Thursday, May 1, 2014

Day 31: Thoughts on God




March 31, 2014

So, I'm pretty sure my facebook page has been and is going to be a chronicle of letting go. Of grieving. Of remembering. Of good days and not so good days. Occasional photographs of things I find funny or interesting or beautiful when I feel inclined to take them. Here's what it is, though. Because I need it. I need this to be okay.

With that said, if it's not your thing to read this, it may be a good idea to hide my posts for a bit. Come back in six months. Come back in a year. Come back when, and I can't imagine it happening, but I know it will- come back when my profile pic changes to something current. When I am embracing the present. Until that happens I need to move fluidly between the past and a future that I only know to obtain one moment at a time. I am here. This is where I am.

I remember hearing Kate Braestrup, a chaplain to search-and-rescue workers in Maine, on NPR not long before I left for Korea. She has seen some serious tragedy. First, personally, with the death of her husband. Then, in scene after scene with first responders. She had been there for shocked and grieving parents. She has prayed over bodies when family was not yet there. Her grief turned into being there for others, and I remember being awed by that.

I also remember in that NPR interview that she said many people, in the face of great tragedy and suffering, ask "Where is God in this? If there is a God, why does this happen?" And her response was that God was in the people who come together immediately after such tragedy. Such suffering. Such loss. God is in the people reaching out and helping those who are hurting. God is in the aftermath. That always stuck with me.

My mom and dad recently heard her speak and suggested I read her book "Here If You Need Me: A True Story." I downloaded it immediately, which surprised me, considering I recently have the attention span of a flea, and a not too bright one. But here I was last night devouring her experience. Reading of how she needed to see where her husband died. She had to see the place. Reading about how she went to the morgue and how she asked to be the one to wash and care for his body. Speaking up and saying that she wanted to be there for the cremation. For all of it.

While I can't say that Gareth's family and I were prepared for any of what we witnessed and experienced, much of it coming up to greet us like a slap on the face as we rounded yet another corner in buildings we weren't familiar with approaching rooms with scenes we couldn't imagine were waiting for us- while I wasn't prepared, had I been- had someone described exactly what I would have seen and given me the choice to see it or not, I would have chosen YES. I would have chosen to be there for it all, as we were. I needed to. And here, Kate Braestrup was identifying and explaining all of that need. "That's right!" I heard myself saying while reading last night. "That's EXACTLY how it was! I felt that, too!" What sweet relief.

I'm continuing to read her book and more and more realizing that loss and grieving and letting go is a part of all of our lives. All of them. And for some of us, that loss includes tragic circumstances that we couldn't have even imagined before the day. That day. The day that changed everything for us. That day for me was February 28th. Gareth fell that morning and I got the call a few hours later.

I don't know what your thoughts are about God. And I'm not one to care for you to think any other way than you do. I have nothing to argue about as far as my thoughts on God go because it's a faith that while not religious, has continued to strengthen and has gotten me through difficult times. It will get me through this one. Gareth used to laugh at my slightly irreverent mantra that pops in my head when I'm incredibly joyous and often when I'm on a walk or on a run, and it is "My God is a muthaf***in' good God!" I hear that in my head. I do. And it makes me laugh, because not only is it true, but the God of my understanding thinks it's funny that I celebrate with Him like that. My God has a great sense of humor. And compassion. And loves me enough to allow me to experience both joy and sorrow.

Gareth was attracted to my relationship with God. He told me he hadn't seen one like it before. Not to say he hadn't known people with great connections to the God of their understanding, but we talked about it. "I want a God like you have," he'd say to me. "Borrow Him," I'd say. "He's hilarious. You'll love him. And if you find one that suits you better, mine will understand. And I know this, my God thinks you're the bee's knees! My God is-"
"...a mutherf***in' GOOD GOD!" he'd say.
"That's exactly right. He is," I'd reply.

We had great, long talks about God and faith and spirituality. Gareth explored a lot of it in his life. By his own admission, he was a bit overzealous and extremely literal about the bible and all matters faith-related as a young kid. By college he had found the student Christian Movement on campus along with a wonderful spiritual adviser and friend. Later he'd take comfort in questioning and found his own among Atheist friends and built community here. Soon Buddhist practice and meditation would call to him, something he wanted to get back into right before he died. He spent his life exploring, questioning, wanting a connection, but not sure exactly which connection fit for him. He was curious about what he saw in my faith and he wanted it.

Funny thing is I had nothing definitive to give him. I don't belong to a church. I have pretty nebulous beliefs about how things work spiritually. My spiritual practices include turning things over to the God of my understanding in the morning, making a gratitude list at night, walking or running or hiking and finding an overwhelming sense of God in nature, and having a daily, friendly, and often hilarious dialogue with God in my head.

It's occurred to me that from others' perspective I may be fooling myself. What if there's not a God? Then call it the universe. Call it the love of others. Call it what you like or don't call it at all, and I'm ok with that. What I know is that I have great relief from this relationship and I see God in people, just like Kate Braestrup said.

I've seen God in the recent conversations I've had with Dave Gill and Jubilee Turi Hollis. I've seen God in the peace I get from stories shared. From gentle advice offered. I've seen God in the times when I'm feeling guilt and the right words come at just that moment to help me let go of it. Or times when I'm feeling desperate in my grief, and a connection with someone who knew Gareth softens the blow. Katrina Trotman. Ian Fookes. Fiona Dalton. Fionnaigh McKenzie. Katherine Robertson. Niamh Cotter. God is in these people. If the word "God" is not for you, I can assure you love is in these people. Love is there. And as I see it, so is God. My God, anyway. So much of how I've been grieving is very public, but there are many private conversations being had which are doing much to make healing possible. And here is where I see God.

Gareth prayed over me once. Having just gotten the news about the death of my sweet and beautiful cousin Jessica, he was met with my grieving. He was at a loss. In that loss- in the feeling of not knowing what to do, he prayed. He prayed for my healing. He prayed for Jessica and those who love her. He held me and spoke to God in the way I do.

Then a beautiful prayer was said. And I only remembered bits of it, but realize now it's the same prayer I found in his most recent journal. He had written it in there just days before he died, and a quick search on the internet led me straight to the Anglican prayer book of New Zealand. (This should warm your heart, Turi). Gareth was in a time of feeling troubled. He was in pain. And he was digging back into times of feeling connected to something. To a faith of his understanding. He was calling upon words that soothed him at one time, soothed me in my grief when my cousin died, and soothed him days before he died.

"Eternal Spirit, living God, in whom we live and move and have our being, all that we are, have been, and shall be is known to you, to the very secret of our hearts and all that rises to trouble us. "

Gareth was reaching out, I believe, to the one thing that could make him whole in ways that I couldn't. In ways that none of us could. In the ways that each of us are made whole. Through grace. Through love. Through our connection to that which is beyond us, whatever that may be for each of us. For me it's God. It's the God in me that keeps me going one little step at a time when I want to be swallowed up in the earth. It's the God in you that flows in quickly and fills the empty spaces Gareth left behind.

I had no idea I'd be writing about this. I find great relief in writing, and sometimes, like this morning and like now, I feel compelled to sit down and start typing. At the moment, I'm at peace. I know the waves will come again, perhaps soon, but right now God is meeting with great love all that rises to trouble me.


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