comfortable shoes and have a list. You will need them.
Perhaps the most important thing to consider when buying bedding plants is the health of the plant. Choose good sized plants with healthy leaves. Examine the plants closely. The soil should be moist. Avoid plants that are very dry (the plant will feel very light and the dirt will be light brown and hard) or plants that are very wet (water drips out of the soil when squeezed, or there is evidence of moss or mold).
Check for sun damage – yellow or brown spots on leaves, or insects – small portions of the leaves looking chewed, holes in the leaves, bugs on the undersides of plants or rolled up leaves.
Look at the roots, they should not be coming out of the bottom of the plant cell. Carefully grasp a seedling at it’s base, pull it out of the plant cell. You should be able to see a good root system, but avoid roots that are spiralled around the plant – these are root bound and may not transplant well.
Choose plants that are a good size, and quite bushy. You don’t want spindly little seedlings that will die in full sun. Review TGD’s columns from May 2007 regarding planting, and the April 2007 column on getting your dirt ready.
Finally dear reader, a note about where to buy your plants – feel free to purchase your geraniums, your petunias and your pansies from where ever you can find them on sale (just get healthy ones). If you are purchasing more expensive and exotic bedding plants, or if you are purchasing perennials, do not purchase those from anything other than a garden centre. A garden center can provide you with good information about the location to plant your new darling, any extra soil amendments, and if necessary, any overwintering measures to take. Really dear readers, a knowledgeable garden centre is a gardener’s greatest asset.
TGD lives and gardens in Edmonton, with the trés wonderful gardening diva husband and the non-gardening dogs. She insists that every yard should have a flower or two. Next month she shall talk about your front lawn. Yes dear reader, yours. The one with all the weeds in it.
What I would have taught him
I would have had him weed with me. A horrible form of child abuse, accompanied by protestations of "Aww mum, other families just buy their food at the grocery store"
And I would have taught him to watch with his eyes and his hands. Plants coming back to life after winter are fragile things. What we see and what we feel are different. Trust your feelings, your remembrances before you blindly believe what is in front of you. There is life all around us.
I would have taught him that weeding matters - pulling weeds in spring is easier than pulling weeds in late summer. You don't have to do everything perfectly, but some things should be done well. Choose what you put your effort into.
I would have taught him about the secret lives of insects. Of worms that move through the soil, fertilizing and aerating. Of ladybugs that eat insects, of beetles, of ants. I would have taught him the wonder of an ant colony, and the need to sit and watch for hours, to truly understand. I would have taught him that all living things have worth, and we need to be kind to creation, at least until it eats the beans.
I would have taught him to be patient, gardens take time. Seeds are slow to germinate, plants are slow to grow. Gardens involve long term planning. You will need to see the next five years in your head before you see the results in front of your eyes. You will water and hoe and weed and thin long before you ever pick or eat. And what you planted, it will look nothing like what you pictured, and nothing like the photo. That's ok. What it looks like is what it is.
I would have taught him the joy of honest work. Of the ache in your shoulders and the back of your thighs, that speaks of digging and turning over soil, of crouching down to pull weeds, of moving backwards as you plant a row of seeds. I would have taught him that after a day of hard work, you sit on your back deck, you will be proud. Of the work that you have done, and the life that you have coaxed forth. And one day, on that deck, I would have handed him his first beer, because gardeners get beer after a long day, and I don't care that you are only 13.
I would have taught him that having a plan saves time. But plans aren't just organization, they are dreams. And dreams matter in this world. I would have taught him of the companionship we can have with those who share our dreams. And that when you strike out in this world on your own, you should find someone who can share your dreams.
I would have taught him about sustainability. A good garden requires far more of you, than you get out of it. I would have taught him that pesticides and insecticides and fertilizer are no compensation for time and sweat and good compost dug in, they are the easy way out. I would have taught him that we must consider how we act, and how we treat the earth. There are many people on the earth, and we must make our footprints small, and it doesn't matter what bags and bottles the neighbour opens, you just keep digging up that quack grass.
I would have taught him that nothing is certain, and that you sometimes have t0 pick yourself up and start over after you loose everything to frost, to bugs, to early winter, to rain, to just the vagaries of seeds. Nothing in this life is certain but death and quack grass. There's always next year.
I would have taught him that in the year the broccoli is eaten by moth's, and the potato's by beetles, that is the year that the carrots will take off. And that there is no bug or pest or blight that will eat an entire crop of zucchini, and that's why you are grating it for chocolate cake.
I would have taught him the joy of feeding your own family. I would have taught him the very special wonder that is a carrot dug fresh from the ground, cold and wet, rinsed off under the garden hose. I would have taught him the sweetness in a pod of garden peas. Pulled off the vine on a hot day, warm in your mouth. I would have taught him the smell of fresh herbs on your hands, as you move to pick them, dodging lazy bees who seek flowers for their honey.
The smell of fresh dirt has a fragrance all it's own. Flowers have their own thoughts and heart, and vegetables are a new promise every spring.
These things my son, these things, I would have taught you.
And I would have taught him to watch with his eyes and his hands. Plants coming back to life after winter are fragile things. What we see and what we feel are different. Trust your feelings, your remembrances before you blindly believe what is in front of you. There is life all around us.
I would have taught him that weeding matters - pulling weeds in spring is easier than pulling weeds in late summer. You don't have to do everything perfectly, but some things should be done well. Choose what you put your effort into.
I would have taught him about the secret lives of insects. Of worms that move through the soil, fertilizing and aerating. Of ladybugs that eat insects, of beetles, of ants. I would have taught him the wonder of an ant colony, and the need to sit and watch for hours, to truly understand. I would have taught him that all living things have worth, and we need to be kind to creation, at least until it eats the beans.
I would have taught him to be patient, gardens take time. Seeds are slow to germinate, plants are slow to grow. Gardens involve long term planning. You will need to see the next five years in your head before you see the results in front of your eyes. You will water and hoe and weed and thin long before you ever pick or eat. And what you planted, it will look nothing like what you pictured, and nothing like the photo. That's ok. What it looks like is what it is.
I would have taught him the joy of honest work. Of the ache in your shoulders and the back of your thighs, that speaks of digging and turning over soil, of crouching down to pull weeds, of moving backwards as you plant a row of seeds. I would have taught him that after a day of hard work, you sit on your back deck, you will be proud. Of the work that you have done, and the life that you have coaxed forth. And one day, on that deck, I would have handed him his first beer, because gardeners get beer after a long day, and I don't care that you are only 13.
I would have taught him that having a plan saves time. But plans aren't just organization, they are dreams. And dreams matter in this world. I would have taught him of the companionship we can have with those who share our dreams. And that when you strike out in this world on your own, you should find someone who can share your dreams.
I would have taught him about sustainability. A good garden requires far more of you, than you get out of it. I would have taught him that pesticides and insecticides and fertilizer are no compensation for time and sweat and good compost dug in, they are the easy way out. I would have taught him that we must consider how we act, and how we treat the earth. There are many people on the earth, and we must make our footprints small, and it doesn't matter what bags and bottles the neighbour opens, you just keep digging up that quack grass.
I would have taught him that nothing is certain, and that you sometimes have t0 pick yourself up and start over after you loose everything to frost, to bugs, to early winter, to rain, to just the vagaries of seeds. Nothing in this life is certain but death and quack grass. There's always next year.
I would have taught him that in the year the broccoli is eaten by moth's, and the potato's by beetles, that is the year that the carrots will take off. And that there is no bug or pest or blight that will eat an entire crop of zucchini, and that's why you are grating it for chocolate cake.
I would have taught him the joy of feeding your own family. I would have taught him the very special wonder that is a carrot dug fresh from the ground, cold and wet, rinsed off under the garden hose. I would have taught him the sweetness in a pod of garden peas. Pulled off the vine on a hot day, warm in your mouth. I would have taught him the smell of fresh herbs on your hands, as you move to pick them, dodging lazy bees who seek flowers for their honey.
The smell of fresh dirt has a fragrance all it's own. Flowers have their own thoughts and heart, and vegetables are a new promise every spring.
These things my son, these things, I would have taught you.
Tests
God is a funny guy, he gives you the test and then you spend a life time trying to figure out if you passed it. And, if you are like me, you want to know what the purpose of the test was. What you were supposed to learn.
I was in more of a pensive mood as I wrote this post. I was on a plane, flying into the sunset. The seat back computer thingy told me that I was 36 thousand feet in the air, and sailing along at a good clip. I’ve always liked flying, it’s a chance to move slightly out of my world. Locating yourself to another place is an opportunity to move slightly to the left of yourself and see things slightly differently. At least that’s what I’m telling myself, as I fly 8 hours in slightly less than 24 hours, so that I can go to a six hour meeting. (And I suppose, if you are a conservative, flying and travelling could have you moving to the right of yourself, if that makes you happier!)
I went to a funeral on the day I wrote this post. For the Mother of a co-worker, she was 86. The pastor conducting the funeral emphasized that the way she was when she died was not how she always was. Indeed, this woman was in great pain in the last years of her life. But, the pastor reminded us in the service that the pain at the end of her life was one type of pain, and she had experienced all manner of hardship and sorrow in her life - there are many types of pain in the life of man. Perhaps, if I am to summarize, where I am now is not where I always have to be.
The readings at the funeral spoke of tests: the agony of Martha and Mary after the death of their brother. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died”. Indeed, I understand this. I have wondered if our babies died when God was, in some metaphorical , or perhaps real way, not looking. Perhaps He took his eyes off me for just a second. Perhaps he was busy – there is war and strife and famine, and people starve to death almost hourly. Perhaps he was just too busy. Certainly in the midst of my faith I wonder how it can be that God could have taken Gabriel from his parents who loved him.
Martha tells Christ that she knows that Lazarus will rise again, in the last day. She knows that she will see Lazarus again at the ressurection. But whenever I read the story, I’m always reminded that in a very real sense, Martha is reminding her Lord that she hurts now, her brother is dead now, and the resurrection, well, it is literal and real, but it sure seems a long way off. And by the way, there’s a good road from Jerusalem, and we sent you word 3 days ago, and you took your sweet time, and do you mind explaining why that was? Cause if you had hurried, he would have only been sick, not dead. There is a real difference between book knowledge and a crisis of faith. In the reading I can see how she is struggling to reconcile the two, just like I have.
I have always believed the last great test of our life comes when we are amidst the dying. There are no new questions in that time, just the same old ones. “Are you there God? Really? Are you real? Is there more to life than this? What’s next Lord?” And, perhaps most importantly “Will you stay with me God?”
At the corner of Christianity is the iron belief that all is not as it should be. I have always been comfortable accepting that the world is not as it should be. Perhaps because of the neighbourhood I live in, I see prostitution, drugs, homelessness, addiction, mental health issues, the grinding down of the spirit that comes with constant poverty. I am aware of the broken bodies and the broken spirits that surround me. I believe that we are born broken. We are born into a world that at best imitates perfection. Not that there isn’t beauty and wonder in the world, but that it is tainted.
Unlike a normal test, knowing the questions doesn’t give me any answers. I want Gabriel’s life to have meaning. I want it to have counted for something. And I know that it did count for me. But I want an epiphany, to suddenly become like Ebaneezer Scrooge at the end of a Christmas Carol – I want to be a whole new, different, better person because of Gabriel. And I want to understand. I want writing in the sky, big banner letters. I want God to write me a neat and tidy explanation of what Gabriel’s death means. Of what happened. An essay if you will, with a thesis and research and proof. A voice from heaven with a final definitive answer – this experience, of infertility, pregnancy, Gabriel’s birth and death, it means this.
I hear of people who go through a test or a trial, and then some years or months, or in some cases days later say “oh, I get it, God was teaching me this, or God used me to do that. Mostly, I go “huh”. I see the hand of God, sometimes, but more often I generally don’t understand quite what the point was. I’m forever wondering – is there a lesson I’m not learning? Or to put it more colloquially, most often I find myself saying “What the hell was that about God?” And I’m learning that this is ok. That a lifetime of questions, of the same wonderings is ok. Christianity, the heart of my faith is not roses and butterflies, it is hard searching questions, with no promise of answers. One cannot know God and expect all the answers. That's not his way.
Like I spoke of on Tuesday, I understand longing and wailing and great pain now. Is that the lesson of Gabriel? I don’t know. I now this: that I have a life time to learn how I passed the test of Gabriel, and what my final mark is. I’m in no hurry. I think Mr. Spit and I are on a slightly different time line than Gabriel. We are here, and he is in Heaven, and in that last day we shall be together.
I was in more of a pensive mood as I wrote this post. I was on a plane, flying into the sunset. The seat back computer thingy told me that I was 36 thousand feet in the air, and sailing along at a good clip. I’ve always liked flying, it’s a chance to move slightly out of my world. Locating yourself to another place is an opportunity to move slightly to the left of yourself and see things slightly differently. At least that’s what I’m telling myself, as I fly 8 hours in slightly less than 24 hours, so that I can go to a six hour meeting. (And I suppose, if you are a conservative, flying and travelling could have you moving to the right of yourself, if that makes you happier!)
I went to a funeral on the day I wrote this post. For the Mother of a co-worker, she was 86. The pastor conducting the funeral emphasized that the way she was when she died was not how she always was. Indeed, this woman was in great pain in the last years of her life. But, the pastor reminded us in the service that the pain at the end of her life was one type of pain, and she had experienced all manner of hardship and sorrow in her life - there are many types of pain in the life of man. Perhaps, if I am to summarize, where I am now is not where I always have to be.
The readings at the funeral spoke of tests: the agony of Martha and Mary after the death of their brother. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died”. Indeed, I understand this. I have wondered if our babies died when God was, in some metaphorical , or perhaps real way, not looking. Perhaps He took his eyes off me for just a second. Perhaps he was busy – there is war and strife and famine, and people starve to death almost hourly. Perhaps he was just too busy. Certainly in the midst of my faith I wonder how it can be that God could have taken Gabriel from his parents who loved him.
Martha tells Christ that she knows that Lazarus will rise again, in the last day. She knows that she will see Lazarus again at the ressurection. But whenever I read the story, I’m always reminded that in a very real sense, Martha is reminding her Lord that she hurts now, her brother is dead now, and the resurrection, well, it is literal and real, but it sure seems a long way off. And by the way, there’s a good road from Jerusalem, and we sent you word 3 days ago, and you took your sweet time, and do you mind explaining why that was? Cause if you had hurried, he would have only been sick, not dead. There is a real difference between book knowledge and a crisis of faith. In the reading I can see how she is struggling to reconcile the two, just like I have.
I have always believed the last great test of our life comes when we are amidst the dying. There are no new questions in that time, just the same old ones. “Are you there God? Really? Are you real? Is there more to life than this? What’s next Lord?” And, perhaps most importantly “Will you stay with me God?”
At the corner of Christianity is the iron belief that all is not as it should be. I have always been comfortable accepting that the world is not as it should be. Perhaps because of the neighbourhood I live in, I see prostitution, drugs, homelessness, addiction, mental health issues, the grinding down of the spirit that comes with constant poverty. I am aware of the broken bodies and the broken spirits that surround me. I believe that we are born broken. We are born into a world that at best imitates perfection. Not that there isn’t beauty and wonder in the world, but that it is tainted.
Unlike a normal test, knowing the questions doesn’t give me any answers. I want Gabriel’s life to have meaning. I want it to have counted for something. And I know that it did count for me. But I want an epiphany, to suddenly become like Ebaneezer Scrooge at the end of a Christmas Carol – I want to be a whole new, different, better person because of Gabriel. And I want to understand. I want writing in the sky, big banner letters. I want God to write me a neat and tidy explanation of what Gabriel’s death means. Of what happened. An essay if you will, with a thesis and research and proof. A voice from heaven with a final definitive answer – this experience, of infertility, pregnancy, Gabriel’s birth and death, it means this.
I hear of people who go through a test or a trial, and then some years or months, or in some cases days later say “oh, I get it, God was teaching me this, or God used me to do that. Mostly, I go “huh”. I see the hand of God, sometimes, but more often I generally don’t understand quite what the point was. I’m forever wondering – is there a lesson I’m not learning? Or to put it more colloquially, most often I find myself saying “What the hell was that about God?” And I’m learning that this is ok. That a lifetime of questions, of the same wonderings is ok. Christianity, the heart of my faith is not roses and butterflies, it is hard searching questions, with no promise of answers. One cannot know God and expect all the answers. That's not his way.
Like I spoke of on Tuesday, I understand longing and wailing and great pain now. Is that the lesson of Gabriel? I don’t know. I now this: that I have a life time to learn how I passed the test of Gabriel, and what my final mark is. I’m in no hurry. I think Mr. Spit and I are on a slightly different time line than Gabriel. We are here, and he is in Heaven, and in that last day we shall be together.
