remembering

I remember the moment in a small sitting room at the Atlanta Hospice Center. I remember it with intricate detail; it is a moment I hope I never forget. I don't know that I've told many people this story. It was only a few days ago that I wrote it myself.

I had just gotten off the phone with a dear friend I have known for almost 20 years. My family knew Bebe's time was coming soon, so I was calling Ashley to tell her that. I needed a quiet place to talk to her, so I wandered the halls until I came to what was the chapel area. Chairs were lined up in rows, begging for some sort of service to commence, inviting one to hope. The room was bright--sunlight flooded the room through the double French doors at the back of the room. The stark white walls were contrasted by the rich mahogany pews that lined them. A chaplain came in, I assume because she heard the tremor in my voice as I relayed the latest update to Ashley, 1,000 miles away. She saw I was on the phone; she smiled and left. I hung up with Ashley a few minutes later, both of us in tears, with promises to talk again within the hour. I looked around the room. Open and bright, the room was created to lift spirits and instill some sort of hope. All I could feel was a deep darkness, a death in my heart almost. I had to get out of there, so I walked across the hall to a much smaller sitting room. A short, overstuffed couch sat diagonal from an armchair, and a small wooden table held a lamp in the corner. "Perfect," I thought. "I'll sit here and let my heart crumble just a bit more." I sat on the couch and let loose; the tears flowed as if they had been dammed up for years. My head in my hands, I thought I might drown in the flood. I couldn't find the words to name the depths of the pain. "Don't take her, please don't take her," was all I could muster. I begged with God, pleaded with him to intervene. "Don't take her," I cried over and over again. After what seemed like an eternity, all I heard was "I have to."

Bebe's story came to an end two days before Thanksgiving. What kind of end, though? Her physical death was one end, but I would argue that the ending of Bebe's story was much more beautiful than that. Dan Allender writes in "To Be Told:"

An ending can be either good or bad. There are excellent novels that held my attention and moved me for hundreds of pages, only to end in a way that made me regret reading the story. Sadly, the same can be said of many "good" lives. It is not enough to live well and serve humanity, care for your family, and lead an honest life. A good ending involves much more than making a moral point or teaching a lesson. And a good ending is more than the resolution of the tragedy and tension of an exciting plot. A good ending doesn't have to be safe or nice. It only has to bring the story to fullness.

For months, a part of me has been so angry at God for saying what he said to me. He could have stopped it, he could have healed her on the spot. But now, four months later, I can see that Bebe's story had come to a fullness of ending. I'd argue that the weekend of her 80th birthday celebration was the culmination of that. Yes, Bebe died a physical death her on earth, and the quickness of her physical decline has left most of our family reeling in confusion and sorrow. However, God is using her death to bring about hope, redemption, and beauty in my story in a way that might not have happened if she was still here with us. I'm wondering if he's doing the same with others in my family as well as her closest friends.

I still miss Bebe. I miss her every day. But somehow, I'm not so angry anymore.

hope and fear

I just finished reading the book "Beautiful Boy" by David Sheff. I read in a a few days; I literally hated putting the book down. The book is a father's account of his son's addiction to a multiplicity of drugs, in particular methamphetamine. The story is dark, painful at times, but ultimately redemptive. As the book is coming to a close, the father is reflecting on his own addiction to the constant worry and anxiety surrounding his son's well-being. Sheff reflects on why he chose to write about his story, his son's story, his family's story. Writing, he concludes, is his way of engaging with the reality of what has happened. Writing helps him work through his own addiction as well as his son's. He writes to bring clarity to their story; he recognizes that dealing with the past is the only way to move forward with hope. Although not a believer, Sheff writes about hope in the face of great fear with insightful poignance:

"Now, the children are asleep. Karen and I are in bed reading, and Brutus is running in his sleep. I put down my book and lie here, trying to comprehend exactly what it is that I'm feeling. Parents of addicts learn to temper our hope even as we never completely lose hope. However, we are terrified of optimism, fearful that it will be punished. It is safer to shut down. But I am open again, and as a consequence I feel the pain and joy of the past and worry about and hope for the future. I know what it is I feel. Everything."

There is something beautiful and redemptive about this story. While drugs and alcohol play almost no role in my life, the devastating loss of close relationships, through life circumstances or physical death, has played a major role in my story over the past year. Hope, at times, has been a nasty four-letter word. Why should I hope--what has it done for me lately? On the other hand, is there any other answer to all my mess than to hope? 

I resound with the ambivalence between hope for and fear of the future that Sheff expresses. Hope invites you into your story, it begs you to engage. Hope opens you up to experience pain and sorrow with optimism, yet going down those dark roads can be a bit overwhelming. 

Ultimately, hope, with the gamut of emotions it carries, brings redemption into our stories.

quote

To be a person is to have a story to tell.

-Isak Dinesen